24. Lacey
24
LACEY
I step out of the fitting room, and my breath catches. Vadim is leaning against the wall, sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms, suit jacket discarded. His storm-gray eyes darken as they sweep over me, and heat rushes through my body at his intense gaze.
How many other girls had he saved?
How many can I help him save by doing this?
"I have a podium I can use as a stand-in for the lectern," Irina announces, breaking through my spiraling thoughts. "But it's the motion of slipping the bible in and out of the dress that's the most important part."
"Thank you, Irina Savinovna." Vadim's voice is low and rough. He hasn't taken his eyes off me.
"I'll go ahead and get it all set up," Irina says, gathering her things. "But please, take your time discussing any other details you need to."
She gives me a knowing look before slipping out, leaving us alone.
The air feels charged between us. Vadim pushes off from the wall and takes a step toward me, his movement deliberate and graceful. My heart pounds against my ribs as he approaches.
I turn to face Vadim fully, my wedding dress rustling with the movement. "Irina told me everything. About how you saved her." My voice drops. "About the girls you're rescuing."
His expression shifts, a flash of vulnerability crossing his features before his mask slips back into place.
"And?" His question hangs between us.
"What you're doing matters." I meet his gaze steadily. "If I can help save even one person..."
His hands come up to frame my face, thumbs brushing my cheeks. "Thank you, zvyozdochka ."
The raw gratitude in his voice makes my chest tight. But a fresh question burns on my tongue. One about his mother, about the monsters still haunting him.
But something in his eyes stops me.
This isn't the time.
Instead, I reach up and squeeze his wrist gently. The moment stretches between us, charged with things unsaid.
"Ready." Irina's voice beckons us.
Vadim's hands fall away from my face, but his eyes linger on mine for a heartbeat longer before he steps back. "Shall we?"
My fingers intertwine with Vadim's as we walk to where Irina has positioned the podium. The silk of my wedding dress whispers against the floor with each step.
My heart flutters at how natural it feels to hold his hand, how perfectly our fingers interlock. The warmth of his palm against mine sends tingles up my arm, and I find myself squeezing his hand just a little tighter than I need to.
"The ceremony follows strict Orthodox tradition," Vadim explains. "We circle the lectern three times, and on the third circle, we place our hands on the bible to receive his blessing, that's when Demyon creates a distraction."
“And we make the swap?"
"Yes." His thumb traces small circles on my hand, sending goosebumps up my arm. "Speed is essential."
I study the podium, imagining the real lectern in Paris. "Is it your hand on the bible, or mine?"
He looks at me, an impressed smile curling at his lips. "Yours."
"We should have a signal, so you know exactly when I'm ready."
"What did you have in mind?"
"Something subtle." An idea strikes me, and I brushing my thumb lightly across his hand. "Like this. Quick, but clear."
He lays his hand on mine and repeats the gesture. My heart flutters at it. It feels so natural. So right. Like it's something he's practiced a thousand times before.
The warmth of his touch makes my cheeks flush. I focus on the podium instead of how he's setting my skin alight.
"Yeah," I breathe. "Just like that."
The hours blur together as we practice the swap over and over. Each time, I circle the podium with Vadim, our steps falling into perfect sync as we move. My wedding dress rustles with each turn, the hidden pocket Irina designed becoming more familiar with every attempt. Every time we finish the third circle, I place my hand on the bible, give Vadim our signal, and make the exchange.
At first, I fumble with the fake bible, my fingers clumsy and uncertain. But Vadim's patient guidance and Irina's quiet encouragement help me improve. The weight of the real bible becomes familiar in my hands, and I learn exactly how to angle my body to shield the swap from view.
Irina calls out our times, and with each attempt, the number gets smaller. Vadim's expression grows more focused, more determined. His hands steady me when I stumble, his touch lingering just a moment longer than necessary. The air between us is thick with intensity as we move together, our bodies working in perfect harmony.
By midnight, we've got it down to less than a second. The movement has become muscle memory.
My fingers know exactly when to move, and the precise moment to return.
It's like a dance now, one where Vadim and I are perfectly in tune with each other's rhythms.
Irina watches us complete another perfect exchange, her green eyes wide with amazement.
"Less than half a second!" She nods her head, red curls bouncing. "I think we'll really be able to do this."
My chest swells with pride at her words. Hours of practice have transformed our movements into something seamless and graceful. Each time Vadim's hand finds mine, each careful step we take around the podium, feels as natural as breathing.
"It's late," she says. "I need to get home soon. Lock up for me on your way out?"
"Of course," Vadim says. Irina offers us both a warm smile before she walks away.
And just like that, Vadim and I are alone.
His storm-gray eyes haven't left my face, and the intensity of his gaze makes my skin tingle. We're still standing close – so close I can smell his spicy cologne and feel the heat radiating from his body.
