Chapter 15 - Katya
Downstairs, the gala grinds on—crystal glasses clinking, the string quartet playing something elegant that nobody will remember, laughter bubbling up now and then in polite, careful waves.
I’m supposed to be there, smiling, shaking hands, playing the perfect Letvin-Sokolov peace treaty. But here I am, hiding out in a dark conference room on the third floor, door locked, city lights slanting in through the tall windows.
I just needed a break. Quiet. Room to breathe that didn’t come with someone cornering me to ask how “married life” is or congratulating me on the merger—as if that’s all this is.
The dress I picked is black silk—high neck, long sleeves, not an inch of skin showing. I wanted it that way. No chances for anyone’s comments tonight. Still, the fabric is clingy in all the wrong places.
Every time I shift, I feel it slide along my skin, making me hyper-aware of my own body. The sound of silk rustling brings back the feel of Mom’s old apron—how it started stiff with starch, then softened over the years until it fit her like another layer of skin.
I still remember how it caught at my elbows when I reached for the rolling pin, the soft smell of yeast and ironed cotton that never quite washed out.
Tikhon found me about ten minutes ago.
He’s by the window, hands in his pockets, just staring out at the city.
His tux is perfect—black, tailored, with a white shirt bright against his tan.
There’s still a fading bruise on his jaw from when he fought Fadir, but it’s mostly gone, just a shadow now.
He hasn’t said much since he came in. He just locked the door and asked if I was okay.
I wasn’t. I’m still not.
They started the stakeout at the shop this morning.
Four of my brothers’ men are inside, two outside, all shifting in and out.
They’re polite enough—nod at me, stay clear—but they watch everything.
They report everything. My kitchen feels turned inside out, like I’m on display.
Even the bell over the door makes me jump now, bracing for another Fadir, bracing for something to crack.
I’m so tired of bracing.
Tikhon turns and catches my eye. “You don’t have to go back down there.”
“I know.”
He studies me for a second. “Then stay.”
I shake my head. “I can’t hide forever.”
“You’re not hiding. You’re breathing.”
I laugh, but it’s thin, sharp. “Breathing feels like a luxury these days.”
He steps closer—close enough that I catch the scent of him: cedar, clean shirt, a trace of whiskey from earlier.
My pulse jumps. It always does when he’s this near, and I hate that. Hate how my body betrays me before my mind can catch up. Hate how safe he makes me feel, even when I’m furious.
“I’m sorry about the stakeout,” he says, his voice low. “I fought them on it. They didn’t listen.”
“I know.” I look away. “Doesn’t make it any easier.”
Silence. Heavy. Waiting.
I’m the one who finally moves.
I step in, slow, until there’s barely space left between us. His eyes darken, pupils wide. I reach up, fingers skating over his lapel, then up to his jaw.
“Katya…” His voice is rough—a warning, maybe, or a plea.
I don’t answer. I just stand on my toes and kiss him.
It’s not soft. Not careful. I pour everything into it—frustration, grief, anger, all of it. My hands twist in his jacket, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss until our teeth clash. He groans, low in his chest, and then he’s done holding back.
His arms lock around me, lifting me onto the conference table. Papers fly. I don’t care. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him against me.
I can feel his hard shaft against my upper thigh, and it sends my heart spinning. I gasp, entwining my fingers through his hair.
He’s pressing against me through all the layers. I rock into him—once, desperate—and he swears into my mouth.
His hands find my waist, gripping it as if his life depends on holding me.
“Katya,” he breathes, breaking away just enough to speak. “We shouldn’t—”
“Shut up,” I whisper, biting his lip. “Just shut up.”
And he does.
His mouth finds my neck, hot and hungry, making me shiver. My breathing quickens, and I can't swallow. The heat within me is rising, and all I can do is grasp his hair tighter.
His hands slide away from my waist, inching down. They slip over my thighs, bunching the silk dress, finally finding bare skin. I gasp when his fingers brush the lace of my underwear. He stops, waiting, always waiting when it counts. His green eyes holding my gaze.
I nod. “Yes.”
He doesn’t joke or drag it out. Just pushes my underwear aside, fingers slipping through heat, circling my clit with exactly the right pressure. I moan—way too loud for a locked room with people outside.
He covers my mouth, catches the sound with his own.
“Oh, Katya,” he murmurs against my lips. “So wet. So smooth.”
It’s quick. Wild. His fingers work me, ruthless and sure—two sliding in, curling, thumb pressing my clit, the rhythm steady and relentless.
