The air in the dining room thickened until it felt like I was breathing through wet silk.
Viktor Volkov’s eyes never left mine. Not when Rocco pulled out my chair. Not when servants poured wine. Not when the first course was set in front of us. Those cold steel eyes stayed locked on my face like he was still watching me choke on his c**k two nights ago in a New York hotel room.
I sat. Crossed my legs under the long table. The modest cream dress I had chosen for the wedding reception suddenly felt paper-thin. Every shift of my thighs reminded me how sore I still was—how the thick stretch of him had left me tender and used. My cunt clenched around nothing, already wet from the memory and the way he was looking at me now.
Rocco’s hand settled on my knee under the table, possessive and poli
