Chapter Twenty-Five
In which there is torture, or cake.
Caroline…
My finger taps absently on the dessert box Violet sent home with me.
I will make it clear it's from her. Not from me.
My new besties Isaak and Rafail book-end me on the elevator ride up to the penthouse.
I almost introduced them as my besties at lunch today but I was pretty sure one of them, probably Issak, would have had a stroke.
When the doors open, Nikandr is pacing the living room with his phone to his ear. He's taken off his suit jacket and tie and rolled up his shirt sleeves and hellllooo, ovaries, it's Forearm Porn time! His forearms are thick with muscle, tan still from summer and those skull tattoos…
No, I sternly lecture my treacherous lower half, this is not happening. It seems I have underestimated my lady garden, though. Now that Nikandr woke up my sleepy hormones with the sexual equivalent of a blow torch, they refuse to be ignored.
The man responsible for my hormonal revolt looks up as we enter, ending his call. He looks exhausted, mouth tight, and his usually chilly demeanor has turned polar. His gaze goes to Issak and Rafail. "That will be all for tonight."
They look slightly surprised but start backing toward the elevator. "Uh, goodnight, guys!" I call after them. "See you at eight."
Nikandr's texting someone, his thumbs flying and the reply doesn't seem to make him any happier.
He may be the cold, supercilious bastard he's always been but there is something festering under the surface for him tonight.
He tosses his phone onto the closest couch, taking a breath.
When he looks up again, he's all composed.
"What do you think of Isaak and Rafail? They reported that everything went smoothly today."
This distracts me. "They sent you a report?"
"Yes."
"Will they do that every day?"
"Most likely."
"Do you think that's insanely controlling?"
Nikandr's not playing tonight. "I don't care. Your safety is crucial."
On impulse, I hold out the dessert box. "You need cake. Right now. I've heard it's either this or torture and I don't want you to cut off my fingers, so…"
He eyes the box. "Marzipan?"
"Of course."
I open the lid and make the box do a little dance. "You know you want it."
"Don't," he says sternly. "Do not make the box dance."
I pick up one of the little cupcakes Violet so sweetly made for him. "I could do the open up the hangar, here comes the airplane…" I singsong. He's staring at me as if he's beginning to question his life choices and really, he should. Then, though, he slowly opens his mouth.
A weak little puff of air leaves my lips.
His eyes are blazing and that inviting, open mouth…
I quickly stuff a cupcake in there and step back.
"Okay! Well, good," I babble. "They're from Violet, she made them.
I heard a story about you threatening to set half the Karelian Forest on fire if they didn't cut their wedding cake and so apparently this is your kryptonite? "
He chews slowly, watching me, slightly amused. I'm watching his sensuous lips and when he swallows, I gulp. "I'm going to put these on the table here and go…"
"Would you like to see the rest of the penthouse before my family gets here?" He's strolling toward me, still holding onto the marzipan cupcakes.
"Is there a drink involved?" I ask.
"Of course." We give each other a tentative smile and I follow him.
Things start changing the further I venture down the hall. In the living room, there were huge, beautifully framed paintings of black and white abstract art. They added to that clinically beautiful feel of the penthouse.
But as I follow him further toward his study, passing two bathrooms and a pantry, I see some of Alexsey's paintings.
My journey from the main room to here felt cold, almost inhospitable in a way, everything precisely placed like something you'd find on Pinterest: a collage for a Rich Bastard Penthouse.
Now, though, the hallway feels warmer as I examine scenes of life in Russia in one of Alexsey's paintings.
One is of a group of boys, five of them, running along a forest path to a shimmering lake in the background of the painting.
Two are already in the process of tearing off their shirts, eager to get in the water.
I'm certain the boys in the painting are Nikandr, his brother, and his cousins. An intimate, still life of family history that I would think, given his polar personality, he wouldn’t care about.
I pause at the half-open door of his study to glance up at him, and he nods.
"I don't meet clients here," he says. "No one gets past the kitchen, even when I have a party."
"Why does that not surprise me?" I murmur.
I like this room, there's a big, battered leather couch with a pile of books on the table next to it, and an enormous floor to ceiling window that wraps around two corners of the office. His desk is just like the man; larger than life, twice as big as regular desks.