He circles behind me and spins me around to look at our reflection in the mirror. His presence fills the space, making the elaborate bridal boutique feel intimate and charged.
"You look..." His voice trails off as he looks at me in the mirror.
"Surprisingly well put together?" The words come out breathier than I intended. My heart thunders in my chest as his fingers brush against mine.
The dress rustles softly as I shift my weight, hyperaware of how the silk clings to my curves. Vadim's eyes darken as they follow the movement, and suddenly the room feels too warm, too small, too charged with everything unsaid between us.
"So much more than that." His hands settle on my shoulders, warm and steady through the delicate fabric. "We look right together."
I can't deny it—we do. His tall, commanding presence perfectly complements my softer curves. Like we were designed to stand beside each other this way.
"I can't believe it's all coming to an end soon," I admit softly. "I still don't know what to make of any of it. Or you. And yet…"
His thumbs trace small circles on my shoulders. "And yet?"
"And yet..." I bite my lip, watching our reflection. "I don't think I'm ready for it to end. I don't think I'm ready to go back to reality."
The confession hangs between us, more honest than I meant to be. His hands tighten slightly on my shoulders, and I see something flash across his face—surprise, desire, or maybe both.
"You don't have to," he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. "Not if you don't want to."
I turn in his arms to face him, struggling to find the right words.
"I'm torn," I whisper. "It's like there are two versions of me fighting for control. One wants to run as fast and far as possible when this is over because you're dangerous and intense and everything I shouldn't want."
My fingers twist against his. "But the other part..." Heat floods my cheeks as I recall kneeling before him in the jewelry store. "The other part wants to stay because it craves things I never knew I wanted."
His eyes darken at my words, but he remains silent, letting me continue.
"When you put that ring on my hand..." My voice catches. "You looked at me like I was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen. Almost as if you weren't whispering all those dirty things in my ear a few hours before. It was everything I didn't know I wanted. To be proper?—"
"—And improper at the same time." He finishes my sentence.
"Yes." I nod. "To look as regal as a queen while knowing that you used me like a cheap whore. To be free of guilt for daring to enjoy something for me."
"To be selfish." His hands tighten on my shoulders possessively. "For once in your life."
"And that terrifies me," I admit. "Because I've never felt this way before. And I know that sooner rather than later, I'll have to choose."
His fingers trail up my neck, and my breath hitches. "What do you feel right now?"
"I want to be here with you," I whisper, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.
He steps closer, the expensive fabric of his suit brushing against the delicate beading of my dress. His other hand finds my waist, and heat blooms wherever he touches. "And now?"
"I want to stay here with you," I repeat, my voice trembling. The scent of his cologne fills my senses—spicy and masculine and dangerously addictive.
His lips ghost over my ear, barely touching but sending electricity down my spine. His fingers tangle in my hair, tilting my head back. "Tell me again."
"I want to stay here with you." The words come out breathless as desire pools low in my belly.
His mouth hovers over mine, so close I can feel the warmth of his breath. "One more time."
"I want?—"
His lips capture mine before I can finish, and everything else falls away. The kiss is both tender and demanding, gentle yet possessive. His tongue traces the seam of my lips and I open for him with a soft moan.
This is what I've been craving. To be cherished and corrupted at the same time. To feel precious and filthy in the same heartbeat. His hands tighten in my hair and on my waist as he deepens the kiss and I can't help but moan into his mouth as he presses me against the mirror. The cool glass contrasts sharply with the heat of his body. His hands grip my hips, bunching the delicate fabric of my dress.
My heart pounds against my ribs as his fingers trace patterns on my thighs. The reverent way he touches me makes me feel precious, even as his darkened eyes promise me his rough desires.
"My bride," he whispers against my skin. "My accomplice. My little star."
Those words shouldn't affect me this way. This isn't how I should be feeling right now. But when he holds me like this—like I'm something rare and precious he wants to both protect and defile—I can't remember why I ever tried fighting these feelings.
His hand pulls me closer and I arch into his touch. The mirror is cool against my back through the dress. My fingers clutch at his shoulders, needing him closer.
"Tell me you want this," he demands softly, his voice thicker with desire.
"I want this," I breathe. "I want you."
His responding growl of approval sends shivers down my spine. When his mouth claims mine again, I surrender completely to the kiss, to him, to everything I've been trying so hard to resist.
Vadim’s lips brush against the delicate silk of my dress, his breath warm through the fabric as he trails lower. My fingers fist in his hair, torn between pulling him closer and pushing him away. My heart hammers in my chest, the weight of his gaze kneeling before me making me feel both worshipped and exposed.
“Careful,” I breathe, my voice trembling. “We’ll need the dress for Paris.”
He looks up at me through his lashes, a wicked smile tugging at his lips. “I can ask Irina to make you another,” he murmurs, his hands sliding up my thighs, bunching the fabric of the dress as he goes. “As many as you want, as many as I can ruin.”
