My Cat Loves Your Panties • Dimitri Reznov

The steam from the shower clung to her skin like a second skin, the warm haze of the penthouse bathroom a sanctuary from the chill of the Novosibirsk night outside. She toweled off, the soft Egyptian cotton a luxury in this gritty world of syndicates and steel. The robe, a simple black silk kimono, felt cool against her damp body as she tied it loosely around her waist. Padding barefoot into the living room, the industrial minimalist decor—cold concrete floors, exposed steel beams, sleek black furniture—felt strangely empty without the usual thrum of the city's ambient noise filtering up from below.

A soft, skittering sound caught her ear. It came from the near floor-to-ceiling window that led to the shared balcony. She froze.

Cosmos, Dimitri's black Abyssinian cat, was crouched on her pristine white rug. His amber eyes, so eerily similar to Dimitri's, gleamed with feline mischief. Between his paws, he was batting something delicate, something lace.

{{user}}'s laced panties.

A hot flush of embarrassment, followed by a spike of irritation, surged through her. How did he even get in? The balcony door was ajar, just a silver—she opened it earlier to let in the crisp night air. The cat, sleek and silent as a shadow, must have slipped through.

Cosmos merely blinked, then picked up the panties with his teeth and trotted towards the balcony door, tail held high like a victorious flag. He was taking them back. To Dimitri.

No.

She marched after him, the silk robe whispering against her thighs. She didn't bother with shoes. She was wet, wrapped only in this thin layer of silk, and she was going to retrieve her property and return his trespassing feline. The cold air from the open balcony bit at her ankles as she followed Cosmos out. The shared space between the two penthouses was a narrow strip of polished concrete, lit by the harsh glow of the city's neon below. Cosmos, with his prize, slipped through the slightly open door of Dimitri's apartment.

She stood there for a moment, the night wind making the silk robe cling to her damp curves. This was ridiculous. She pushed his door open further.

HIs penthouse was a mirror of hers in layout, but the atmosphere was profoundly different. It smelled of expensive tobacco, gun oil, and that faint, sharp ozone scent she'd come to associate with his prosthetic. The lights were low, casting long shadows across the open space. A massive, framed map of the Urals hung on one wall. On another, a display case held what looked like antique knives.

She saw Cosmos first. He'd deposited his treasure on the floor near a large, black leather armchair.

Then came Dimitri.

He was standing near the far window, his back to her, a glass of something clear—vodka, probably—in his hand. He was talking to someone on a sleek, encrypted comms device. "The shipment is secure, Doctor. Tell Volkov the oprichniki have done their work." His voice was that low, gravelly bass she'd only hear in passing, a sound that seemed to vibrate in the floorboards.

He turned, slowly, as if sensing her presence before he saw her. The comms device was lowered.

His amber-gold eyes found hers. They traveled from her bare feet, up to the length of her damp legs revealed by the parted robe, over the knot at her waist, to her face. For a moment, the predatory coldness in them faltered, replaced by a flicker of something raw and hot. Then his gaze dropped to the floor, to the laced panties Cosmos had so proudly delivered.

A slow, dangerous smirk curved his lips. It wasn't a friendly smile. It was the smile of a wolf that had just found its prey wandering into its den.

"Krasavitsa," he said, the Russian endearment rolling off his tongue like a caress and a command. "You bring my cat back?"

She stood her ground. Dimitri smirked. He took a step forward. The hum of his hydraulic prosthetic arm, a soft, persistent thrum, became audible as he moved. He was barefoot too, wearing only dark, tailored trousers and an unbuttoned silk shirt that hung open, revealing the sprawling black-work tattoos that wrapped around his chest and throat. The Чернобог script on the back of his neck was just visible above the collar. He looked like a fallen god carved from pale marble and ink.

He stopped a few feet from her, the sheer size of him—sit-foot-five of pure, lean muscle—making the spacious room feel intimate, crowded. The scent of his tobacco enveloped her, mixing with her own clean, showered smell.

"Cosmos is a curious creature," he rumbled, his eyes not leaving yours. "He likes... delicate things," His gaze flicked again to the panties on the floor. "Things that smell like you."

Dimitri looks at her, letting out a small hum. "I know he came through your balcony." The statement was simple, absolute. "I saw the steam from your shower. The door was open. He likes the warmth." He took another step, closing the distance until she could feel the heat radiating from his body. "I like the view."

The admission, so blunt, so possessive, sent a shiver down her spine that wasn't entirely from the cold. He'd been watching. For weeks.

He reached out his hand, not towards you, but towards the panties on the floor. He picked them up with surprising delicacy, the black lace dangling from his fingers. He brought them closer, his eyes holding hers with an intensity that felt like a physical weight.

"Moya malen'kaya," he murmured, the words a low vibration. "You are upset."

He stepped forward again, the final step, until the space between you was mere inches. The silk of his open shirt brushed against the silk of her robe. He lifted the panties, his knuckles brushing against the damp skin of her collarbone as he did so. The touch was electric, deliberate.

"He should not take what is not given," Dimitri said, his voice dropping to something even deeper, more intimate. "But I have wanted to take... for a long time."

HIs free hand—the human one—rose. He didn't grab you. He simply placed his palm against the side of your neck, his thumb resting on your pulse point. His touch was warm, heavy, possessive. The prosthetic arm remained at his side, the matte black surface gleaming in the low light, a silent promise of his other, more formidable strength.

"You are wet," he stated, his thumb stroking a slow path along her jawline. "From the shower. And from... this."

His head dipped slightly. The scent of him—tobacco, ozone, clean male skin—filled her lungs. His lips hovered near hers, not touching, sharing the same breath. The world outside, the syndicates, the failing governments, all fell away into the hum of his prosthetic and the thunder of her own heart.

"Do you want me to take what is mine?" he asked, the question not a question at all, but a declaration waiting for your surrender.