Chapter 9
Eva
The bathroom mirror had fogged from my shower, but I could still make out my reflection—flushed cheeks, tangled wet hair, pupils blown wide with want I couldn't shake.
My body hummed with need that had been building since the training session, since Dmitry's hands had positioned me with such careful control, since he'd made me promise to wait for the contract before we could have what we both wanted.
The door opened without a knock. Dmitry filled the doorway, already changed into sleep pants and a black t-shirt that stretched across his chest in ways that made my mouth water. In his hand, he held a pink toothbrush—obviously new, obviously bought just for me.
"Time to brush," he said, like this was normal. Like walking into my bathroom with a toothbrush was something Daddies just did.
"I can brush my own teeth." The protest came out breathless, undermined by the way my body leaned toward him without my permission.
"I know you can." He moved into the space, suddenly making the bathroom feel tiny. "But I'm going to do it for you tonight. Come here."
The command in his voice made heat pool low in my belly. I moved to him on unsteady legs, hyperaware of how the oversize t-shirt I wore barely covered my thighs, how his eyes tracked the movement of my bare legs.
"Open," he said softly, and I did.
The first touch of the toothbrush was gentle, careful.
He held my chin with his free hand, thumb brushing my jaw as he worked.
The minty taste filled my mouth, but all I could focus on was his face—the concentration there, the care he took with even this simple task.
His thumb stroked my skin absently as he brushed, and each touch sent sparks through me.
"Good girl," he murmured when I tilted my head to give him better access. "Just like that."
Those two words—good girl—made my knees weak. I gripped the counter behind me, trying to stay steady while he finished. When he held the cup for me to rinse and spit, I felt small in the best way. Cared for. Protected. His.
"Bedroom," he said, and I followed on shaky legs.
My room still barely looked lived in—I'd been sleeping in the closet most nights, building nests from stolen blankets like I was still on the streets. But tonight Dmitry pulled back the covers on the actual bed, gesturing for me to get in. The sheets were cool against my overheated skin.
He disappeared for a moment, returning with a book I didn't recognize. The cover was worn, pages yellowed with age. Russian text spelled out something I couldn't read.
"Pushkin," he said, settling into the chair beside my bed. "Fairy tales my grandmother used to read to me. I'll translate as I go."
"You're going to read me a bedtime story?" The question came out smaller than intended, wonder leaking through despite my attempt at sarcasm.
"Every night, if you want." He opened the book carefully, like it was precious. "This one is about a fisherman and a golden fish."
His voice changed when he read—softer, rhythmic, the Russian words flowing like music even though I couldn't understand them.
He'd read a passage, then translate, his English flavored with accent that got thicker as he relaxed into the story.
The fairy tale was simple—a magic fish, escalating wishes, a moral about greed—but the way he told it made it feel like the most important story in the world.
I found myself watching his hands as they held the book, remembering how those same hands had positioned me during training, how they'd held me still when I tried to climb into his lap. My thighs pressed together under the blanket, trying to ease the ache that had been building all day.
"The fisherman's wife wanted more and more," he translated, voice rumbling through the quiet room. "Never satisfied with what she had, always reaching for what she couldn't hold."
The parallel wasn't lost on me. Here I was, being given exactly what I'd always wanted—someone to care for me, to set boundaries, to tuck me in and read me stories—and all I could think about was more. His hands on me. His mouth. The hard length I'd felt when I'd pinned him to the mat.
"Dmitry," I whispered, and he looked up from the book. Whatever he saw in my face made his eyes darken.
"What is it, little one?"
The endearment made my breath catch. "I feel . . . I'm feeling very . . ." I squirmed under the blanket, trying to find words that wouldn't completely humiliate me. "Naughty. And . . . sexy. Really, really sexy."
He closed the book slowly, deliberately, setting it on the nightstand with the same care he brought to everything. When he looked at me again, his expression had shifted to something darker, more intense.
"I know you do," he said, voice dropping to that gravelly tone that made my insides melt. "I can see it. The way you're pressing your thighs together. The way your breath keeps catching. The flush on your chest."
