Page 80 of The Wrong Brother

The photographer practically vibrates with excitement. “That. Hold that.”

Camera flashes erupt rapidly now while my pulse stumbles somewhere behind my ribs. Rus remains frustratingly unreadable outwardly, but I can feel tension coiled beneath his composure through every point where our bodies touch.

The spark between us never really disappeared. It just buried itself beneath anger and suspicion.

“Okay,” the photographer says suddenly. “New setup.”

Five minutes later, I’m trying not to combust from embarrassment.

Ruslan kneels in front of me beside the velvet chaise while one of his hands rests against the back of my thigh. The pose itself isn’t even explicit, but there is something about seeing him like this. Large, elegant, dangerous Ruslan Smirnov on his knees looking up at me—makes my entire body overheat instantly.

The photographer notices too. “Oh, this is filthy,” he says delightedly.

I make a strangled noise.

Rus’s mouth twitches faintly. Smug bastard.

“Emma,” the photographer calls, “touch his face.”

I hesitate for half a second before sliding my fingers carefully along Ruslan’s jaw. His eyes darken immediately at the contact. And despite the distance he’s been forcing between us for days, I feel the shift in him all at once. Hunger. Possession. Something deeper he keeps trying not to show me.

The cameras flash harder. Around us, the studio fills with the sounds of murmurs and rustles because everyone can see it.

Whatever this is between us may have started out as fake, but the tension absolutely isn’t.

Chapter 20

Ruslan

By the timewe return from the shoot, images from the magazine session are already circulating online. In the elevator, I caught glimpses of them on stranger’s phones, splashed across their social media feeds.

The chemistry. The tension.

The way Emma looked at me.

It’s all too believable.

She stalks into the suite ahead of me and immediately kicks off her heels hard enough that one nearly hits the sofa. I close the door slowly behind us.

Silence stretches, dangerously taut.

Emma turns sharply toward me, curls slightly disheveled from the evening wind outside. “What exactly are you doing?”

I loosen my tie without answering.

“No,” she snaps. “You don’t get to do that.”

“Do what?”

“That thing where you shut down and act like nothing happened.”

I glance toward her calmly. “You will need to be more specific.”

Her eyes flash. Good; anger is easier to manage than hurt.

“The photos,” she says. “The mixed signals. The way you’ve acted for days.” She folds her arms tightly. “One second you’re touching me like you’re obsessed with me, and the next you barely look at me.”

I say nothing. Mostly because she’s right.