JESSA
His ability to piss me off and turn me on at the same time is nothing short of incredible.
The moment Anton leaves the kitchen, I clutch the corners of the marble island and take a few deep breaths. I had the most amazing day cooking, trying out different ingredients and experimenting and generally just doing what I wanted for a little while.
It took him all of three seconds to change my mood.
But it’s not… totally bad? Like yes, he’s a fucking prick, and yes, he ruined the good vibes I’d been cultivating. But I can’t deny that I feel wired and jittery in a strangely satisfying way, like I’m running on pure adrenaline. Even when he grabbed me, effectively walking right into the knife I had pointed at him, something inside me shivered to life.
Lust.
Chris was right: I can no longer deny that I have a serious problem resisting men like Anton Stepanov.
I try to channel my energy into plating dinner, but I can’t turn my mind off. How long will this feeling last? Maybe I’ll grow immune to him. I’ll have to. Because I’ve got three months ahead of me and not nearly enough willpower.
“He might have killed his wife,” I whisper to myself as I place little dabs of caviar around the tiger prawns on the plate. “He’s a murderer. He’s a Bratva don. He’s not the kind of man you can bring home to meet your parents. Not unless you want them dead.”
I repeat these facts to myself, but by the time I’m ready to serve dinner, nothing has changed. The adrenaline is still pumping. A tingling in my stomach and… lower. The verbal sparring and arguing between us functions an awful lot like foreplay.
“Stop it,” I hiss to myself as I walk the tray of food down the hall and towards the dining room.
When I walk in, there’s no one there. The light is off. But there’s a glow coming through the crack in the door to the right.
I follow it, opening the door to reveal a much smaller, much more intimate dining room. Anton is sitting at an antique table. French doors lead directly out to the pool.
He looks like he’s just stepped out of the shower. He’s in casual pants and a t-shirt, a glass of white wine in his hand.
I’m not used to seeing him like this. It should be a letdown after getting used to suits and sculpted hair, but I can feel new heat between my legs.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“Tonight’s meal,” I tell him, placing the plate down right in front of him. “Seared tiger prawns in a lobster bisque with truffle foam and caviar.”
He scrutinizes the plate. So much so that I start getting nervous. But I tasted everything before I plated up. I always do. I need to remain confident in my abilities.
“Looks good,” he says finally.
“I’ll leave you to it then,” I say. The less time I spend with him, the better.
He raises his eyebrows. “Leave me to it?”
“That’s what I said, yeah.”
“Have you forgotten? You’re my waitress tonight.”
“Consider yourself waited on.”
He wags a finger in the air. “Not so fast, little one.”
I put my fists on my hips. “You expect me to stay and… do what? Spoon-feed you?”
“Serve me,” he says simply. “Is it so hard to be around me?”
But I can see that evil glint in his eyes. He’s doing this specifically to get a rise out of me.
Most obnoxiously of all, it’s working like a goddamn charm.
He can tell, too. “I’m going to need another glass of wine in a moment. You’ll have to pour it for me.”