Chapter 3
THREE
Callista
The ceiling is still the same pale cream it has always been, but this morning, it looks like silk stretched over a drum.
My heart keeps beating against it, loud enough to hear.
I roll onto my back, my sheet sliding down to my thighs.
I should be getting up and getting ready for my classes.
Instead, I’m my pussy is throbbing like I’m having a period cramp.
My thighs are sticky with arousal, coated in my own slick. I feel half-embarrassed and half-horny.
I keep remembering the way Dmitry kissed me, not soft but full of ownership, his hands anchoring me like he could keep me from falling apart.
It has awakened something that I don’t want to name, a hunger that feels like it’s burning through my blood.
The more I try to push it away, the hotter it gets.
It has been two days since the party. Friday approaches, and with it, the promise of seeing Dmitry again, the anticipation of feeling his hands on me.
I press my palm between my thighs, just for a second, and whisper a curse. My clit is sensitive. Just one press sends a jolt of electricity through me. Moisture trickles through my tight channel, staining my panties that are already wet.
Bad idea. Dangerous man. But my body isn’t listening to my brain.
The room is dark except for the glow of my phone on the nightstand. When it rings, I jump. My first thought is that it’s my father calling to remind me what a disappointment I am.
But the name on the screen freezes me harder than that.
Dmitry Antonov.
I drag in a breath, roll onto my side and swipe to answer. My voice is polished sorority-girl neutral. “Hello.”
“Good morning, darling.”
His deep voice slides over my skin like a warm hand. Heat pools low in my stomach. I tighten my grip on the phone. “I’m not your darling.”
I hear the smile in his silence. He wanted that reaction. He got it.
“Why are you calling me?” I ask, sharper than I meant to.
“To remind you to start hinting to your friends that we are dating. People saw us together last night. If you tell them it started then, they will believe it. Our chemistry sells the story for us.”
I bite my lip. I hate that he’s right. I hate more that it isn’t really a lie. Whatever we have between us is wild and real, even if I wish it wasn’t. He dried my tears, held me, gave me a moment where I didn’t have to pretend. No one else has ever done that. I will never say it to him.
Instead I put on my mask again. “Fine. But if we’re playing boyfriend and girlfriend, I need new shoes for the Finance Society gala on Friday. The right ones. We have to make a strong impression. It’s our first outing as a fake couple.”
I except the same condescension and judgment that my father gives me when I ask for new clothes.
I expect Dmitry to tell me to wear whatever I have.
I don’t even need new shoes, to be honest. I’m only using it as an excuse to get enough money to pay rent since my dad cut me off.
A girl has to do whatever she can to survive.
Relief floods my lungs at his straightforward response. “How much.”
“Five hundred.” My voice stays steady even though my heart is racing. I’m thinking of groceries, not stilettos. I’ll borrow something from Lila. We have the same shoe size. She often lends me clothes and shoes without digging for reasons.
The notification buzzes before I even lower the phone. I open my banking app and stare at the new balance. “You actually sent it?”
“I did.”
“Wait. How do you even know my account number? I never told you.”
“I’m your stalker,” he says, like it’s a joke but not a joke. “I know everything about you.”
The words land like a spark on gasoline. My pulse jumps.
I remember last night. There was a weird feeling, like someone was in my room. I could feel something on my body, but I can’t remember what. I was too sleepy to notice. The strange sensation of eyes on me as I lay in bed. The certainty that someone was near even though my door was locked.
“Were you watching me last night?” I whisper.
“I was doing more than watching,” he says, his voice low enough to crawl under my skin.
A shiver runs through me. No. It can’t be.
I have to be imagining it. He wouldn’t actually touch me, would he?
I mean, he doesn’t look that desperate for sex.
But my pussy is exploding with heat and sparks at the idea of Dmitry Antonov, my bully/stalker caressing my intimate folds at night, making me come in my sleep.
Did I really feel his hands on my body, touching me?
A stab of pleasure lances through my stomach.
My pussy convulses, fluttering like a horde of butterflies.
Is that why I was wet and needy this morning?
Because he pressed his fingers into my puss last night and left me on the brink of an orgasm?
If he did stroke my slit at night, how did I not feel it?