Moving my hands away from his hair, I hold onto his shoulders, nails digging through his jacket, hips rocking against his hand like I don’t care who hears. The table creaks. I can barely catch my breath, gasping against his lips.
The way my hips lift and grind yanks up a memory so sharp it nearly knocks the pleasure out of me. Mom teaching me to knead dough when I was nine. “Feel it, Katyusha. The dough tells you when it’s ready—it fights back, then it gives in.”
Her hands over mine, strong but gentle, guiding me through the warm, sticky mess.
The kitchen smelled like rising bread and her rosewater perfume.
I’d press my cheek to her shoulder, listen to her hum, feel her heart beating steady under my ear.
When the dough finally turned smooth, she’d laugh—bright, triumphant—and kiss my temple. “See? Trust your hands. They know.”
Tears sting my eyes, even as pleasure builds. I miss her hands. Miss her voice telling me I was doing it right. Miss the way she’d wipe flour from my cheek with her thumb and say, “Perfect, my little baker.”
Lulling my head back, I give in to the rhythm. When my hips grind and thrust, Tikhon plunges his fingers deeper into me. Just as he brings me closer to my orgasm, he slows down. It's as if he knows by my breathing that he's drawing me closer to an explosion.
He moves his thumb and another finger along my clit, pinching with every breath I take. My legs wrap tighter around him, as I toss my head back.
He takes one of my hands, moves it with his, and in one quick motion, he has me pleasing myself.
Tikhon’s thumb circles faster. I break—everything shatters as an orgasm rips through me, my body clenching around his fingers, my thighs shaking. I cry out into his mouth, the sound desperate and muffled.
He works me through it—slower now, but he doesn’t stop—until I’m limp, breathless, slumped against him.
He pulls his hand away, lifts his fingers to his mouth, licks them clean, eyes locked on mine. The sight sends another wave rolling through me.
Then he picks up my hand, the one that swirled alongside his, and kisses the two fingers moist with my orgasm. He closes his eyes, reveling in the moment.
It's more than I can handle.
I go for his belt.
He catches my wrists. “Katya—”
“I want you,” I whisper. “Right now.”
He loses it. His hands shake as he fumbles the belt open, frees himself—hard, thick, already leaking. I shove my underwear aside again and guide him in. He pushes slow, inch by inch, stretching me until I’m gasping, nails digging into his back.
He stops when he’s all the way in, forehead resting on mine. “You okay?”
“Yes.” I rock my hips. “Move.”
He does.
It isn’t gentle. It’s raw and real—hard thrusts that rattle the table, his hands gripping my hips, tight enough to leave marks. I meet him every time, legs locked around him, pulling him deeper.
The angle’s perfect—he hits that spot that makes everything go white behind my eyes. I bite his shoulder to keep from screaming. He groans my name, like a prayer he can’t help.
“Katya… fuck… You feel so good.”
And then—another memory, crashing in. Mom’s last Christmas. She was too weak to stand, but she made me bake kutya with her. She sat in her wheelchair, stirring poppy seeds into honey and wheat, bossing me around with a smile that looked worn but determined. “More honey, malyshka.
Life should be sweet.” Her voice was thin, but her eyes shone. When we finished, she took my hand—cold, fragile—and told me, “Keep baking, Katya. No matter what. That’s how we remember joy.”
Pushing aside the memory, I clutch Tikhon's shoulders, grinding my hips on him. His erect shaft continues its motion, and I throw my head back, gasping for air.
I come again—sudden, overwhelming—clenching around him, dragging him over with me. He sinks in deep, pulsing inside me, hot and endless.
But Tikhon doesn't stop. He's on a mission.
My satisfaction has been fed; now it's his turn.
As my body quivers from being tilted to its highest fulfillment, I tighten my thighs around him. His hands slide beneath my ass, cupping me and pulling me into every thrust he gives me.
Biting my lower lip, I hold his gaze as he continues lunging. His eyes seem to twinkle, and a roar develops in deep from within him.
Wrapping my arms around his neck, I capture his mouth with mine. His hips' movement quickens, and I know he's close to spilling inside me.
“Oh, Tikhon,” I murmured against his cheek as my fingers entwine in his hair. “Let loose.”
“Katya...” He growls.
“Shh,” I whisper in his ear, hoping my warm breath against his skin will cause him to lose control.
“Grr...” his voice rumbles as his fingers dig into my ass cheeks. “Damn...”
His hips move faster, as my body meets every one of his thrusts. He tosses his head back, grinding his body, craving every inch of me.