I shrug. “I have my ways.”
She makes an exasperated little sighing sound that I feel right to my cock, shifting as my pants become increasingly tight.
“Here you go, one latte,” the woman says, returning to the table and setting it down in front of me. As if she notices the frosty atmosphere, she clears her throat. “Are you alright, Nat?”
Natalya meets her gaze and smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Yes, I’m fine, Cynthia. Thanks so much.”
She nods, but doesn’t look convinced as she leaves us alone.
“On a first name basis with the help, huh?”
“I’ve been coming here since I can remember with Mikhail. She’s always been kind to me.”
“And why is it your mommy doesn’t live in Boston?”
Her eyes flash with anger as her back turns as stiff as a board. “Because she’s a coward.”
I raise a brow, knowing that ever since Natalya’s father died, her mother has lived in Russia. After all, I’ve done my homework and know all there is to know about her family.
“Is that right?”
Natalya sinks her teeth into her bottom lip and shakes her head. “It’s none of your business.”
I grab her hand from across the table and squeeze. “Everything about you is my business, Gurin, and don’t you forget it.”
Her nostrils flare, but she doesn’t make a retort.
I release her hand as that clawing need heightens. “Go into the bathroom.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” I give her a warning glare. “I want you to go into the ladies’ bathroom right now.”
Her tongue darts out over her lips, drawing my attention to them. Not for the first time since I sat down. “Why?”
“Natalya, if you make me say it one more time, I swear to God—”
She stands then without a word and struts into the ladies bathroom, which is behind us, the swing door closing behind her.
I clench my fists and force myself to wait for at least half a minute, before standing too and following her. It’s crazy how desperate I feel to get her alone.
Natalya’s eyes widen as I enter the bathroom and then shut the door, locking it for good measure. “What are you—”
“No questions,” I growl, stalking toward her.
She backs up until she has no where to go, her spine flush against the clinical white tiled walls. Her chest rises and falls with deep, rasping breaths as I move my lips to within an inch of hers.
“Tell me, princess, how does it feel to be at my mercy on your own turf?” I ask.
Her jaw clenches and then she does something I don’t expect. She spits at me.
I grab hold of her throat in anger, squeezing so hard her eyes bulge from her sockets. “You will learn soon enough that bratty behavior like that is the worst way to act around me.”
She claws at my hand, trying to pry it from her throat.
I release her and then bite her bottom lip between my teeth. “You belong to me, and what I say goes. Don’t forget it. Now answer my question.”
“I hate it,” she says, her eyes full of passionate rage.