Chapter 36 The Penthouse
The car pulled away from the boutiques into the flow of Manhattan traffic. Anya expected them to head back to the estate, to return to the careful performance of normalcy. Instead, Dima leaned forward, speaking quietly to Boris.
"Change of plans, drop us at the Volkov building, I have a documents to collect while Miss Petrova will wait in my office."
Boris nodded, changing lanes without comment.
Anya shot Dima a questioning look. He squeezed her thigh once, a silent reassurance, then returned his gaze to the window.
The Volkov Industries building towered above midtown, all glass steel and cold efficiency. They rode the elevator to the top floor in silence, stepping out into a reception area that was empty save for a single assistant at a sleek desk.
"Mr. Volkov, I didn't expect you today."
"Impulse visit, Sarah. I need some files, we'll be in my office."
The assistant nodded, returning to her work. Dima led Anya through a set of glass doors into a space that was unmistakably his.
The office was vast, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. A massive desk dominated one end, flanked by bookshelves and a sitting area with leather furniture. Everything was gray black and chrome.
Dima closed the door behind them, and the city noise vanished. They were alone, high above the streets, suspended in glass and silence.
Anya moved to the windows, looking down at the tiny cars and ant-like people. From up here, everything seemed small. Manageable.
"Beautiful view," she murmured.
"Not as beautiful as you."
She turned. Dima stood close, closer than she'd realized, his eyes were dark with something that made her breath catch.
"We shouldn't," she whispered. "Not here or now."
"Why not?" He moved closer, his hand reaching for her face. "We're alone with no cameras or any distractions, just us."
"But the drive,the evidence, we need to…”
"It can wait." His thumb traced her lower lip, "but I can't."
She should argue, insist on focus, on caution, or on the mission but his touch, voice, and the way he looked at her—it melted every argument.
"Here?" she breathed. "In your office?"
"My office and my woman." He kissed her, soft and slow. "Yes I want to have you here."
The kiss deepened, urgency building. His hands roamed her back, pulling her close. She fisted her hands in his shirt, holding on as the world tilted.
They stumbled toward the sitting area, knocking against a low table. Dima caught her, lowering her onto the leather couch, his body covered hers, warm, solid and wanting.
"I need you," he breathed against her throat. "I need to taste you."
Before she could respond, he was moving down her body. His hands pushed her dress up, exposing her thighs. His lips followed, kissing a trail from her knee upward going higher.
Anya's breath came in gasps. "Dima"
He looked up at her, his sapphire eyes dark with desire.
"Trust me," he murmured. "Let me worship you."
He pushed her underwear aside and lowered his mouth to her.
The sensation was overwhelming, hot, wet and perfect. Anya cried out, her hands flying to his hair. He moved with skill and tenderness, learning what made her gasp, what made her moan, what made her arch against him.
The power dynamic shifted. In this moment, he was on his knees before her, serving her pleasure. The man who controlled everything, who watched from cameras and enforced schedules was reduced to this: a supplicant at her altar.
"Please," she gasped, not knowing what she begged for. "Please, Dima"
He doubled his efforts, his tongue finding the rhythm that drove her wild. The tension built, coiling in her belly, tightening with every stroke.
"I'm close," she warned. "I'm so close"
He didn't stop or go slow rather he kept of sucking, he sucked her harder, faster, until the coil snapped and she shattered.
The orgasm ripped through her, wave after wave of pleasure that left her trembling and crying out. He stayed with her through every pulse, every tremor, until she finally collapsed, boneless and gasping.
He crawled up her body, kissing a path to her lips. She tasted herself on him, intimate and raw.
"That," he whispered against her mouth, "was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
She couldn't speak but could only pull him close and hold on.
They lay tangled together on the leather couch, high above the city, the evidence of their partnership forgotten on the floor. For this moment, there was only them.
A phone buzzed.
Dima ignored it but it uzzed again and again.
"Someone really wants you," Anya murmured.
He sighed, reaching for his jacket. He pulled out the phone, glancing at the screen. His expression shifted just slightly, a flicker of something that made Anya's stomach clench.
"I need to take this." He stood, walking toward the glass wall that separated his office from the outer reception area. "Stay here."
He stepped through the door, closing it behind him. Through the glass, Anya could see him clearly—his back to her, his shoulders rigid with his head bent to the phone.
She watched as he listened, watched as his spine stiffened and as his free hand clenched into a fist at his side.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
He turned slightly, and she caught a glimpse of his face. The mask was gone, In its place was something she'd never seen before which was fear.
He said something sharp into the phone, then ended the call. For a long moment, he just stood there, his hand pressed to the glass with his eyes closed.
Then he turned, and through the transparent wall, their eyes met.
Anya's heart stopped.
Whatever he'd just learned, it was bad and it was about to change everything.