I listened to a story Filip seemed determine to whisper to me; Sevastyan clenched a fist beside his plate. He could assure me that there was no us all he wanted to, but . . .

Actions speak louder than words, Siberian. And his focus on me was warming me as much as the vodka.

When servers brought yet another dish, Kovalev announced, “In honor of Natalie’s home of Nebraska.”

It was corn soufflé! I grinned at him. “I love it.” I was beginning to sound crazy tipsy.

Then I felt Sevastyan’s dark gaze on me yet again. Was he remembering the cornfield? Pinning me in the dirt? Meeting his eyes, I downed another shot.

Kovalev turned to Sevastyan. “You’re not eating, Aleksei?”

He straightened. “Perhaps I’m feeling the trip.”

Filip quipped, “Or your age.”

With his quiet intensity, Sevastyan said, “I hold my own.”

In a merry tone, Kovalev said, “There now, lads.” He turned to me. “I think our clever Filip sometimes forgets Aleksei was a bare-knuckle prizefighter for many years.”

I raised my brows. When I’d first seen Sevastyan, I’d guessed he was a fighter. That would explain the scars on his fingers, his broken nose. I recalled the many times I’d seen Sevastyan ball his fists. For a fighter, that must be the default factory setting.

When I thought of all the men who’d struck that noble face of his, I wanted to touch him, to smooth my fingers over his skin. I was trying to imagine him in the ring, dealing pain, when another course appeared.

Dessert. There were baked apples, fruit pastels—a kind of Russian Turkish delight—and sirniki, a cheese pancake with a side of honey for dipping. As soon as my first pastel touched my tongue, I rolled my eyes with bliss.

After dessert, drinks reigned and laughter grew boisterous. It was bad etiquette not to finish an opened bottle of vodka, so everyone politely pounded shot after shot—well, everyone except for Sevastyan. After the toasts, his glass went untouched.

Paxán recounted hilarious tales of his attempts at leisure. Sailing? The boat was now an artificial reef. Breeding horses? He’d find that wily escaped stallion one of these days.

I laughed until my eyes watered, admitting that I’d thought he would have white tigers and a bear—and a diamond-encrusted toilet, which made Kovalev double over.

The guy named Gleb taught me a Russian tongue twister. Everyone laughed at my buzzed rendition, but I was a good goddamned sport, so I feigned a quick curtsy. I saw that even Sevastyan’s customary scowl had changed to a look of something like fascination, as if I were a creature he’d never seen in the wild before.

Every time I grew convinced I couldn’t break through his icy reserve again, he’d show hints of the man beneath the enforcer façade. . . .

I wished I could freeze time—couldn’t remember when I’d last had such a fun night—but before I knew it, a grandfather clock struck midnight.

Paxán stood. “Well, my friends and family”—he smiled at me and Sevastyan—“you’ll have to excuse me.”

A chorus of “One more drink!” rang out.

He shook his head. “Take pity on an old man! And continue—that’s an order.” Sevastyan and I rose at the same time, both intending to walk Paxán out.

“Sit, sit, you two. Enjoy yourselves. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

As I watched Paxán strolling away, I didn’t want to let him out of my sight. I had the feeling that he might disappear. But then Sevastyan gave me a reassuring look, as if he understood what I was feeling. It helped.

After that, drinks continued to flow. The hour grew late, but I didn’t care because I didn’t have work tomorrow, didn’t have to deal with first-year students spinning tales about why their papers were late.

My only complaint? I wanted Sevastyan to talk to me, to flirt with me. To touch me. I desired more of what he’d shown me the night before.

I wanted sex with him.

Craved it.

I’d been reminded of how relentless I could be; maybe I should pursue him relentlessly?

To my right, Filip and some brigadiers got into a heated debate about the fastest sports car—which gave me an opportunity for mischief. I was intoxicated enough that the idea of teasing Sevastyan seemed brilliant.

Though he’d warned me that he didn’t like surprises, I slipped off one heel, then stretched my hosed foot toward his legs. I made contact with his inner thigh, right above his knee. He tensed, but didn’t give me away, just cast me that menacing look.

Was it a good idea to play with an enforcer like him? Vodka said, Hell, yeah, touch his badge! I reached higher. With each inch closer I got to his dick, his breaths came quicker. He gave a forceful shake of his head.

With a lazy grin, I dipped my forefinger into a honey pot, then sucked it between my lips, my smug expression saying, Whatcha gonna do, Siberian?

His own lips parted. Recalling me sucking him the night before?

Higher, higher . . .

Contact.

God, he was burning hot, hard as iron. He tilted his head sharply, his nostrils flaring. And for a long moment, his chest didn’t move at all.

With my lids gone heavy, I rubbed the ball of my foot along his length, delighted when his c**k pulsed in reaction. I grew wet in response, dampening the black silk thong I’d worn for him. My ni**les budded in the demi cups of my bra.

When I stroked him from base to head, he cast me another look of warning—even as his gaze gleamed with lust. Now it was a battle of wills, a game of chicken. Stroke. He was refusing to react; I refused to quit. Another stroke. Who would blink first?