Chapter 10 Lily #2
I stand there for a moment, looking down at her, feeling the pull to stay, but my thoughts drift toward Aleksandr. Toward the fact that, despite him making me cum on the parlor table, we never talked about where I’d sleep. If I’d sleep beside him.
The idea ties me in knots. Sharing a bed feels more intimate than the madness of the hours before—more exposing than vows, or kisses, or anything else.
I turn back toward the hall, gathering up the skirts of my wedding dress wet from the frozen ground outside, my fingers fumbling with the laces of my corset as I walk.
Every tug loosens the tightness around my ribs, but the silk still clings to me, sticky with hours of heat and champagne and adrenaline.
I am half afraid I’ll have to sleep in it, like some tragic, overdressed ghost of my own wedding.
By the time I reach the door to what I think is my room, I’m breathless from the effort, my fingertips sore from clawing at the boning. I twist the handle, ready to collapse face-first onto the bed, corset and all—
“Ahh!” I make a strangled noise in my throat that is somewhere between a scream and a gasp, and immediately slap both hands over my eyes, spinning on my heel like I can erase the sight of him burned into my retinas.
Aleksandr stands in the middle of my bedroom like a Greek statue come to life, a white towel slung low on his hips, water still dripping from his hair, streaming in slow rivulets down his chest. Broad shoulders, taut stomach, muscle and scars and skin that looks like it was carved out of the night itself.
The air smells faintly of cedar and soap, steam curling off his skin like he dragged the shower’s heat with him into the room.
“Oh my god—I’m sorry!” I blurt out, too loud, my voice cracking as heat rushes up my neck. “I didn’t—sorry!”
Behind me, there’s the soft, amused exhale of a man who knows exactly what he looks like.
“You’re sorry,” Aleksandr says, his voice low and teasing, “for seeing your husband naked in his own bedroom?”
I keep my palms over my eyes for one more second, then risk turning just enough to plant my hand against the doorframe, bracing myself. “If my memory serves me right, I claimed this bedroom as mine last night.”
“Yeah, but this is my bedroom, Moya,” he murmurs, and the way he says it feels like silk dragged down my spine. “You’re just so attracted to me you can’t help yourself. You follow me everywhere.”
My cheeks are burning so hot I’m surprised the room isn’t glowing. I keep my back turned to him, staring very intently at the doorframe like it holds all the answers to the universe. “I didn’t know,” I mumble. “And I am not following you.”
“Okay,” he says lightly, with a thread of laughter under it that makes my stomach flip over itself, “if you say so.”
The sound of him shifting—bare feet on the floorboards, water dripping from his hair—fills the quiet. Then, closer now: “Turn around, Lily.”
“No,” I say quickly. “Privacy, Aleksandr.”
“There is no privacy between us,” he counters, the words firm and matter-of-fact, the way only he can make them.
I let out a long, shaky breath, my forehead pressing briefly to the doorframe before I finally turn. Slowly. My voice tries to sound braver than I feel. “As your wife,” I say, “I will… learn.”
His mouth curves into a slow, knowing smile, and I can’t look at him too long. Instead, I busy myself with my earrings, tugging them free one at a time, setting them on the dresser. Then the necklace, my fingers clumsy, desperate to do anything but notice the way his grey eyes follow me.
When I get to the corset, I realize just how trapped I am. The laces are knotted behind me, and no matter how I reach, twist, or yank, they won’t budge. My arms ache, my fingers catch on the fabric, and all I manage to do is make my hair even messier.
Frustrated, I mutter under my breath, “I am going to have to sleep in this thing.”
A quiet laugh rumbles behind me, low and infuriatingly pleased.
“Come here, Moya,” Aleksandr commands.
I turn my head slightly, catching the glint of water dripping from his hair, the towel hanging precariously low on his hips. My breath hitches. “I can—”
“Don’t argue with me.” His voice is softer now but no less firm. “Come.”
My feet move before my brain agrees, the silk of my dress whispering against the floor. I stop a step in front of him, staring at his collarbone instead of his eyes because if I look at him, I’ll combust.
