Chapter Nineteen
The penthouse is quiet, but it’s not empty.
His presence is a tangible thing, a mess of controlled chaos.
His jacket is draped over a chair in the corner, the leather still bearing the faint creases from last night.
His watch sits on the nightstand, its face dark and silent.
A pair of discarded shoes lie haphazardly by the door.
These small, domestic artifacts are more intimidating than any weapon. They’re proof of his occupation, a quiet assertion that this space is his, and by extension, so am I.
I kick the sheets away and sit up, my body aching in unfamiliar places. A dull, pleasant throb between my thighs is a persistent reminder of our activities lately.
I shouldn’t want more. I know that. It’s a betrayal of Ayaan, of the entire reason I’m here.
Except my body is a traitor, humming with a low-grade current of want. I keep replaying it—the sound of his voice in my ear, the feel of his breath against my neck, the dangerous calm with which he held me.
I touch my throat, my fingers tracing the skin where he’d whispered. A shiver runs through me, a phantom sensation.
I get out of bed, needing to move. I start picking up his things, folding the jacket, placing the watch neatly back in its box. It’s a futile attempt to impose order on the disorder he brings, but it’s something to do.
My hand lingers on the leather of the jacket. It’s soft, worn. I find myself imagining him wearing it, the way the shoulders would stretch, the way he’d look at me over the collar.
“Stop it,” I mutter to myself, tossing the jacket back onto the chair.
I need air.
I walk out onto the balcony, the morning air cool against my skin. The city is just waking up, a slow, rumbling beast of steel and glass.
He’s already there.
Nikita is leaning against the railing, a coffee mug in his hand, watching the traffic flow on the bridge below. He’s wearing a simple T-shirt and sweats, his dark hair mussed. He looks younger like this. Softer. Almost human.
He doesn’t turn, but I know he’s aware of me. He always is.
“Sleep well?” he asks, his voice a low rumble.
“Like the dead.”
“An interesting choice of words.”
I walk over to the railing, standing a few feet away. The silence stretches, comfortable but charged.
“Big day?” I ask, trying for casual.
“Always.”
We stand there for a while, watching the city wake up. It’s strangely peaceful. A moment of truce.
“You’re thinking too loud,” he says, turning to look at me.
“Am I?”
“You’re plotting.”
“How do you know?”
He reaches out, his fingers brushing mine as he takes the empty mug I didn’t realize I was holding from my hand. The contact is brief, electric.
“Careful,” he murmurs, his voice dropping. “You’re being difficult.”
“Am I?” I challenge, pulling my hand away. “Or am I just not rolling over?”
“Is there a difference?”
“Not to you, I guess.”
He leans closer, his face inches from mine. I can smell the coffee on his breath, the clean scent of his skin.
“In my world,” he says, his voice a low growl, “difference is everything.”
My pulse spikes. I want to kiss him. I want to push him away. I want to do both at the same time.
“Freya?” A voice calls from inside. “Delivery for you.”
Saved by the bell.
I step back, breaking the spell. “I’ll get that.”
I walk back into the penthouse, my heart hammering against my ribs. A courier stands by the door, holding a large cardboard box.
“Mrs. Gromov?”
“That’s me.”
He hands me a clipboard and a box. I sign for it, my hand shaking slightly.
“What is it?” Nikita asks, coming up behind me.
“Work stuff,” I say, carrying the box to the office. “Fabric samples. Mood boards. I need something to occupy my time.”
I set the box on the desk, tearing it open. I spread the fabric swatches out on the surface, trying to focus on the textures, the colors. Velvet, silk, chiffon. A distraction.
I glance out the window, my eyes scanning the street below.
That’s when I see him.
There’s a man standing on the opposite corner, pretending to read a newspaper. But he’s not reading. He’s watching. Watching the building.
A chill runs down my spine. “Nikita,” I call out, my voice tight.
He appears in the doorway. “What?”
“Outside, across the street. The man with the newspaper.”
He follows my gaze. His expression doesn’t change, but his entire body tenses.
“Stay here,” he says, his voice flat.
He walks away, pulling out his phone. I watch him pace in the living room, his voice low as he barks orders into the receiver.
I try to focus on the fabrics, but my mind is racing. Who is that man? Lorenzo, or someone else? Someone new?
***
By evening, the man is gone. Nikita hasn’t told me anything, but the air in the penthouse is thicker, heavier with unspoken tension.
I’m in the office, trying to sketch a design, but my hand is unsteady. The lines are shaky, the proportions wrong.
He’s standing in the doorway, watching me. “You’re still working,” he says.
“I can’t sleep.”
“Join the club.”
He walks into the room, his movements fluid and silent. He stops behind my chair, placing a hand on my back. His touch is casual, possessive. A claim.
“Show me,” he says, leaning over my shoulder.
