38. Vasilisa
Chapter 38
Vasilisa
I wake up to an empty bed, the sheets cool where Santo once lay. My fingers tangle in the fabric, his scent still clinging to it. A smile tugs at my lips as I roll onto my side, letting the remnants of his scent sink into me. The room is bathed in a soft, golden hue, the early morning light slipping through the cracks in the curtains.
With a content sigh, I push myself up, stretching as the memories of last night flutter through my mind. A blush warms my cheeks. The tenderness in his touch, the way he held me afterward, like I was something fragile and precious. Like he wanted to keep me.
His emotion was palpable; it filled me up in ways I never thought possible.
A distant clatter pulls me from my thoughts, grounding me back in reality. I wrap my robe tightly around me and pad barefoot across the cool floor, following the sound into the kitchen.
And there he is.
Santo stands at the stove, his broad, bare back facing me, muscles shifting with each precise movement. The soft morning glow glances off his skin, tracing the tattoo etched along his skin, highlighting the ridges of his shoulders. My mouth goes dry.
“Good morning,” he says without turning, his voice low and husky. It’s the kind of voice that lingers, that curls around my spine like silk.
“Morning,” I manage, my voice softer than I intend. I lower my gaze, cheeks warm, before stealing another glance at him. I take a seat at the breakfast bar, watching as he plates up scrambled eggs and bacon with the same careful precision he applies to everything in his life.
“If you don’t like it, I can make you something else,” he says, setting the plates down before moving to pour fresh juice.
I take a bite, humming in delight at the perfectly cooked eggs. “It’s delicious.”
His full smile breaks across his face then—rare, breathtaking. It stutters my heart, knocks the breath right out of me. His eyes soften when they meet mine, and there’s something unspoken there, something warm and steady. A promise. A quiet offering of moments like this, of mornings spent together, of tenderness and care in the spaces between the chaos.
Breakfast passes in easy silence, the kind that speaks of familiarity, of something deeper settling between us. After we finish, Santo collects our plates and sets them in the sink, but instead of stepping away, he turns back to me, bracing his forearms against the counter.
“Vasilisa,” he begins, his voice measured, his gaze serious. “Last night—”
Panic flutters in my chest. I don’t want to have that conversation. I don’t want to hear him say it was a mistake, that it was obligation, rather than desire.
So I do the only thing I can think of—I beam at him, eyes wide with mischief. “I want to show you something!”
His gaze sharpens with suspicion. “Show me what?”
“It’s in the library,” I announce brightly, already hopping off my stool and making my escape toward the stairs. But Santo moves faster.
In one smooth motion, his arm sweeps around me, lifting me off the ground. A surprised squeak leaves my lips as I find myself cradled against his chest.
“We can take the elevator,” he utters, turning toward the pantry.
I pout playfully. “I can walk, you know.”
He smirks. “Yeah. But you don’t have to.”
His hold tightens just a fraction and I wrap my arms around his neck. Before I can say another word, he presses a lingering kiss to my forehead, his lips warm against my skin as we ascend.
The elevator doors open to a dark wooden wall. Santo reaches out, pressing against it revealing the bright lights of the library and I gasp at the realization that the elevator is hidden behind a bookshelf.
“I don’t know anything about this house,” I whisper in awe, running my fingers along the nearest row of books.
Santo’s jaw tightens, his expression guilty. “I suppose that’s my fault.”
I laugh softly, reaching up to cup his cheek, tracing my thumb over the sharp line of his jaw. “It was a joke, Santo. Now, can you put me down so I can show you?”
His gaze lingers on mine for a moment, something flickering there before he exhales and lowers me gently to the ground.
I grab his hand and pull him toward the front of the library, where my easels stand in a quiet, reverent display. The look on his face as he takes in every canvas is worth the wait.
Every painting is of him.
Santo in his office the day we met. Him across from me at La Serenata on our first date. Standing at the end of the aisle. Us in the garden. Sitting at the dining table before walking away from me. His face before he slammed the door on mine. His back tattoo, wrapped only in a towel. Leaning in the doorway in that navy suit.
Each brushstroke is a memory—some tender, some painful. But all of them are him.
I watch the way his fists clench and unclench as he moves from one canvas to another, his expression shifting. He is silent as stone, absorbing every detail with something close to reverence, but there’s an undercurrent of sadness in his gaze, something raw and unspoken.
He lingers in front of the painting of him across from me at La Serenata. Our first real night together. The moment we tried to connect despite the circumstances pressing in on us. In the morning light streaming through the tall windows, I see his shoulders ease, his stormy eyes softening.
“Vasilisa,” he finally speaks, his voice raw. “Why...?”
I swallow hard. “Because each moment mattered to me... good or bad, because it’s you .”
His gaze locks onto mine, heavy with something I can’t name. He steps closer, cupping my face in his hands, his thumbs brushing along my cheeks with aching gentleness.
