Page 38 of Masked Seduction
Except I don’t know. Abram’s a mystery wrapped in an expensive suit. I know about his sisters. Know about their children. I’ve seen the family photos, the vacations, the matching icy eyes in every generation. But a brother? There’s never been mention of one. And if hewasmy weekend stranger, I think I’d want it to be him.
I’d want him to be the man who touched me like I was something precious. Who growled Russian into my ear while making me come so hard I saw stars. I’d want that man to bethisman, because maybe then, this heat between us wouldn’t be so confusing.
But it’s all so ridiculous. Wild, wishful thinking. My imagination stirring the pot.
He glances up suddenly, as if sensing me watching him too long. “Is there a problem?” he asks, voice sharp but not unkind.
I blink hard, my cheeks flushing instantly. “Not at all,” I say, forcing a little smile that feels like it’s going to crack my teeth.
He studies me a second longer than necessary. And then the moment passes.
I clear my throat, tugging my thoughts back into something resembling professionalism. “Thank you,” I say softly, “for… looking after me. For keeping me safe.”
Abram nods once. “It’s nothing.”
But it isn’t nothing. I know that. I felt it. Still, I let the subject drop.
I straighten my spine. “Would you like refreshments set out for the meeting?”
He tilts his head. “What refreshments?”
“Coffee. Pastries. Water. Maybe a little something stronger, depending on how tense things get.”
His brow lifts just slightly. “From where? Did you bring something in?”
“I did,” I say, letting a touch of pride creep into my voice. “I took the company card and restocked the fridge, the shelves, and the liquor cabinet. They were, frankly, embarrassingly bare.”
To my surprise, he nods slowly. “Have coffee and pastries on the table. Too early for anything else.”
“Of course.” I turn to go.
Before I can reach the door, however, his voice stops me. “Jenna.”
I brace myself. Expecting a correction. A critique. One of his razor-edged, backhanded compliments.
Instead, he says, “Good work.”
My breath hitches. The words sound almost out of place coming from him. But they’re genuine, paired with a steady, unreadable gaze that always seems to reach further than it should.
I don’t know what to say, so I just smile, a little stunned. I step into the hallway, the door clicking closed behind me, and then I stop. One hand on the wall, the other pressed flat to my chest. My heart is racing. I can feel the heat rushing up my neck.
What the hell is happening to me?
I hurry to the break room, gathering the pastries I’d purchased and stored in the fridge. When they’re ready to go, I get some hot water for the French presses ready and start that process. It doesn’t take long before I’m done.
The tray shakes a little in my hands as I set it down on the table in the conference room. I tell myself it’s just the coffee. Just nerves. But really, it’s him.
That damn smile. It looked exactly like the one I saw that night—the one that caused me to become undone, right before I begged a stranger to fuck me like I’d never begged anyone in my life. And now, here I am, laying out pastries and arranging napkins while my boss wanders around smiling like a man with nothing to hide.
I’ve been thinking about that night all weekend. Obsessively. I’ve practically memorized his taste, his smell, the shape of his lips, the way his beard scraped against my skin.
I arrange the pastries and try not to let my thoughts run wild. The smell of fresh coffee curls up from the presses I started earlier. I pour it carefully into cups, my hands trembling just enough to make the stream wobble.
Malyshka.
The Russian word hits me like a shiver. I can still hear him murmuring things into my ear in a voice I didn’t understand but felt all the same. Low, deep, dangerous.
He’d slipped that night when he dropped the fake American accent. And when he did, he sounded just like Abram. But it doesn’t prove anything. Not definitively, anyway.
