Page 4 of Masked Seduction
Determined, I quicken my steps toward home, promising myself tomorrow will be different.
Tomorrow, I’ll hold my own.
Tomorrow, I’ll prove Abram Vasiliev can’t break me.
CHAPTER 2
ABRAM
Jenna’s body could make a saint think wicked thoughts—and I’m no fucking saint.
My eyes track her ass shamelessly as she storms out of my office, fury in every click of her heels. That tight little A-line skirt hugs her curves so perfectly it’s almost sinful, framing the sway of her hips in a way that makes my mouth water.
For one indulgent moment, I allow myself to imagine calling her back, locking the office door behind her. My voice would be calm yet authoritative. I’d tell her to hike that skirt up around her hips, slowly slide her panties down her thighs, and climb onto my cock, riding me until she forgets every single reason she’s so damn angry.
I harden instantly, a raw surge of desire tightening in my core. I’ve never been a man ruled by impulse, but Jenna Ridley challenges that daily. Still, I shake the thought away with reluctant discipline.
Fucking your assistant is the oldest cliché in the book—one of those stupid, reckless mistakes men like me aren’t supposed to make.
No matter how tempting that mistake might be.
I push back from my desk and slowly stand up, rolling my shoulders as I cross to the window. Las Vegas sprawls beneath me, glittering in the afternoon sun, deceptive in its brightness.
Jenna has no real idea what it means to be involved with a man like me, though she knows enough to be wary. I’m Abram Vasiliev—head of the Vasiliev Bratva—feared and respected in equal measure.
Although she’s aware of who I am, I’m not sure she fully understands what it really means, the blood that stains my hands. If she can handle that, maybe she’ll last long enough to become a decent assistant. And God, I hope she does. Because the alternative—getting rid of her before I give in to temptation—is becoming less appealing every damn day.
Her fiery defiance, that blazing temper barely masked behind careful professionalism, draws me in like nothing else. Every time she walks into my office, my cock reacts instantly, shamelessly demanding what I’ve forbidden myself.
And each day, resisting her gets a little harder.
I chuckle under my breath, still staring out the window. Jenna Ridley. Fucking hell. The whole reason she’s here is because of my meddling sisters, Anya and Tatiana. They stormed into my office three months ago like a pair of smug hurricanes in heels, sitting themselves down like they owned the place and giving me a carefully rehearsed speech.
“You need someone who can take the weight of the world off your shoulders,” Anya had said with a knowing smile.
“Someone competent. Organized. Someone who won’t put up with your bullshit,” Tatiana added.
And then, as if they’d choreographed the whole thing, they said together: “We know just the woman.”
Apparently, Jenna had done a temp stint at a boutique real estate firm where Tatiana’s college friend worked. She’d filled in for an executive assistant on maternity leave and left such a strong impression that word traveled fast. Efficient, sharp-tongued, calm under pressure. A little too pretty for her own good, but my sisters didn’t seem concerned about that.
I insisted I didn’t need a damn assistant. I needed quiet. But they didn’t give a shit about what I wanted. Their little speech wasn’t about work. It was about tying me down.
They want to see me get married. Settled. Playing house like they are—soft mornings, matching mugs, fucking holiday cards. They’re happy and they think I’m secretly lonely. Like I’m just waiting to be swept off my feet by the right woman and a color-coded Google calendar.
I’m not.
I like fucking too much. The real kind. Not the performative honeymoon sex newlyweds pretend they’ll keep having forever. I’m talking about the kind that strips a woman down to her rawest needs and keeps her there.
Every night. Over my desk. In the shower. On the floor. Again and again.
From what I understand, wives don’t like that. Not after a while, anyway. Eventually, the excuses come. The headaches. The obligation. And I don’t want someone who fucks me because they think they’re supposed to.
I want hunger.
Filth.
Need.
