grip on the arms of the leather chair. Ophelia fluttered past him on tiptoe with her eyes closed and her lips softly parted, so close that the hem of her skirt brushed against his knee. Artem’s erection swelled to the point of pain. Had he been standing, his arousal would have crippled him. Dragged him to his knees. For a moment, he even thought he saw stars. Then he realized the flash of light came from the diamonds around Ophelia’s neck.
It didn’t occur to Artem to wonder about the shoes or how she’d known they would fit. Nor did he ask himself how she could move this way. Questioning anything about this moment would have been like questioning a miracle. A gift.
Because that’s what she’d given him.
Every turn of her wrist, every fluid arm movement, every step of her pink satin feet was a priceless gift. Then she stopped directly in front of him and began a dizzying sequence of elaborate turns, and he swore he could feel the force of each jackknife kick of her leg dead center in his heart. He could no longer breathe.
Artem wasn’t sure how long Ophelia danced for him. Somehow it felt like both the longest moment of his life and, at the same time, the most fleeting. He only knew that when the music came to an end, she stood before him breathless and beautiful, with her breasts heaving and her porcelain skin glistening with exertion. And he knew that he’d never witnessed such beauty in his life. He doubted he ever would again.
Without breaking her gaze from his, Ophelia lowered herself into a deep curtsy. At last—at long last—Artem rose and closed the distance between them. As gently as he could manage while every cell in his body throbbed with desire, he took her hand in his and lifted her to her feet.
She rose up on the very tips of her toes, so that they were nearly eye level. When she smiled, it occurred to Artem that he’d never seen her so happy, so full of joy. Even her eyes danced.
He glanced down at her feet and the satiny pink ribbons that crisscrossed her ankles in a neat X.
“I used to be a dancer,” she whispered, by way of explanation.
Used to be? Used to be was ridiculous. Artem didn’t know what had happened in her past, but something clearly had. Something devastating. It didn’t matter what that something was. He wasn’t about to let it steal anything from her. Or make her believe she was anything else less than what she was.
“No.” He took her chin in his hand. “Ophelia, you are a dancer.”
Her eyes filled, and a single tear slipped down her lovely cheek. Artem wiped it away with the pad of this thumb.
He wished he had a bouquet of roses to place in her arms. Petals to scatter at her feet. She deserved that much. That much and more. But all he had to offer was the ovation rising in his soul. So he did what little he could. He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a tender kiss there.
“Artem.” With a waver in her voice, she took a backward step, out of his reach.
For a single, agonizing moment, he thought she was going to run away again. To glide right out of the penthouse on her pink-slippered feet. He wouldn’t let her. Not this time.
She didn’t run, though. Nor did she say a word.
She simply reached her lithe arms behind her and unfastened the bodice of her strapless gown. Artem felt like he lived and died a thousand petite morts in the time it took her dress to fall away. It landed on his floor in a whispery puff of tulle, right where it belonged, as far as he was concerned.
She was gloriously naked, save for the diamonds around her neck, just as he’d imagined. Only no fantasy could have prepared him for the exquisite sight of her delicate curves, her rose-tipped breasts and all that marble-white flesh set off to perfection by the glittering jewels and the pink satin ribbons wrapped round her legs.
“Ophelia, my God.” He swallowed. “You’re beautiful.”
* * *
Who is this woman I’ve become?
By putting on the shoes and dancing again, Ophelia had thought she could be her old self just for a moment. Just for a night. But this bold woman standing in front of Artem Drake and offering herself in every possible way wasn’t Ophelia Baronova any more than she was Ophelia Rose. This was someone she didn’t recognize. Someone she’d never had the courage to be.
Someone who actually believed Artem when he called her beautiful.
She felt beautiful, adorned in nothing but diamonds and pink satin shoes. Beautiful. And alive.
And aching.
She needed him to touch her. Really touch her. She needed it so much that she was on the verge of taking his hand and placing it exactly where she wanted it.
She stepped out of the pile of tulle on the floor and went to him, feeling his gaze hot on her exposed skin. Then she wrapped her arms around his neck, rose up en pointe and touched her lips ever so gently to his.
Artem let out a long, agonized groan, and to Ophelia, the sound was sweeter than Mozart. She’d never had such an effect on a man before. She’d never considered herself capable of it. And now that she knew she could—on this man, in particular—it was like a drug. She wanted to see him lose control, for once. She wanted him as raw and needy as she felt.
She got her wish.
His tongue parted her lips and he kissed her violently. Hard enough to bruise her mouth. He pulled her against him, and it seemed wholly impossible that this could be their first kiss. Their lips were made for this. For worshipping one another.
God, was it supposed to feel this way? So deliciously dirty?
She slid against him, reveling in the sensation of his wool tuxedo against her bare skin. Her eyes fluttered open as his mouth moved lower, biting and licking its way down her neck until he found her nipples. She cried out when he took her breast in his mouth, and a hot ribbon of need seemed to unspool from her nipple to between her legs. In the glossy surface of the snow-battered window, she caught a glimpse of their reflection and was stunned by what she saw—her bare body writhing against Artem, who had yet to shed a single article of clothing.
Before she could bring herself to feel an ounce of shame, he gathered her in his arms and carried her to his massive bed, that blanketed wonderland that had so intimidated her the first time she’d been here. Had it been only fourteen days ago that they’d sworn to one another they had no desire to sleep together?
She’d been lying then. Lying through her teeth. Ophelia had wanted this since the moment she’d set eyes on Artem Drake. No, not this. Not exactly. Because she hadn’t known anything like this existed.
She struggled to catch her breath as Artem set her down on the impossibly soft sheets. Then he leaned over her and kissed her again, with long, slow thrusts of his tongue now, as if his body was telling her they had all the time in the world and he intended to make good use of every wanton second. As his hands found her hair and unwound her ballerina bun, she couldn’t stop touching his face—his perfect cheekbones, his chiseled jaw and that secret place where his dimple flashed in those rare, unguarded moments when he smiled. The most beautiful man she’d ever seen, looking down at her as if he’d been waiting for this moment as long as she had. It hardly seemed possible.
He wound a finger in the diamonds around her neck and grinned as wickedly as the devil himself. “My grace.”
Ophelia balled the sheets in her fists, for fear she might float away. Everything seemed to be happening so fast, yet somehow not quickly enough. She wasn’t sure how long she could survive the heavenly warmth flowing through her. It was beginning to bear down on her. Hot and insistent. Then Artem moved his hand lower, and lower still, drawing a tremulous, invisible line down her body, until with a gentle touch he parted her and slipped his fingers inside her.
“Oh,” she purred, in a voice she’d never heard come out of her mouth.
“Ophelia, open your eyes. Look at me.”
She obeyed and found him watching her, his gaze filled