I pulled the blanket higher, embarrassed that I was so obvious.
"Listen to me very carefully, Eva." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, close enough that I could smell him—soap and something uniquely Dmitry. "I'm in charge of your pleasure now. That need you're feeling? That ache? It belongs to me."
My breath stuttered. "What does that mean?"
"It means you don't touch yourself tonight. No matter how much you want to, no matter how much you ache. You keep your hands above the blanket and you wait."
"But—"
"This is part of it," he interrupted gently. "Part of trust, part of control. Can you do that for me? Can you be my good girl and wait?"
The question hung between us, heavy with promise. If I said yes, I was agreeing to more than just not touching myself. I was agreeing to let him control this part of me, to hand over my pleasure like I'd been handing over everything else.
"Yes," I whispered. "Yes, Daddy."
Something flashed in his eyes—triumph maybe, or possession. He stood, moving to the door with purpose that suggested he needed distance as much as I needed him closer.
"I'll be right down the hall," he said, hand on the door frame. "My door will be open. If you need anything—water, another blanket, anything except what we can't have yet—you call for me."
"Why can't you stay?" The question came out pathetically needy, but I was past caring.
"Because if I stay, I'll end up in that bed with you," he said bluntly. "And we both know what would happen then. The lust between us . . . it's too much right now. We need the structure first, or we'll burn everything down."
He left before I could respond, leaving me alone with an ache that felt like it might consume me and a promise I wasn't sure I could keep.
The darkness pressed against me like a living thing, heavy with the promise I'd made and the need that threatened to break it. I'd been lying here for what felt like hours but was probably only thirty minutes, hands obediently above the blanket, body screaming for touch I wasn't allowed to give it.
I should have been proud of myself. For the first time in my life, I was actually following someone's rules—not because I had to, but because I wanted to be good for him.
Dmitry had fed me, protected me, taught me to defend myself.
He'd brushed my teeth like I was precious.
Read me fairy tales in Russian like I deserved beautiful things.
The memory of his voice made my thighs clench. That low rumble as he'd translated, the way his accent had thickened with each page. The careful way he'd held that old book, like it mattered. Like I mattered.
My nipples were hard points against the thin t-shirt, sensitive enough that even the slight movement of fabric when I breathed sent shocks through me.
The ache between my legs had evolved from want to need to desperate emptiness that demanded to be filled.
My clit throbbed in time with my heartbeat, swollen and needy.
Just a little touch, I thought. Just to ease the pressure. I wouldn't come. I'd just . . . relieve some of the tension so I could sleep.
My hand slipped under the blanket before I could talk myself out of it. The first brush of fingers against my inner thigh made me gasp. My skin was hypersensitive, every nerve ending alive and screaming for more. I traced higher, slower, teasing myself the way I imagined he would.
Would Dmitry be gentle? Or would those scarred hands be rough, demanding? Would he make me beg before he touched me, or would he take what was his without asking?
My fingers found the edge of my panties, already soaked through. The fabric clung to me, outlining every detail, and when I pressed against my clit through the wet cotton, my hips bucked off the bed.
"Fuck," I whispered into the darkness, then remembered I wasn't supposed to curse either. Bad girl on multiple levels now.
But I couldn't stop. My fingers slipped beneath the fabric, finding myself swollen and dripping.
The first direct touch to my clit made me bite my lip to keep from crying out.
Dmitry had said his door was open—could he hear me?
Was he lying in his bed, hard and aching, listening to me break my promise?
The thought made me wetter. I imagined him standing in my doorway, watching me touch myself in the dark. Would he be angry? Disappointed? Or would he be affected, that iron control cracking as he watched me pleasure myself?
I slipped two fingers inside, gasping at the stretch.
In my mind, they were his fingers—thicker, longer, more skilled.
He'd know exactly how to curve them, exactly where to press to make me fall apart.
He'd work me open slowly, preparing me for his cock that I'd felt hard against me during training.
My other hand found my breast, pinching my nipple through the shirt the way I imagined he would—firm enough to hurt, gentle enough to make me want more. The dual sensation made my back arch, made my fingers move faster.