His chest brushes against my back, his warmth seeping through my thin shirt. I can feel the steady beat of his heart, a rhythm that syncs with my own frantic pulse.
“It’s nothing,” I say, my voice barely a whisper. “Just… ideas.”
“Ideas are never nothing.”
His hand slides from my back to my shoulder, his thumb rubbing circles against my skin. It’s an innocent touch, but it sends a jolt of heat straight to my core.
I close my eyes, leaning into his touch. I hate myself for it. I hate how much I want this.
“Tell me about the man,” I say, forcing myself to focus.
“Colombo,” he says simply. “A scout.”
“Are we in danger?”
“We’re always in danger.”
He turns my chair around, forcing me to face him. He’s standing over me, his legs braced apart, his hands resting on the arms of the chair. I’m trapped.
“We’re safe,” he continues. “For now.”
I look up at him. His face is shadowed, his eyes dark and unreadable.
“Kiss me,” I whisper.
It’s a mistake. I know it’s a mistake, but I don’t care.
He leans down, his mouth claiming mine. He kisses me like he has all the time in the world. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting me, exploring me. His hands slide from the arms of the chair to my waist, lifting me effortlessly.
I wrap my legs around his waist, my arms around his neck. He carries me to the desk, sweeping the fabric swatches and sketches onto the floor with one arm.
He sets me down on the edge of the desk, the wood cool against my thighs. He steps between my legs, his body pressing against mine.
I can feel him, hard and insistent, through the thin layers of our clothes.
“Nikita,” I gasp, breaking the kiss. “We can’t.”
“We can,” he murmurs, his mouth trailing down my neck. “We will.”
He unbuttons my shirt, his fingers brushing against my skin. I arch into him, my head falling back.
He cups my breasts, his thumbs circling my nipples through the lace of my bra. They pebble instantly, aching for his touch.
“Please,” I whimper.
He chuckles, a low, dark sound. “I love it when you beg.”
He unfastens my bra, his hands hot against my skin. He takes my nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, then harder.
I cry out, my fingers tangling in his hair. The pleasure is sharp, intense, a current that runs through my entire body.
He moves to the other breast, giving it the same attention. I’m writhing on the desk, my body aching, desperate for more.
“Nikita,” I pant. “Now.”
He lifts his head, his eyes burning with a dark, possessive fire.
“Patience, Freya,” he says, his voice a low growl. “I’m going to take my time with you.”
He kneels in front of me, his hands hooking under my knees and pulling me to the edge of the desk. He drags my pants and panties down in one rough motion, leaving me bare and exposed.
He looks up at me, his eyes roaming over my body. I feel vulnerable, exposed, but also… powerful.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers.
He leans forward, his breath hot against my core. I hold my breath, waiting.
He doesn’t make me wait long. Nikita’s tongue flicks out, tasting me. I gasp, my hips bucking. He chuckles, his hands gripping my thighs, holding me in place.
He licks me slowly, deliberately, exploring every fold, every crevice. It’s exquisite torture. I’m writhing on the desk, my hands gripping the edge, my knuckles white.
“Please,” I beg. “Please, Nikita.”
He looks up at me, his eyes dark with lust. “Please what?” he asks.
“Please… let me come.”
“Not yet.”
He goes back to his ministrations, his tongue circling my clit, his fingers sliding inside me. I’m so close, so close…
He pulls away, and I cry out in frustration. “Nikita!”
He stands up, unbuttoning his jeans. He frees himself, and my breath catches in my throat. He’s big, thick, and so hard it looks painful.
He positions himself at my entrance, his eyes locked on mine. He smiles, a slow, predatory grin.
And then he pushes inside.
The stretch is intense, a burning pleasure that borders on pain. He fills me completely, his hips flush against mine.
“God,” I gasp. “You’re so big.”
“You can take it,” he murmurs, his voice strained.
He starts to move, his strokes slow and deep at first, then faster, harder. The desk rocks beneath us, the sound of our bodies slapping together echoing in the quiet room.
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, meeting him thrust for thrust. It’s wild, primal, a desperate clash of bodies and wills.
I can feel the pressure building, a tight coil in my belly. I’m so close, so close…
“Come for me, Freya,” he growls, his voice a command. “Now.”
His words are my undoing.
I shatter, my body convulsing around him, wave after wave of pleasure crashing over me. I scream his name, my nails digging into his back.
He follows me over the edge, his body tensing, a low groan tearing from his throat as he finds his release.
We collapse against each other, our bodies slick with sweat, our breathing ragged. For a long time, we just lie there, tangled together on the desk.
Eventually, he stirs, lifting his head to look at me. “You’re a mess,” he says, a slow smile spreading across his face.
“So are you,” I retort, reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead.
He catches my hand, bringing my fingers to his lips. He kisses them gently, a stark contrast to the rough passion from moments before.
“We should clean up,” he says.
“Yeah,” I agree, but neither of us moves.