Chapter Ten
Catalina
I don’t feel as guilty about the skirt as I thought I would. Or the blouse. Or the shoes. I do feel a little guilty that it wasn’t as hard for Alexei to talk me into them as I feel like it should have been. But I also have the feeling that he’s very good at talking people into things.
I couldn’t wear the flirty little pink skirt with its ruffled hem with my t-shirt.
And once he’d had a saleswoman pick out an appropriate blouse—a low-cut silk one with thin straps—then my sneakers became the issue.
I settled on a modest pair of black ballet flats instead of the sexy, towering heels that Alexei initially selected for me.
And I think even he had to concede that it was a wise choice, considering I tottered on them like a newborn baby fawn for the few minutes I had them on.
He muffled a laugh behind his hand as I tried to walk in them, and then asked the saleswoman to bring something I wouldn’t break my neck in instead.
So I don’t feel guilty. But I do feel…exposed.
I’m showing a lot more skin than I’m used to.
It doesn’t feel uncomfortable, exactly—just unfamiliar.
I’m aware, now, that I’m being observed in sneaky glances by a few other patrons of the restaurant we’re in.
It doesn’t last long, however, because Alexei inevitably catches every one of them and stares back.
Hard.
If Papa could see me, he’d snap at me to cover up.
But I drink down that stray thought with another sip of the sweet, sparkling wine that Alexei keeps filling my glass with.
Alexei doesn’t drink much of it, but then I already know he doesn’t like things that are too sweet, and the wine is definitely too sweet for him.
I don’t know how much it costs, but it tastes expensive.
I don’t know how much anything costs, actually, because it’s one of those places where the menus don’t have prices. Or at least, mine didn’t. So I’ve decided I’m just not going to worry about it. Dinner—however much it’s going to cost—can be Alexei’s problem.
Especially since he ordered for me. A lobster dish, which I know has to be expensive. He chooses a steak for himself, and by the time our food arrives, I’m pleasantly relaxed from the wine.
“I could have been allergic to shellfish,” I tell him playfully as I pick up my fork.
His brows lift. “Are you?”
“No, but I could have been. And you didn’t even ask what I wanted.”
He sniffs dismissively as he picks up his silverware. “Is lobster,” he says. “Everyone likes lobster. And if left to your own choice, Katya, you would have chosen pasta.”
He’s right. He reads me like a book. Probably the pasta was the cheapest thing on the menu, and probably I would have picked it.
But the lobster just might be the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.
It comes served in the lobster shell, covered with a golden-brown crust of some sort that’s still bubbling, fresh from the oven.
Large chunks of lobster are buried beneath, covered in a smooth cheesy sauce that is rich and flavorful, liberally seasoned with herbs and the tart acidity of lemon.
I have to swallow back a moan at the first bite; I have no idea how I’m going to eat this without embarrassing myself.
Alexei makes a low sound in his throat, and the twitch of his lips is satisfied. “Is good?”
“So good.” The wine makes me brave, bold. I scoop up a hearty bite and stretch it across the table. “Here; try.”
For a moment he pauses, confused—as if I’ve surprised him with the offer. And then he sets down his silverware and wraps one hand around my wrist to steady it.
I almost shiver at the touch of his fingers. I can feel goosebumps rising on my skin.
Slowly, carefully, he takes the bite off of my fork. “Good?” I ask, and my voice is oddly breathy.
“Good,” he says gruffly. And he refills my wine again.
∞∞∞
By the time we leave the restaurant, I’m bubbly-tipsy. I couldn’t finish even the lobster—and I can’t take it home with me, besides, since my motel doesn’t have even a mini-fridge or a microwave—but Alexei insisted on dessert anyway.
For me. Mostly he just watched me eat the scant few bites of crème br?lée I could manage after dinner, but I did tempt him with another bite taken directly off my spoon.
I want him to ask me out again. I’ve never felt so unrestrained, so uninhibited. So free.
My phone trills out a tune in my purse just as we reach his car, and my heart sinks to the soles of my shoes.
So much for free. Cinderella has to make her way home from the ball. I fumble for my purse, my fingers clumsy as I yank my phone out of it and silence the alarm.
Alexei pauses there on the sidewalk with me. “You don’t have to answer? Darren will not worry?”
I wince. I texted Darren from the restaurant when we arrived to let him know the name and the address…
just to be cautious. I tried to do it subtly, but I don’t think there’s much that escapes Alexei’s notice.
Still, he didn’t seem offended by the tacit insinuation that I might require rescue.
“It’s not Darren,” I say as I shove my phone back in my purse.
“It’s my alarm. I take the train, you know, and it stops running in thirty minutes.
The alarm is just to remind me.” In case I’m ever out late enough to need the reminder, which until now, I haven’t been.
Alexei huffs. “That is all? Katya, I will drive you home.”
“No!” My eyes close was a wave of embarrassment sweeps over me. I don’t want him to see my motel room, to see where I’m living at the moment. Maybe, in a month or two, I’ll have saved up enough money to afford a small apartment of my own.
Maybe I can even find someone willing to rent to someone who can’t use her legal name to do it.
But until then… “I’d really, really rather take the train,” I say. “It’s not you. It’s just—I can’t right now.”