“I didn’t realize... you didn’t say it after I did,” he mutters, studying me as though the answer is written on my skin. “But you don’t say it, do you? You show it.”
“I’m an artist,” I whisper. “We express, not tell.”
We stand there, suspended in time, faces close, breath mingling, surrounded by painted fragments of our story. The air between us hums with something electric—understanding, longing, something deeper than words.
“You’re not just...” I hesitate, then press on. “You’re not just a duty. I’m not just being a dutiful wife.”
His eyes darken with emotion as he presses his forehead to mine. “And last night... it wasn’t just about lust.”
A shiver runs through me at his admission, my heart pounding, my throat tightening. Before I can find words, his arms tightens around my waist, pulling me flush against him. My arms wind around his neck, and he lifts me, my legs wrapping around him, his lips finding mine.
Between kisses, I murmur shamelessly, “Does this mean I can have more orgasms without the serious conversations?”
His laughter rumbles against my lips, deep and warm.
“Only if you stop trying to hide this body from me,” he whispers, slipping a finger beneath the shoulder of my robe and easing it down, exposing my bare skin to his hungry gaze.
I freeze.
He knew.
He knew I hadn’t wanted him to see my body last night.
Santo nuzzles against my neck, his lips pressing soft, open mouth kisses along my skin, sending shivers down my spine.
“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” His voice is quiet, not accusing, just knowing.
“I...” My breath hitches, but the words won’t come. His hands skim down my sides, grounding me in his touch.
Before I can gather myself, he’s carrying me out of the library. I stammer, “I... I’m not hiding.”
He says nothing, just holds me tighter.
When we reach our bedroom, he sets me down gently, but instead of stepping back, he studies me, his stormy eyes filled with quiet determination.
“Then let me see you, Vasilisa. All of you.”
His words aren’t a demand. They’re a plea. A request for trust. And it shakes me to my core.
My throat tightens as he takes my hand, leading me into the bathroom. He turns me toward the mirror, standing behind me, his presence solid and unwavering.
“I’d never force you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with,” he says solemnly, his gaze locked on mine in the reflection. “But, Dea, I want to love you completely... and that includes loving every part of your body.”
My heart pounds so hard I swear he can hear it. His words unsettle something deep inside me, something I don’t know how to face.
I meet his gaze in the mirror and immediately shift under the weight of it. The heat in his eyes, the way he looks at me like I’m something worth cherishing—it’s too much.
I drop my head. “You don’t have to say that.”
His hands tighten on my waist. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because I know I’m not your type.” The words tumble out before I can stop them. The second they hit the air, I regret them.
Santo’s eyebrows raise, his expression equal parts amused and exasperated. He grips my shoulders and turns me to face him fully.
“Says who?” His voice is low, edged with something I can’t quite place.
I blink at him, caught off guard. “Cassandra said she wasn’t surprised we were arranged because I’m not your type.”
A flicker of irritation passes over his face.
“Cassandra’s known me a long time,” he says, his voice darkening. “She knows who I’ve been seen with. That doesn’t mean it’s the only thing I want.”
I huff softly, not ready to let him dismiss this so easily. “Rachel?”
“Never been with her, never will be with her. We established that.”
“You wanted me to eat more,” I point out, regretting the words as soon as they leave my lips.
Santo furrows his brows, his confusion clear. “Because you were going to eat an apple after skipping breakfast. That’s not enough for anyone, Vasilisa.”
I roll my eyes, frustration bubbling over. “It’s not just that. You’ve said it more than once.”
“When?”
I glare at him, crossing my arms. “Right before you left, when I was eating fruit for breakfast. And on our first date—we shared a charcuterie board, and you told me I should eat more.”
Santo blinks at me, exasperation flickering in his expression. “A charcuterie board doesn’t feed anyone. That’s snacks, not a meal.”
“There were three other appetizers on that table, Santo.”
“That’s still not dinner. It’s not enough,” he counters, rubbing the back of his neck like he’s trying to keep his patience.
“Enough for you or enough for me?” I ask, tightening my arms around myself.
His gaze darkens—not with anger, but something else entirely. “Enough for a human being,” he says simply.
“Oh my gosh,” I groan, throwing up my hands. “If you’re just going to have an excuse for all of my feelings, why should I even try?”
Before I can step away, his hand cups my cheek, tilting my face until I’m forced to meet his gaze. His thumb brushes lightly over my skin, and I hate that it calms me, that it makes my frustration waver.
“What is it,” he asks softly, “that you think my type is?”
The words knot in my throat, but I resign myself to the truth. “Curvier women. Women with more... body to offer.”
Silence.
It stretches between us, thick and suffocating, broken only by the unsteady rhythm of my heartbeat echoing in the quiet room.
Then, Santo laughs.
A deep, rich sound that rumbles through his chest, lighting up his face in a way I’ve never seen before. Before I can protest, he turns me toward the mirror, positioning himself behind me, his legs pressing against the ottoman as he towers over me.