His words send a shiver down my spine, and I bite my lip to stifle a moan. “Is that a threat or a promise?”
“Both.” His fingers trace patterns on my inner thighs, making my breath hitch. “This is what you want, isn't it? To be proper and improper at the same time.”
"Yes."
His hands grip my hips, pulling me closer to the edge of the mirror. The cool glass presses against my back, contrasting sharply with the heat of his body. His lips find the delicate skin just above my knee, and I gasp.
“I’ve wanted this since the moment you walked into Mrs. Klossner’s, since the moment you sent me that tantalizing picture.” He confesses, his voice low and rough. “Do you remember what I said to you at dinner? What I wanted to do?”
I nod, my cheeks burning with every word.
"Say it." He commands.
“You want to bury your face between my thighs. To devour me. To feel my dripping cunt quivering against your tongue when I come. To drink me dry and hear me scream until my throat is hoarse."
“And I will.” His lips brush higher, his breath hot against my skin. “‘Right here, right now. On my knees to worship you like the queen you are.”
"While your mouth makes me moan and scream like the whore you want."
He remembers. He remembers every word, every moment between us.
“You can have everything that you want,” he continues, his lips grazing the inside of my thigh. “Because you're mine. ”
His hands slip under the dress, and I whimper as his fingers brush against the lace of my underwear. The tension between us is unbearable, and I can feel myself trembling with need. His hands grip my hips, and I arch into his touch as he pulls the lace aside.
Every nerve in my body feels like it’s on fire, and I can’t stop the moan that escapes my lips.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against my skin, his voice dark and possessive. “Let me hear you. Let me taste you.”
His words are as intoxicating as his touch, and I feel myself unraveling beneath his hands and mouth. The weight of the dress, the coolness of the mirror, the heat of his body—it’s all too much and not enough at the same time.
“Vadim,” I gasp, my fingers clutching at his shoulders. “I?—”
“Don't think,” he soothes, his lips brushing against my skin. “Just feel.”
His hands tremble slightly as they push the delicate fabric of my wedding dress up my thighs. The silk whispers against my skin, and I feel exposed, vulnerable—but not afraid. Not with him. Vadim’s storm-gray eyes lock onto mine, and for the first time, I see something raw and unguarded in them. His usual mask of control is gone, replaced by something deeper, more desperate.
The weight of the moment presses down on us both. This isn’t just about desire. It’s about trust.
His hands grip my hips, steadying me, and I feel the faintest tremble in his fingers. It’s subtle, but it’s there.
His breath ghosts over my inner thigh, and I shiver. He hesitates for a fraction of a second, his lips hovering above my skin, as if he’s afraid to cross this line. Afraid of what it might mean. His hands tighten on my hips, and he looks up at me, his eyes fierce, possessive, and yet... uncertain.
Slowly, I nod, and he begins to kiss his way up my thigh.
Thick fingers push my legs apart to give him better access. I bite back a moan as his hands slide up my waist.
He growls, the sound possessive, and his mouth moves higher, hotter, until he finds the center of my need.
The first flick of his tongue steals my breath. He’s not gentle. Not in the way I expected. There’s an intensity to him, a raw, almost primal need that he’s finally letting himself feel. His hands grip me tighter, his mouth works me harder, and I can feel the tension in him, the way he’s holding himself back even as he devours me.
His name escapes my lips in a breathless gasp, and he growls in response, the sound sending a shiver down my spine. His tongue presses harder, faster, and I feel myself unraveling, my fingers clutching at his hair, my hips rocking against his mouth.
And then, he stops. Just as I’m teetering on the edge, he pulls back, his breath ragged, his eyes dark with need. He looks up at me, his expression fierce, vulnerable, and utterly undone.
“You’re mine,” he growls, his voice rough, broken. “Do you understand that, zvyozdochka ? Mine.”
I nod, too breathless to speak, and he surges forward again, his mouth claiming me completely.
"Oh!"
Again and again, his tongue flicks against me, and I can no longer hold back the ragged cry of pleasure punching out from the back of my throat. My mind fades to a blissful emptiness and my legs tremble as he pushes me closer to the edge.
Sweat beads on my forehead, and I feel the tension coiled tight in my belly.
"Oh fuck!" I'm close. So close.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice rough with approval. “Just like that.”
Those words send me over the edge, and I shatter against his mouth, my body trembling with the force of my release. He doesn’t stop, but closes his mouth around my soaked cunt, and greedily drinks every last drop of pleasure from me until I’m limp and breathless.
He presses a final, lingering kiss to my inner thigh before looking up at me, his storm-gray eyes dark with desire.
In that moment, I'm thankful that I'm still panting and breathless from the orgasm he left me with. I'm thankful that I can't bring a single coherent word to my lips.
Because if I can, there are only three words I want to say.
And those are the three most dangerous words I can say to him.