Page 35 of Twisted Hearts
But on the inside, I have my doubts about exactly how well I’ll be wearing the full weight of the crown. Not just because of the events at the table tonight, or because of anything to do with the possibility that Drazen is basically advancing like he’s Hannibal marching on Rome.
Not even because of the ticking time bomb Svetlana poses to all of us, given that the one bargaining chip I had just got destroyed in dramatic fashion.
No, I’m worried about my ability to wear the crown because even right now, smack dab in the middle of it, I’m not thinking ofanyof that shit. Not Abram. Not Drazen. Not Svetlana.
I’m only thinking of her,still.
Even when I smile and nod, or scowl if that seems indicated, or shake my head when Ilya and Lukas do, my thoughts are firmly and squarely on Eilish and that kiss I stole from her.
It wasn’t what I expected.
It wasmore.
Now, we’ll see how far I can push her before she breaks.
Or—let’s be honest—before I do.
8
EILISH
I shiveras my dress drops to the floor and Gavan’s eyes sweep viciously and hungrily over me.
“Better. Much better.”
My pulse races, my blood boiling.
He means my underwear.
It’s Monday morning, and I’ve been in Gavan’s office for less than sixty seconds before being ordered to strip down to my bra, panties, and heels.
Ihatethat I feel a flutter of pride and elation at the praise in his voice. I hate that I literally went out this weekend and bought new matching bra and panties, entirely because of his comment last week about wearing something nicer.
I hate what it says about me that I carefully shaved my legs, my bikini line—and more—and my armpits this morning. That I did my makeup with more than my usual attention. That I selected my outfit, did my hair, and all the rest of it—in preparation to disrobe for him again.
“Turn around,” Gavan growls. He twirls his finger in the air, as if I need a demonstration of what that means. I glare at him, but keep silent as I slowly turn. I can feel his eyes sliding over my skin. And my face flames when I feel his gaze glued to my ass that is barely covered by the tiny black lace thong that matches my bra.
I’ve never really felt “sexy” before. I mean, I know I’m conventionally attractive enough. I have good skin, and I really like my mouth and the rest of my face. I keep in pretty okay shape, I guess. But I’m not, and never have been, one of those girls on social media posing in bikinis with the “ass-back, tits-forward, duck-lips” look.
Neve loves to say that while most girls are out there trying to be Marilyn, I’m content being Jackie O. Honestly, I take pride in that assessment.
All this is to say, my current situation, twirling around in a skimpy lace thong in front of one of the most—if notthemost—dangerous and ridiculously good-looking men in New York is pretty much the definition of “outside my comfort zone”.
“Well?”
I shiver when I turn back around, facing him. My eyes instinctively drop to his lips, and I flush.
I flush because I know how those lips taste. I know the sinfully exiting punishment they can bring. I know the way they almost brought me to my knees.
I shake myself, pulling myself from my reverie and focusing on what he just said.
“Well…what?”
He cocks a brow, his jawline grinding.
“Do you really need a reminder?”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes, which is not an easy thing to do right now.