18. Lacey
18
LACEY
I fidget with the altered neckline plunging down my midnight-blue dress as I wait for Vadim. I might have gotten carried away with the neckline, making it dip as low as it does. The hem too. It now feels almost scandalously high on my thighs.
The fabric whispers against my skin as I shift my weight against the crutches. My ankle throbs less today, but I'm not ready to test it yet.
Last night's dinner plays through my mind on repeat—that moment when Vadim's carefully constructed walls cracked just enough to let me glimpse of what lies beneath.
A pain that feels oddly familiar.
"Don't be stupid," I whisper to myself. "There's nothing here between the two of you. You're just a means to an end."
I won't let myself catch feelings for him, no matter how much my traitorous body responds to his presence and touch.
The sound of footsteps pulls me from my thoughts, and I turn around.
Vadim walks towards me, and my breath catches. His bespoke suit fits him like a second skin, the dark fabric emphasizing his broad shoulders. A blue silk tie draws my attention to his throat, and he moves with purpose—like a wolf pacing the edges of his territory.
When his eyes meet mine, I feel a shiver rush down my spine as if I touched a live wire.
There's something different in his gaze this morning. Maybe it's because of last night. They seem just a little less playful, and a little more serious.
We've both caught a glimpse of what's beneath each other's masks, and there's no coming back from that.
"That's quite the alteration you've made to the dress." Vadim's voice slides over me like warm honey as he approaches.
Heat rushes along my cheeks. It felt so right to make the bold and provocative changes yesterday.
But now, they feel almost inappropriate.
"I had time on my hands." I try for my usual sass but my voice comes out softer than intended.
"It looks good." His eyes travel down my body, making my skin tingle. "Let's go."
A tall man with dirty-blond hair and light green eyes waits by a black Mercedes. His easy smile carries both warmth and danger as he holds the back door open.
"No Ferrari today?" I ask, trying to ignore how Vadim's hand hovers near my lower back as I maneuver toward the car with my crutches.
"The Ferrari's not practical with your injury." Vadim guides me into the backseat. "And with how short you've made that dress, I'd rather not give half of Seattle a free show while you try to climb in and out of my car."
My heart does a little flip at his consideration as I step into the car. How thoughtful of him to think about my comfort and modesty.
No. Stop it. This is exactly what I shouldn't be doing—reading kindness into his actions. First that reckless moment last night, and now this warmth spreading through my chest? If I'm trying to keep emotional distance from Vadim Stravinsky, I'm doing a terrible job of it.
He joins me on the other side, and closes the door. The car immediately starts moving.
"So," I start. "Jewelry shopping."
My mind drifts to Mom's diamond necklace, the one passed down from her grandmother, with its delicate chain and diamonds. The same one Freddy pawned off—probably for pennies on the dollar—to cover his gambling debts.
My hands curl into fists, nails biting into my palms hard enough to leave crescent marks. That necklace belonged in the family. It was meant to be passed down through generations, not sold off for a fraction of its worth.
It should have stayed with Dad, a precious physical reminder of Mom he could hold on to even as his own memories slip away, not disappeared into whatever dark hole Freddy's addiction created.
Even now, months later, the betrayal burns fresh, like salt in an open wound.
"Nervous?" Vadim's voice cuts through my anger.
I force my fingers to relax, finding my footing in our usual dance of words. "Why wouldn't I be? Last time I went shopping for a ring, I needed a stranger’s help to get it off."
"But you still got it off." His eyes flick to my hand. "Maybe this ring will also be more committed than your fiancé."
"In that case, I should pick something understated." I trace my finger along the leather seat. "Something that won't draw the attention of a stranger looking to help me get it off."
"A pakhan's wife with an understated ring?" Vadim's low chuckle sends warmth coursing through me. "That would draw more attention than any diamond."
"What are you saying?" I turn to him. "Subtlety isn't an option?"
"The ring must match expectations." His knee brushes against mine as the car turns.
I shift away from his touch, trying to ignore how my skin tingles where we connected. "And what exactly are those expectations?"
His storm-gray eyes catch mine. "That you belong to someone powerful."
Belong. The word hits me like a punch to the gut. "I don't belong to anyone."
"But you need to look like you do. For that reason, you need something ostentatious. Eye-catching." His voice drops lower. "Something proper."
"Didn't you tell me that you preferred something improper ?" I can't help stop my lip from curling up into a smile. "I thought it was more intimate that way."
"Unfortunately for both of us." He leans closer, his thigh pressing against mine in the confined space of the car. "We can't afford to look improper on this matter, no matter how much I want you to."
A soft whir fills the car as Vadim hits a button. The partition rises between us and the front seat, sealing us off in our own private world.
"Soundproof," he murmurs before I can ask, his fingers trailing up my thigh. "Now, about your commitment to being improper."
My breath hitches as his touch leaves fire in its wake and sends sparks of electricity dancing up my spine. God, why did I make this hem so short? The fabric offers zero resistance against the heat of his skin, and my body shivers in anticipation with every brush of his fingertips. The thin material of my dress might as well be tissue paper for all the barrier it provides between us.
And I wouldn't have it any other way.
"My commitment," I manage to eke out as his fingers sip under the hemline. "Is helping you get into a church, and pretending to be madly in love with you while we steal a bible together.”
His hand moves upwards, pushing the hem higher along my thigh. "Just how much are you pretending right now?"