His hands come up, slow, the heat of his damp skin brushing my shoulders as his fingers find the laces at my back.
“You know what this dress does to me?” His voice is a low rasp as he tugs at the first knot, loosening it with an ease that feels unfair.
“I’ve been thinking about ripping it off you since the second you put it on. ”
My knees go weak.
The next tie comes undone. His knuckles graze along the line of my spine, leaving trails of goosebumps. “You stood there today, all perfect and pure,” he murmurs, “and all I could think about was how you belong to me now. No one else gets to see you like this.”
The laces keep unraveling under his skilled fingers, the silk loosening around me inch by inch. Each tug makes the dress slouch lower, and I hold my breath.
When the last tie falls slack, he slides his hands up, palms flat against my ribs beneath the loosened bodice. “Let go, Lily,” he says quietly, close to my ear.
I do.
The dress gives a soft sigh as it slides off my body, pooling at my feet in a circle of ruined silk and lace. I am suddenly bare in front of him, skin prickling in the cool air. I forgot—stupidly—that I never put a bra back on. And my underwear—well, he stole those hours ago.
His breath catches, sharp, reverent, like even he hadn’t been prepared for this. Then: “Fucking hell, Moya. My beautiful girl. Do you know what kind of madness you drive into me?”
I make the mistake of looking up, and I meet his gaze. Wet hair clings to his temples, the towel barely holding on, and those grey eyes lock on every inch of me like I’m something to worship and ruin all at once.
“You stand here,” he whispers, fingers brushing down my bare sides, “and you think I could ever sleep with you in another room?”
My chest rises and falls too quickly, and my hands fidget at my sides, not knowing where to be, how to stand. “Aleksandr—”
He tilts his head, studying me like I’m the only thing he’s ever wanted to learn. “You’re mine. Even when you try to run, even when you try to hide behind a locked door or a corset. You’ll always be mine. Don’t hide from me, and I won’t hide from you.”
The towel at his hips shifts when he steps closer, until there’s nothing but heat and steam and the smell of him around me. His hands slide down to grip my hips, pulling me against him with a possessive growl. I can feel him—hard and insistent—pressing into me through the thin fabric of the towel.
“Oh!” I gasp, and he looks at me with warm grey eyes, the swell of his pupils makes my pussy quiver. “Alek, I um-”
“Don’t worry, Moya,” he whispers into the curve of my neck, his lips brushing over my skin like a promise.
He pulls the last pins from my hair, one by one, until the curls tumble down my back in a rush of weightless heat.
His other hand trails slowly up my side, deliberate, maddening, avoiding every place I ache for him most. “I won’t take you tonight. ”
A helpless, quiet whimper leaves me before I can catch it. His thumb drags over the soft side of my breast as if testing me, then moves away, sliding down, curling around my hip like he’s keeping himself on a leash.
His mouth is warm as he speaks against my skin. “But when we are alone,” he murmurs, low and steady, “when there is no one for miles—I am going to take what’s mine, Moya.”
My breath comes out in shaky bursts. I can’t move, can’t think, can’t do anything but stand there in nothing but my skin.
He pulls back enough for me to see his face, his damp hair sticking to his temples, water still tracing the hard lines of his shoulders and chest. “Are you going to let me?”
I can’t find my voice at first, but I manage, “Yes.”
“Use your manners,” he says softly, and the tone makes my whole body clench tight. “Yes what?”
I stare at him, wide-eyed, until something over his shoulder catches my attention—the modest mirror across the room. It shows a sliver of us: me, bare, trembling, and Aleksandr, all power and focus, his grey gaze cutting into me.
He notices where I’m looking. Slowly, his hand that has been trailing my side glides up, wraps firmly around my throat, tilting my chin back until there’s nowhere to look but at him in that mirror.
“Will you let me take what’s mine?” he asks again, his voice rougher now.
I lick my dry lips, the smallest motion, but his groan is deep and guttural, a sound I feel in my knees.
“Yes, sir,” I whisper.
And then he crushes his mouth to mine, a searing kiss that devours every thought I have left, stealing all the air from the room until there is only him.