Alexei muffles a snicker in his palm. “Katya, I know it is not me. All evening, you were flirting.”
I wasn’t! Was I? My mind plays over the last few hours; the bites of food I shared, the wine. Maybe I was. I wasn’t leading him on. I told him he wouldn’t buy me with a skirt, and he must have known that extended to dinner.
But I was flirting, even if it was a bit inept. Because I do want to see him again.
Alex holds out his hand. “Give me your phone,” he says, and it’s not a request. Against my better judgment, I slip my hand into my purse once more and hand my phone over to him.
For a few seconds he taps away at it, and then hands it back.
“I will walk you to station,” he says, and there’s something just a little sour in his voice, like it’s a sacrifice he’s making.
“And you—you will text me when you are home safe. Da?”
“Yes.” I’m so relieved. I have his phone number. It means he wants to see me again.
“Good girl,” he says, and I’m briefly bemused by the way those words evoke a strange sort of pleasure in my chest. Like there’s something in me that needs praise and flattery.
Alexei opens the door of his car and retrieves the bag that contains my discarded jeans, t-shirt, and sneakers. But instead of handing it to me, he instead sets it upon the hood of his Range Rover and thumps his chest with his palm. “Come here, Katya.”
My heart flutters in my chest. Maybe it’s not the wine after all.
Maybe it’s just him.
It’s stupid, probably. Reckless. But I can’t help but think…
this is also something I’ve never been allowed.
A new experience; a novel one. A man who can’t be sent running by a few oblique threats from Papa or his men.
Who wouldn’t be sent running, even if such a thing were to happen.
And I think that should probably scare me a little.
Alexei wraps one arm around my waist. His other hand clasps the nape of my neck.
There’s a fraction of a second where I feel like I should be afraid.
He’s so much larger than me, with the aura of a dangerous man.
It’s enough to make any woman a little wary, I think.
Any man, probably. I haven’t missed how people tend to give him a wide berth, as if they might just bounce off of it if they should get too close.
But that dangerous aura is large enough to contain me, too, and it encapsulates us both, and instead I just feel—safe. Like nothing in the world could hope to touch me.
Except for him.
A half-turn, and my back is pressed to the door of the Range Rover. The metal is cool, and it penetrates the thin silk of my blouse. Those hot, strong fingers knead my neck. Goosebumps rise on my arms as a shiver careens down my spine.
He doesn’t care that we’re on a public street, that we’re hardly the only people around.
The hand at my waist slides down, caresses my hip, palms my ass.
“I like this short skirt, Katya,” he says, and there’s a strange rumble in his voice, like the purr of a large cat. “You wear it again for me, yes?”
I’ll have to. I don’t have anything else. But my toes curl inside my ballet flats and my spine softens as his hand leaves the nape of my neck. He presses his arm instead to the car above my head. The weight of his chest pins me against the door.
He’s going to kiss me. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything so badly in my life.
His head dips, and that deep voice rumbles in my ear, “You want good night kiss, Katya?”
“Yes.” Heat ripples low in my belly, and a gasp shears from my throat as his hand slips beneath the flirty hem of my skirt and curves over my ass again.
His mouth touches the side of my neck. I hear a fierce, swift inhale, feel the scrape of his teeth right over my pulse.
“Yes,” I rasp, and I’m grateful for the support of the car against my back as my knees tremble.
Now I don’t care that we’re on a public street. I don’t care that he’s got one hand under my skirt, that he’ll probably leave a mark on my neck that will be visible above my collar at work tomorrow.
That proprietary hand pulls my hips into the pressure of his as his mouth slants over mine.
It’s not sweet; it’s not gentle. But everything in me yields to the demand of his lips, softens to the thrust of his tongue.
I’m being devoured right here on the street, in full view of anyone who might happen to wander by, and it’s—
So good. He tastes better even than the lobster. A shudder runs through me as I grip his shoulders, holding on like I’m in danger of drifting away. His fingertips slip beneath the band of my panties, and I’m sure a first kiss isn’t supposed to include this sort of touching.
But I love it. I love all of it. The taste of my sweet wine on his tongue.
The scrape of his stubble on my cheek. The way my skin still tingles with the pressure of his teeth.
The heat between my thighs, the low throbbing ache.
Even the pressure of his dick against my belly, heavy and hard behind the fly of his jeans.
He doesn’t like sweet things. I think I could develop a taste for dirty ones.
Alexei gives a muffled groan as his fingertips reach the wetness between my thighs. The pressure of his chest against mine deepens, like he’s holding me still to touch as he pleases. I want so badly to let him.
But I don’t have that luxury at the moment. It’s an effort to pull back, to turn my head away even long enough to stammer out, “I—I really have to catch my train.” Before my opportunity is gone and I have to take a cab. An expensive one, at this hour.
There’s a resentful huff against my throat, a growl of discontent that shivers over my skin. For a moment I think he’s not going to let me go. I think there’s no one and nothing on this earth that could make him. Not even me.
With a last, lingering stroke between my thighs, he pulls his hand out from beneath my skirt. His hot breath sears my skin as he says, in a gritty, vaguely frustrated voice. “Okay, koshechka. Where is train station?”