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My boss points at the floor between his feet. “Kneel right there… … and take off my belt.” I swallow hard, staring at the Italian leather belt circling his waist. Its presence feels obscene somehow, the final barrier between my job duties and something much more dangerous. “Mr. Akopov, I don’t think—” “I’m not paying you to think, Ms. St. Clair.” His voice drops to that low, dangerous snarl that makes my insides quiver. “I’m paying you to assist me.” My mind screams at me to turn around, walk out, and never look back. To preserve what little dignity I have left. I need to remember that this man might be an actual criminal who keeps a gun in his desk drawer. But my traitorous hands are already reaching for his belt buckle. “Just this once,” I whisper, more to myself than to him. “Just for the gala.” His lips morph into that infuriating half-smile. “Of course.” The metal is cool against my fingertips as I fumble with the clasp. I’m hyper-aware of my breathing, of the minimal space between us, of the heat radiating from his bare chest. This close, I can see the details of the tattoo on his chest. Cyrillic letters I can’t read, spreading across his left pectoral like a declaration. Below it, a thin white scar runs along his rib. I wonder what—or who—gave it to him. The buckle finally releases with a soft click. I slide the leather slowly through the loops, careful not to brush against him. “Good girl,” he murmurs. “Now, let’s continue.”