Seraphina
He didn't touch me.
He didn't need to.
That was the most terrifying part.
Rafael Antonov sat in the chair like he owned not just the room, but the air in it—like every breath I took was borrowed. Paid in glances, taxed by silence.
He watched me like I was something precious… and breakable.
Not fragile.
Breakable.
As in—he could do it slowly, deliberately, and with terrifying ease.
"I'm not here to hurt you," he said, swirling the blood-dark wine in my glass.
"No?" I folded my arms. "Then leave."
His smile was cold. Not cruel. Confident.
"The door's right there, kiska. You think I'd stop you if you wanted to go?"
I hated the way that nickname curled against my skin. Kitten. A warning wrapped in affection.
I didn't answer.
He stood, setting the glass down on my vanity, his body cutting through the moonlight like shadow incarnate. Loose black shirt, sleeves rolled up, veins taut along his forearms. The silver chain around his neck glinted briefly. No suit. No tie. Just that calm, terrifying masculinity—refined, yet raw.
"I want to try something," he said.
My heartbeat quickened.
I didn't like those words. Especially not from a man who looked at me like he already knew how I'd react.
"And if I say no?"
He moved closer—close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his body.
"I won't touch you," he said, voice dropping. "I'll just speak. You don't have to say anything. You don't have to do anything. If it gets too much… walk away."
My eyes narrowed. "You're serious?"
He stepped around me slowly—his voice brushing my neck as he passed.
"I'm always serious."
I swallowed.
Because the way he said it felt like a promise. A threat. And a prayer.
He sat back down, this time directly in front of me, his legs spread lazily apart, hands steepled. His gaze dragged down my body—unashamed, unchallenged. Not like a man undressing me.
Like one dissecting me.
"You think I don't see you," he said. "But I do."
I held still.
"You wear control like a second skin," he continued. "But it's not who you are. You use it to keep the world from crawling inside you. From seeing what you really want."
"And what's that?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
He smiled, slow and wicked.
"To be devoured. Not by force. By focus. By someone who doesn't flinch when you bare your teeth."
I clenched my jaw.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes piercing mine.
"I bet you've never had a man look at you long enough to make your knees shake."
I didn't move.
"And I won't touch you. But you'll still feel it."
God. The things his voice did.
Low. Deep. Controlled.
Like every word had been tested on a woman before me.
He tilted his head.
"I want you to sit in front of me. Just like this. For ten minutes. That's all. No touching. No speaking. Just silence."
I stared.
He waited.
Not demanding. Not begging.
Just waiting.
And that was worse.
Because I wanted to see what happened if I did.
I sat.
Every cell in my body went alert.
He didn't blink.
Didn't smile.
Just looked at me like he wanted to consume me from the inside out.
By minute three, my thighs pressed tighter together.
By minute five, my skin burned.
By minute seven, I wanted to scream or climb into his lap—just to shatter the tension.
And by minute ten, I realized…
He'd won.
Without a single touch.
He stood slowly, stepped to the door, and looked back over his shoulder.
"When you're ready to be ruined," he said, "come find me."
And then he left.
Leaving me flushed, panting, and humiliated by how much I wanted more.