Chapter 6 Aleksandr #2
“To a girl I love,” I echo. “And what if I already do?”
She scoffs under her breath, grabbing the rolling pin and flattening the dough in front of her.
“Aleksandr, you love me like a sister, and that is… fine,” she mutters, like saying it aloud might make it true.
“I mean, I’ll help. I want to help. I love you and Nadia and Nik.
I would never let anything happen to you, so if we’re married for a year and a half, it’ll be fun. Like a sleepover every day!”
“We never had sleepovers,” I say flatly.
“Well,” she chirps, too fast, too loud, “firsts for everything!”
“Lily—”
She grabs the biscuit cutter and begins stamping perfect circles into the dough like she’s in a baking competition, like this is the only thing that matters in the world right now.
“As long as you’re not a snorer,” she rambles.
I move slowly across the kitchen, steps quiet against the tile. She doesn’t notice—not at first—still too wrapped up in the sound of her own voice as she continues to talk her way out of her nervousness. Like if she keeps talking, she won’t have to feel what’s happening.
“Because I’m a really light sleeper and that would be a disaster. But if you are, it’s fine, they make these really soft earplugs for sleeping that are kind of amazing and—”
I place my hands on either side of her hips, palms flat against the edge of the counter, caging her in without touching her too closely. I can feel her inhale sharply, her back going stiff. She freezes, the biscuit cutter still in her hand, hovering above the dough.
Her voice dies on her tongue. I lean in, my breath brushing the shell of her ear.
“You talk too much when you’re nervous,” I murmur.
I shift just enough to keep her from feeling the hard line straining against my sweats, forcing my hips back even as every part of me wants to press into her, anchor myself to her skin.
She clears her throat and starts to pick the biscuits out of the dough and drop them onto the sheet with parchment paper on them.
“I am not nervous,” she says, her voice shaky as she drops the second to last biscuit on the tray.
“Oh, and when you ran away last night right after they said we had to get married, what do you call that?” I tease, my voice low and coaxing as she finally turns in the small cage of my arms.
Her hazel eyes find mine, sharp and narrowing, but there’s a glimmer of heat in them that matches the pulse starting to thrum in my veins. Her lips purse, stubborn.
“I didn’t run,” she says at last, and the air between us shifts. “I went to the privacy of a room to process it all.”
“No,” I murmur, dipping closer, my body a breath from hers. “You went to my room. And you hid from me.”
She tips her head up, just enough that our noses brush. The faintest contact, but it sparks like friction. “I remember,” she says, voice tight, “you told me to avoid you. Specifically. In this exact position.”
Her hands press into the counter behind her, as if it’s the only thing keeping her upright. She’s trying so hard not to touch me.
“And I,” I whisper, letting my lips trail just close enough that the edge of her ear catches the ghost of my breath, “remember you didn’t listen very well.”
A tremor runs through her, so small I feel it more than I see it.
“I did,” she whispers back, but it’s too soft to sound like conviction.
I pull back just enough to see her face. We’re so close our breaths mix, shallow and uneven.
“Really?” My voice drops to something lower, something rough. “And how exactly did you manage that, Moya?”
“I—I dated Jordan,” she blurts, the words rushed and fragile. Her eyes flicker everywhere—over my mouth, my throat, my shoulders—but never settle on mine.
“Three months,” I say, slow, savoring the way the number twists in my mouth. “That’s hardly dating.”
“He dances,” she fires back, but the protest comes out thin.
“He does.”
“Y-you told me—”
I tilt my head, close enough now that the tip of my nose skims her cheek, forcing her to feel the smile that’s curling across my lips. “And you follow directions so well, Moya.”
Her eyes lock with mine, the pupils so dilated as she searches my gaze for something, anything that will clue her in to what is truly going on in my mind.
I don’t want her to know I still want to make her cry.
I still want to see her body shiver. I still want to bite her lip until she bleeds.
I want her fear to run through her in waves.
I want what she refuses to give anyone else, her worst.
“W-what is that supposed to mean, Alek?” She whispers, her voice so low I can barely hear it.
“It means exactly what I said, Moya.”
My voice is low, a rasp I can’t disguise as I slide my hand to the back of her head. My fingers sink into her curls, silken and warm against my knuckles, and I guide her chin up until there’s nowhere for her to look but at me.
“I told you to run,” I murmur, eyes locked on hers, “and like the reckless, defiant girl you are… you ran just far enough for me to catch up.”
“I-I wouldn’t say—”
“And now that I’ve caught you,” I cut her off, leaning closer until my breath skims her lips, “you expect me to tell you to run again, don’t you?”
The words hang between us, heavy, intimate. Her lips part, trembling, and then she gives the smallest nod. The sound she makes when she breathes out—soft, sharp, almost a moan—shoots straight through me.
Every inch of her presses against me as if she’s forgotten how to hold herself upright. I slide my thigh between her legs and feel the surrender ripple through her body as she melts against me.
“You’re not going anywhere, Lily,” I whisper, one hand abandoning the counter to cup her waist. I pull her forward, up, forcing her to ride the firm line of my thigh until her hips are flush with mine. “You are mine.”
“Temporarily yours,” she gasps, breath hitching, eyes closing as if that can protect her from how much she’s giving away. But her body betrays her as she grinds against me without hesitation, every small sound escaping her lips like fuel. “Y-you know… so you don’t go to jail.”
“Lily,” I click my tongue, dragging her higher up my thigh, my cock pressing hard against her stomach now, the heat of it making her eyes fly open. “Does this feel temporary? Does this feel like brotherly love? Do I look like I don’t want you?”
She lets out a shaky, uneven breath, and for a second the world narrows to just this—the press of her body, the wild drum of my pulse, the molten gold of her eyes.
“You… you want me? Then why? What? I don’t—”
“I want you, Moya,” I growl, the words roughened with hunger, and she shivers against me like each syllable burns its way through her skin.
The tension between us is a live wire pulled too tight, one breath away from breaking. Her lips part, soft and uncertain, and for a moment I can feel her surrender hanging in the space between us—so close I can taste it.
“Mmmhmm,” a throat clears behind us, but I don’t move.
Neither does she. My forehead stays pressed to hers, our breaths tangling in the small, stolen space we’ve made. Her eyes are wide, pupils blown, and I hold her there, refusing to let the interruption pull me away.
“Aleksandr,” Gwen’s voice comes, sharp and dry. “Lily needs to get her wedding dress fitted.”
For a moment, I still don’t look away from her. My thumb brushes the edge of her jaw, slow and unyielding, tightening my grip in the back of her head and coaxing one last shiver from her before I finally, reluctantly, let go.
“I will see you at our wedding, Moya.” I murmur, low enough for only her to hear. Then I step back, leaving her pressed to the counter, and walk away without giving her—or anyone else—the satisfaction of looking back.