Just the way Nikandr's dick is twice as large as a regular man’s.
My face heats abruptly as I remember the struggle of fitting him inside me the first time in the elevator, hell, the second time, too.
I suspect there will always be a shock of pain when he first pushes inside me, and I find that the idea doesn't bother me in the slightest. In fact, I suspect I would begin to love it. Anticipate it.
The desk is meticulously organized, paperwork stacked just so, and a laptop set precisely in the middle.
Against the other wall, there's a lovely, big fireplace with antique, jade-colored tiles.
There is still charred wood in it, so I know it's been used recently, and it adds to the scent I'm beginning to associate with Nikandr.
Walking over to the bar, he makes himself a drink. Vodka. Of course. He holds it up to me. "Would you like one?"
"Yeah, I might need it," I say. Our fingertips touch as he hands me the glass and I tighten my stomach against the curl of arousal it sends through my lower half. I cannot be addicted to him after two rounds of (spectacular) sex.
Can I?
"Would you like that tour of the rest of the penthouse now?" he asks. A knowing smile curls his lips. "You left in such a hurry this morning."
"In a minute." I sink down on the floor in front of the beautiful windows and lean back on one hand, crossing my legs and taking a sip of my drink.
The New York skyline spreads out in front of me in a spray of colorful lights as the last of the sun sinks over the horizon.
Nikandr gives me plenty of time to finish, sitting behind me on the couch.
He's quiet, other than the faint clink of ice in his glass.
When I finish my drink, he rises. "Let me show you the garden," he says, holding out his hand.
"You don’t look like a gardener," I take the offered hand and follow him. I walk out the tall glass doors in the living room to the terrace and gasp.
The "garden" covers the entire half of the top of the building. There is a swimming pool, and the concept of having a huge body of water shimmering on top of this stern, no-nonsense-looking office building is incongruous enough.
I can see a beautiful little greenhouse, lights glowing inside the iron-paned glass with rows of succulents and flowers inside. The terrace is lit up by string after string of lights and I smile, looking up at them. It feels like they've created a special night sky, just for this oasis.
"You planned this?" I ask. "Cold, rigid Nikandr? But plants and flowers, they're such a mess!" I flash him a teasing grin and he gives me a reluctant one in return, sipping his drink.
"My early life was spent mainly in St. Petersburg.
We would go to our hunting lodge every weekend.
My mother loves flowers, so the gardens around the hunting lodge and the house in the city were always filled with them.
Now that I'm primarily here, I found myself…
" He pauses, searching for words, and I listen, barely breathing, not wanting to disturb the spell of whatever is making this man talk to me.
"I couldn't concentrate without the gardens," he finally says, rubbing the back of his neck briefly. "I need to be able to look out and see the trees and the flowers, and in winter when nothing will survive outside, I have the greenhouse."
Looking back out over the beautiful, slightly chaotic rows of flowers, and the boxwood hedges behind them.
Surprisingly tall pine trees are planted in deep stone containers to create a little forest. I walk through one of the rows of flowers, running my hand lightly over the little meadow of lavender there breathing deep and reveling in their sweet scent.
"My mom used to have lavender in our garden," I volunteer.
"She insisted on growing it at our beach house, too.
The sea air would come in with a tinge of salt and brush up against the lavender and the scent, it reminds me so vividly of home.
" I look back at him and smile. "I would not have expected this. It's magical."
A wry smile curls the corner of his mouth, "Because you were anticipating a frigid, monolithic structure of stone and concrete?"
"No." I laugh, "Okay, yes, maybe. But something like this, that makes you feel like you've ascended higher than the city? You've created your own little universe."
I sink down on one of the stone benches, looking at the garden and closing my eyes when a breeze comes up bringing the scent of roses and lavender to me. There's a slight jolt on the bench, and then I feel the warmth from his shoulder next to mine.
"You picked my favorite bench. The perfect view of the city and the water."
It's late, Nikandr's family is about to arrive, if we move, if we go back inside, all the reasons that this marriage is a terrible idea will be waiting for us.
I pluck a pale blush colored rose from a bush next to us and smell it, twirling it in my fingers. I lean against Nikandr, just slightly. He keeps me warm against the late autumn chill.