Page 33 of The Contract

The voice is low. Rough. A growl someone forgot to leash.

And distinctly not Russian.

Not that I expected Zver to be here. He made himself very clear when he left.

“If our paths cross again, I’ll take more than a kiss.”

A kiss? Apparently that’s Russian for freight train of an orgasm.

And “a,” as in one?

Try three. Maybe four.

Though in my defense, by the end I couldn’t remember my name, let alone how to count.

The bed shifts.

Weight dips beside me.

Then the smell hits.

Coffee.

Waffles.

Fried chicken?

My nose twitches. My stomach groans. And my brain fries a little. And not just from the food.

Because under all that addictive smell—my hands-down favorite breakfast of all time, by the way—there’s something else.

Masculine. Earthy. Mingling with the clean, sharp scent of aftershave.

Still half-asleep, I fumble for the blindfold.

Drag it down.

Crack open one eye.

And find myself staring up at the face of a gorgeous man.

Too gorgeous.

A face I do not want this close to mine first thing in the morning.

Or ever, really.

Dante.

Of course it’s him. The broody one.

A statue carved straight from stone—just to prove that true perfection runs mercilessly cold.

Awesome.

Because, out of every D’Angelo brother, he’s the one who apparently hates me. For no reason at all, I might add.

Other than I’m in a strange bed, looking like I got dragged through a war zone, and currently the unscheduled disaster in his otherwise pristinely controlled day, yeah, I can’t really blame him.

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