My heart pounds against my ribs as his thumb finds its way to my inner thigh, and traces slow torturous circles that make me want to squeeze my legs together. My chest rises and falls with each trembling breath. Every nerve ending is coming alive under his touch.
This is dangerous , I think. Not the scheme that I've agreed to, but this . The way my body responds to him. The way I want him to find every line I can draw in the sand, and obliterate them with his hands and mouth. The way that I want to know more about his true self hidden behind that carefully constructed mask.
I want to know how his mother's story is the saddest and cruelest of them all.
I shouldn't want to know, I shouldn't want to focus on anything other than how to pull off our dangerous game. But instead, all I can think about is piecing together the puzzle that is Vadim Stravinsky.
And how easily his touch sets my body on fire with want. How I crave for him to do more.
His hand slides higher, coming closer to the space between my legs that's rapidly turning damp each time his thumb makes another full circle.
Rational thought becomes almost impossible.
"You're thinking too much," he says against my ear.
"Someone has to." But my voice comes out breathy and weak.
"No." His lips brush my earlobe. "Right now, you just need to focus on being convincing."
Convincing? He wants convincing? I'll show him convincing.
Before he can react or pull back, I turn and capture his lips against mine. The taste of coffee and something darker, something dangerous and uniquely him, fills my mouth.
My fingers find his tie, using it to pull him closer. He responds in a heartbeat, and kisses me back just as fiercely.
A groan rumbles through his chest when I trace my tongue along his lower lip. His other hand tangles in my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss. Heat pools between my legs as his tongue slides against mine.
I break the kiss. "Was that convincing enough for you?"
He responds by moving his hand higher up my thigh until it's feathering the edges of my panties. A single finger hooks underneath the soaked thin material of my panties, and I can feel cool air kiss my wet pussy before it's replaced by the searing heat of his finger probing along the slit.
I gasp. "Now who's being improper?"
"Not you." His lips curve into a victorious smile.
"Not me." I whisper as a finger, thick and hot, slips inside of me.
My body instinctively clenches around the intrusion, and I bite my lip to hold back a moan.
Oh my God, what am I doing?
My heart pounds in my chest, and my breath comes out in short, shallow pants. I didn't realize how completely, absolutely soaked I was. His finger pushes deeper inside of me, the sensation almost overwhelming. I feel my cheeks heat up as a gasp spill out from my lips.
I should stop. I should tell him to stop.
But I don't want to. I want him to do more. I want to feel his mouth on my neck, and his hands on my breasts. I want him to push me against the seat, force my legs apart, and shove his cock inside me. I want to feel the weight of his body crushing mine, and feel him thrusting in time with the beat of my heart.
I can't help but rock my hips, moving with his finger as it slides in and out. I'm so close to the edge, and I know if I let myself go, I'll shatter into a million pieces.
I shouldn't be doing this. I shouldn't want this.
But I do. I want him. I want all of him. And in this moment, I don't care about the consequences.
I reach instinctively for his belt buckle, my fingers trembling with need as I work the leather free from the buckle.
"Still trying to be convincing?" His voice is rough, strained. "There's no one watching us here."
"Good." I press open-mouthed kisses along his jaw, feeling his pulse race beneath my lips. "Because what I'm about to do to you?" My hand slides lower as his picks up the pace inside me, feeling him hard beneath his tailored pants. "I don't want anyone else to see."
He inhales sharply as I palm him through the fabric. His hips buck involuntarily against my touch. My eyes widen at how thick he feels in my hand.
He does have a huge cock.
"Just you and me," I whisper against his throat. "No audience. No pretending."
His other hand grips my waist, pushing me deeper into the seat until I'm practically pinned there. The new position makes my dress ride up even higher, and I feel the heat of him growing thicker in my hand through the fabric of his pants.
" Zvyozdochka ," he growls, the word sending shivers down my spine as I start to unzip his pants. "You're playing with fire."
"Maybe I want to get burned."
The car door suddenly swings open and I yelp, yanking my hands back like I've touched a hot stove. My heart hammers against my ribs as cool morning air rushes in.
Vadim barks something in Russian, his voice sharp and dangerous. Though I can't understand the words, the tone makes me shrink deeper into the leather seat—not from fear, but from embarrassment. Through the open door, I catch a glimpse of his driver's face.
That easy smile now carries a knowing edge that makes my cheeks burn even hotter.
Oh God. He definitely knows what we were doing.
Vadim steps out of the car, straightening his tie with practiced motions before walking around to my side. My hands shake as I try to smooth my dress back down over my thighs, painfully aware of how wet my panties are and how disheveled I must look.
When Vadim opens my door, I keep my eyes fixed firmly on my lap. I can't bring myself to look at either of them right now. Not when just moments ago I was fully ready to jerk him off in the back of his car.
No, I correct myself. I was fully ready to fuck him .
The memory of how thick he felt in my hand makes my face flame even hotter.
"Your crutches," Vadim says, holding them out to me.
I take them without meeting his eyes, and use them to leverage myself out of the car. My legs feel wobbly, and not just from my injured ankle.
The chime of bells announces our entrance as Vadim holds open the door.
His hand rests on my lower back, steadying me over the threshold and into the gleaming interior. My face heats up again from his touch, and I focus on putting one crutch in front of the other across the polished marble floor and not on where his finger was and what we almost did.
And in that moment, two things become absolutely clear.
One. It's going to be very easy for the two of us to look convincing.
Two. It's going to be very hard to convince myself that any of this is pretend.