10. Nikolai
10
NIKOLAI
T hrough the camera feed on my phone, I watch Sofia move through her apartment. She’s still wearing her work outfit.
The security system she had installed is decent, but nothing compared to what I’ll put in place once she’s fully mine. For now, it works to my advantage. I know every code and every sensor location.
Sofia disappears into her bedroom. The camera there shows her sliding out of her skirt and blouse, leaving them on the floor. My hands clench at the sight of her collapsing onto the bed. She’s exhausted.
I wait, counting her breaths through the feed until they even out into the deep sleep rhythm. Twenty minutes pass before I’m certain she won’t stir. Then, I slip out of my car, walk into the building, and up two flights of stairs to her apartment door.
Slipping my tools out of my pocket, I get to work. The lock yields silently, and I move through her space like a shadow, each step calculated to avoid the creaking floorboards I mapped during my previous visit. The scent of her perfume lingers in the air.
Her bedroom door is ajar. In the dim light filtering through the windows, I can see her curled form on the bed, one arm thrown across the pillow. Her honey-blonde hair spills across the white sheets like liquid gold, but I don’t enter yet.
I move through her space, memorizing each detail. The kitchen reveals organic tea and a half-empty bottle of expensive red wine. A worn copy of an art history text sits on her coffee table, its pages marked with colored tabs.
In her home office, I find something more personal: a leather-bound sketchbook tucked away in the bottom drawer of her desk. The first page shows a detailed study of my hands from our meeting at the gallery, every callous and scar captured with haunting precision.
Page after page reveals her hidden talent: architectural studies of Boston buildings and portrait studies of gallery visitors. But the last sketches catch my attention—dark, violent scenes rendered in harsh charcoal strokes: a figure falling through space, shattered glass, and blood-spattered walls.
My malishka has depths she hides from the world. These aren’t the drawings of a simple gallery owner. They speak of training, of understanding violence intimately.
A small sound from her bedroom makes me pause. She shifts in her sleep, murmuring something I can’t catch. I return the sketchbook exactly as I found it, leaving no trace of my presence.
Standing in her bedroom doorway, I watch her. The moonlight catches the slight furrow between her brows, some troubled dream playing behind her closed eyes.
I move closer to her bed, my shadow falling across her sleeping form. The silk nightgown has slipped off one shoulder, exposing the delicate curve of her breast. My fingers itch to trace that line.
She shifts, and the sheet slides lower, revealing more of her breast. My hand clenches at my side. Not yet. The anticipation of claiming her will make the eventual possession sweeter.
I pull out my phone, the camera making no sound as I capture her vulnerable beauty: the way her hair spreads across the pillow like spun gold, the slight part of her lips, and the graceful arch of her neck. Each image burns itself into my memory, though I hardly need photos to recall every detail of her.
Her laundry basket sits in the corner, and I find what I’m seeking—a pair of black lace panties worn earlier today. I bring them to my nose, inhaling her intimate scent. Mine. The silk hair tie on her nightstand still holds strands of honey-blonde hair. Both items disappear into my pocket.
Sofia stirs again, a small whimper escaping her throat. The sound shoots straight to my groin, and I force myself to step back. Soon, those sounds will be for me alone.
“Nikolai,” she whispers, and my control nearly shatters.
I grip the doorframe, my knuckles white with the effort of restraining myself. The need to climb into her bed, to wake her with my touch, to claim what’s mine—it pounds through my blood like a war drum.
No other woman has ever affected me like this. My self-control frays as I wrestle with the urge to join her in that bed.
Moving with a predator’s grace, I undo my pants, freeing my hard length. Her scent surrounds me, a heady mix of expensive soap and Sofia—a hint of spice and warm woman.
Her breath catches, and she murmurs again, the sound going straight to my cock. I stroke myself slowly, rolling the thin silk of her nightgown between my fingers. I want to tear it, to expose her body to my hungry gaze. But no—I won’t rush this. There will be enough time for that later.
Instead, I sit on the edge of her bed, close enough to touch and imagine the feel of her soft skin beneath my palms. In my mind, I trace the curve of her hip, the swell of her breast. I picture her eyes, green-gold like rare jewels, darkening with desire as I taste her lips, her neck, and the valley between her breasts.
My free hand reaches for her water bottle on her nightstand. Cold, half-full liquid. I angle my cock, leaking over the opening, and continue to stroke. Faster now, harder, imagining her mouth wrapped around me, her hands urging me on.
My gaze never leaves her face as I spill into the water, marking it with my release. Mine. The word pulses through my brain, a primal beat. Her eyelids flutter, and her lips part, my seed mixing with the water.
I put the bottle back exactly as I found it, my heart hammering. Her chest rises and falls, and her breathing is undisturbed. With my touch, I guide her nightgown back into place, covering her shoulder and restoring her to her previous state of innocence.
Sofia is mine now, and I burn with the knowledge that soon, she’ll belong to me completely—mind, body, and that brilliant, defiant soul. The prospect of her consuming my release sends a final tremor through me. I button my pants, smoothing my clothing.
Moving away from the bed, I look at her sleeping form. She stirs, turning onto her side, and for a moment, I think she’s waking. But then she settles her breath evening out once more.
I leave her bedroom, my footsteps silent, a ghost’s exit from her life, for now.