His eyes opened.
The blue was darker now, pupils blown wide, and something in his jaw loosened when he looked at her. She didn't move her hand. Let him feel the weight of her palm against his cheek, the way her thumb traced the edge of his scar. He swallowed.
"Natalia." Her name in his mouth again. Not Mrs. Volkov. Not a warning. Just her, stripped bare of titles and distance.
She pressed forward. He stepped back until his shoulders hit the dresser—a heavy thing of dark wood, brass handles cold against his hip. She didn't stop. Her body lined up with his, silk against leather, and his hands found her waist like they'd been waiting for permission to exist there.
"Tell me you want this," she said. Not a question. A demand in velvet.
His breath came rough. "You know I do."
"Then show me."
His hands slid down, gripped her thighs, and lifted. The cool wood bit into her skin through the silk, sharp and grounding. Her legs wrapped around him automatically, the dress riding up, and his hips pressed into the V of her thighs. She felt him through the layers—hard, thick, straining against his trousers. Her breath caught. She didn't try to hide it.
His mouth found her neck. Open, wet, tasting. His tongue traced the line of her throat, and she let her head fall back, her fingers threading into his cropped hair. He groaned against her skin, and the sound traveled straight to her cunt.
"More," she whispered.
He bit down gently on her collarbone. Her hips rolled forward, searching for pressure, and he answered with his own—a slow grind that made her gasp. His mouth moved lower, and she arched into him, her hands gripping his shoulders, her body already learning the shape of his hunger.
And then she saw them.
The balcony doors. Open. The curtains stirred by night air. The silhouette in the dim lamplight—Roman, still, watching. His hands were clasped behind his back. His face was in shadow. But she knew he was smiling.
The thought should have chilled her.
Instead, heat flooded her belly like wine. A shameful thrill that made her wetter, made her pull Alexei closer, her fingers digging into his shoulders as she pressed her mouth to his ear.
"Don't stop." Her voice was low, steady. "He wants to see."
His mouth obeyed. Open and hot, trailing down her throat, past her collarbone. She felt the scrape of his stubble against her skin, the wet heat of his tongue tracing the swell of her breast through the silk. Her fingers tightened in his hair, and he groaned against her, the sound vibrating through her chest.
His hands slid from her waist to her thighs, gripping hard enough to bruise. He pulled her closer, the dress riding higher, and his mouth followed. Down her stomach, the silk growing damp where his tongue pressed through it. She watched the crown of his head, blond cropped close, and the way his shoulders moved as he worked lower.
The balcony doors were still open. Roman was still there. She could feel his gaze like a second touch, colder and sharper, watching her fall apart for his enforcer. The shame was distant, a whisper against the roar in her blood.
Alexei's mouth reached the hem of her dress. He paused, breathing hard, his forehead pressed against her thigh. She felt his hesitation—a last thread of discipline fraying. Then his hands pushed the silk up, baring her, and his mouth was on her through the thin lace of her underwear.
Her hips bucked. A sound escaped her throat, low and raw. He held her steady, his grip like iron, and his tongue worked against the fabric—wet, deliberate, tasting her through the barrier. She could feel how soaked she was, the lace clinging to her, and he groaned as if he could taste it too.
His fingers hooked the lace and pulled it aside. The cold air hit her, and then his mouth—hot, flat-tongued, dragging through her wetness. She cried out, her head falling back, her hands gripping the edge of the dresser. He licked her slowly, tasting every fold, and she felt the vibration of his groan against her clit.
Her eyes found the balcony. Roman hadn't moved. His silhouette was still, hands clasped, watching. She held his gaze while Alexei's mouth worked her, and the heat in her belly built until it was unbearable. She wanted to come like this—with her husband watching, with Alexei's tongue inside her, with the whole house knowing what she was.
Alexei's tongue pushed into her, and she gasped. His hands gripped her hips, pulling her closer, and he ate her like a man starved, his mouth wet and hungry, his nose pressing into her. She felt his groan again, raw and animal, and she knew he loved it—loved the taste of her, loved the sight of her falling apart for him, loved that Roman was watching.
She was close. Her thighs started to shake, her breath coming in short, broken gasps. She looked at Roman one last time—saw the faint tilt of his head, the approval in his stillness—and she let go.
But before she could, Alexei pulled back. His mouth left her, wet and swollen, and he looked up at her with those dark, hungry eyes. "Not yet," he said, his voice rough. "He's still watching. Let him wait."