Page 63 of The Pucking Arrangement

Running had seemed like the smart move last night, even though Ris’s excitement over her new cello was infectious. I’d focused on teaching her the basics—how to hold the bow, proper posture, the names of the strings—all while hyper-aware of Dmitri moving around in the kitchen.

Every time his footsteps passed the music room door, my skin prickled, heat curling in my stomach at the memory of his body behind mine in that gallery.

At dinner, I barely tasted the food. I was too busy tryingnotto stare at his hands. The way his fingers wrapped around his water glass. The slow, absentminded stroke of his thumb along the rim. The way I suddenly wished I were the glass.

But worse than his hands was his gaze.

Every time I looked up, his eyes would lock onto mine, intense and unreadable, sending a hot, electric current straight to my core. His nostrils flared slightly, jaw tightening—like he was physically restraining himself from reaching across the table. Fromtakingwhat I had so recklessly offered in that museum.

Congratulations, O’Connor. You wanted to break his control. Mission accomplished.

Except now that I had, the raw hunger in his expression terrifies me.

Not because I don’t want it.God help me, I do.

But because one heated look from him makes me question if I can handle this. I don’t have the experience, the years, the history of other lovers he’s had. He’s control, dominance and ruthless precision—and I don’t know if I could ever compete with that. He’s almost a decade older, a man who knows exactly what he’s doing, and I’m suddenly acutely aware that I have no idea what I’m walking into.

Dinner was a battlefield of silence, thick and charged, stretching between us like a wire pulled too tight. Ris filled the space with chatter, blissfully unaware of the tension simmering beneath the surface. But Dmitri? He knew.

He barely ate or spoke. Just sat there, answering Ris’s questions with clipped answers, watching me with unnerving precision. Not pushing, not chasing—just waiting.

Waiting for Ris to go to bed, waiting for the moment we were alone, he watched me like he was about to consume me. Like I was already his.

But what if I can’t keep up? What if I shatter under him? What if he ruins me, and I never recover?

What if…

And faced with that possibility, I did the only thing I could.

I panicked.

The second my plate was clear, I mumbled something—emails, early practice, whatever lie came first—and fled.

His eyes followed me. Not in surprise. Not in pursuit. Just watching.

Tracking my retreat with quiet amusement, as if indulging me in this one last moment of escape.

A stay of execution.

I spent the entire night tossing and turning, willing myself to stay in my bed. I was so close to slipping out from beneath my covers, padding down the hall, pressing my palm to his door. That close to knocking. To facing the inevitable.

Surrendering.

I clenched my sheets instead. Bit my lip until it ached. Told myself I needed more time.

And now, in the cold light of morning, I have to sit across from him over coffee. In his house.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Get up, Erin. Stop thinking. Just get up.

But even as I swing my legs out of bed, even as I force myself into motion, my hands shake.

Not from fear. But from anticipation.

Because I already know what’s going to happen.

Dmitri Sokolov is going to ruin me.

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