I have a lot of fever dreams at night, but they’re just dreams. I used to have them even back in high school. I shake my head. I’m blowing this out of proportion.
Also, my core should not be so heated at the idea of a man touching me without my permission at night, stroking my most intimate places while I sleep, oblivious. But god help me, I’m into some fucked-up shit.
“You need to stop.” I clear my throat, trying to sound confident. “It’s an invasion of my privacy.”
“That’s why I do it,” he replies. “So you know I have the power to invade your privacy. So you know you cannot hide from me. You are never alone, Callista. I’m always there, always watching you.”
I swallow hard. I want to tell him he’s a monster.
I want to tell him to stop. But somewhere deep down, the part of me that has been crying alone since childhood feels something different.
Just having a person by my side when I’m feeling vulnerable and lonely matters, even if that person shouldn’t even be there.
Paradoxically, his words make me feel less scared.
Because if I’m in trouble and he’s watching me, he won’t let me do something stupid.
No one has ever wanted to observe me. No one has ever cared enough to look under the mask.
People are satisfied as long as I give them what they want. Flattery, connections, a perfect smile.
Dmitry is different. He looks for the truth. He wants to crack me open and see all the ugliness I hide. That terrifies me. If he sees who I really am, I will never be able to lie again. At least, not to him.
I force myself to speak. “Fine. Keep watching me. Maybe I’ll even put on a good show for you one of these days.”
Silence stretches. Then his voice, sharper now. “What do you mean by that?”
“You’ll find out.”
I hang up before he can answer, staring at my phone as if it can tell me why my heart is racing. The room is still dark, but I feel a new kind of heat rising in me. Not fear. Not entirely. Something else. Something I don’t have a name for yet.
Friday comes to soon.
I don’t have enough time to psychologically prepare myself before I’m forced to be in the same space as Dmitry again.
He looks even more devastatingly handsome this time. He’s dressed in formal attire. The dark colors bring out the starkness of his features, the subtle charm of his tattoos that creep over the neckline of his unbuttoned shirt.
Dmitry Antonov in a black suit that fits him like it was sewn directly onto his body.
No glasses tonight. His eyes are sharper without them, his cheekbones carved in gold light, his hair neat enough to make sin look formal.
I can’t stop staring. He has a chiseled body.
It was drowned by his sweatshirt the first night we met, but I can see the visible bulk of muscle on his arms and thighs now.
He looks hot. Not in a ‘hot nerd’ kind of way, but in a ‘hot Daddy’ kind of way.
In a way that makes me want to be pushed against the wall and taken by those strong arms. My core hums in approval.
Flames lick my groin. Fuck, this man is making my stomach flip.
He’s confident, stunning, but there’s an edge of darkness that adds that perfect hint of roughness to his masculinity.
He catches me looking and his mouth curves. “Enjoying the view?”
“Can you even see without those glasses?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“Contact lenses,” he says, spreading his arms. “Satisfied?”
“You cleaned up nicely,” I admit.
“I had to. I wanted to look like the perfect boyfriend for Callista Vale.” His voice is smooth, quiet, dangerous. “And that meant I had to look like the golden boy to your golden girl.”
The compliment lands like a touch. His gaze sweeps down my body, unhurried, deliberate. He drinks me in like I’m a goddess and he’s trying to commit all the details of my angles and curves to his memory.
“The shoes were a worthy investment,” he says, and something inside me melts. Men usually mock my taste, call me superficial, say I care too much about appearances. Dmitry’s voice carries no mockery, only approval.
The ballroom sparkles like money itself. Gold light pours from chandeliers, catching the sequins and the wine glasses. Laughter glides across the room in polished accents. The kind of laughter that hides teeth.
I tug the hem of my black dress lower, even though it already fits like a second skin.
Dmitry told me to wear this one, and I hate that I listened.
I hate how obeying us command made my pussy wet.
How, as I dressed, all I could think of was him praising me, calling me his good girl for listening to him.
The spot between my thighs buzzes, cramping with yearning.
I know I shouldn’t expect anything. This is not a BDSM scene, nor did Dmitry sign up to be my Daddy Dom. But my nerves have been tight with anticipation all evening, waiting for him to notice that I followed his instructions.