His touch is featherlight as he caresses the side of my face, his eyes meeting mine in the mirror’s reflection. His breath is warm against my ear when he whispers, “Vasilisa, there’s no one like you. You’re beautiful in ways they couldn’t begin to understand.”
His words strike something raw inside me, and tears prick at my eyes. Slowly, he peels the robe from my shoulders, pressing a kiss to my bare skin. I feel the warmth of his hands as he unties the fabric and lets it fall open, but his gaze remains locked on mine in the mirror.
“Look at yourself, Vasilisa,” he whispers, his hands trailing reverently down my sides, over my breasts and stomach, as if he’s memorizing every inch of me. “You’re beautiful. And you’re mine .”
The words settle deep in my chest, curling around something fragile. I lean back against him, needing the solidity of his presence to keep me grounded.
“Don’t ever think your body needs to be more or less than what it already is,” he breathes against my skin, his lips brushing just below my ear.
Then, the warmth of his hands disappears as he steps back, taking a seat on the ottoman.
I glance toward him, confused, but his voice halts me.
“Sit,” he commands gently.
My breath catches. “What?”
“Hook your legs over mine,” he says, his tone calm yet insistent.
Heat floods my face.
If I do, I’ll be completely exposed—to him, to the mirror. The thought paralyzes me for a moment, but Santo’s gaze is patient, filled with something deeper than desire. “Trust me,” he urges, holding out his hand.
With a shaky exhale, I take it. Slowly, I straddle his lap, my legs hooked over his, my thighs spread open. My gaze flickers to the mirror, but the moment I see myself, I instinctively look away.
I feel Santo’s fingers tighten on my waist, grounding me. He pulls me back against his chest, his warmth seeping into my skin.
“Look at us,” he murmurs, his lips trailing just behind my ear.
“I’d rather not,” I say softly, forcing a laugh, but the nervous edge in my voice betrays me.
His hand moves slowly, tracing the length of my arm, deliberate and reverent. “Why not?”
“You know why,” I whisper.
I finally force myself to look at him in the mirror. His reflection is steady, unwavering, while I can’t stop searching for flaws I know are there.
His head shakes slightly before he even speaks. “No. We just talked about this.” His eyes lock onto mine in the glass, his voice firm but tender.
I hesitate, my chest tightening under his gaze. “I’m just... not enough. I don’t look like—”
“Stop.” His voice is gentle but leaves no room for argument.
I swallow the rest of my words.
His palm settles over my ribs, fingers spreading as if to hold me together. “Do you know what I see when I look at you?” he asks quietly.
I shake my head, unable to find my voice.
“I see the woman who makes me forget how to breathe,” he says, his tone soft but unshakable. “The one who holds more power over me than anyone ever has. Do you realize that?”
I try to look away, but his fingers catch my chin, forcing me to meet our reflection’s gaze.
“Santo—”
“I’m not asking you to believe it yet,” he cuts in gently. “Just… let me show you.”
His hands skim down my sides, deliberate and slow, like he’s tracing devotion into my skin; like he’s painting over every part I’ve ever criticized.
“Every inch of you, Vasilisa,” his voice drops into something raw, something that reverberates through my bones, “is mine to admire.”
A shudder rolls through me. I exhale shakily, my heart a relentless rhythm against my ribs.
His forehead presses lightly to the side of my head, his breath warm and steady. “You’re perfect exactly as you are. And if you ever doubt that…” His fingers intertwine with mine, guiding our joined hands across my stomach, my hips, the places I’ve always avoided, the parts of myself I’d never let anyone claim. “I’ll remind you.”
I close my eyes, letting the words settle in the deepest parts of me, in the spaces that once held doubt. When I open them again, the mirror feels different. I feel different.
Santo’s gaze never wavers, burning through the reflection.
“There you are,” he murmurs in approval, his hands leaving mine to mold themselves around my waist.
He is silent for a moment, allowing both of us to take in our reflections. I watch us in the mirror; his stormy eyes are intent on my face while mine are drawn towards our intertwined form.
My chest rises and falls, my body trembling—not from fear, but from the sheer force of his presence. His hands start to move again, fingertips whispering over my skin, exposing me inch by inch to the cool clarity of the glass. His touch is electric, tracing over the lines of my body as if he’s savoring me.
I watch as his eyes drink me in, dark and consuming, as if he is starving for me. My skin hums under the weight of his attention, every touch a silent promise.
Each touch is a testament to his words - I can feel reverence in his fingertips as they explore the contours of my form, each caress lingering with a tenderness that reduces me to breathless silence. My heart pounds so loudly I’m sure he can hear it echoing in the silence of the room.
His fingers pause at the swell of my breasts, tracing their outline before capturing one in his hand, his thumb grazing over a sensitive peak. My breath hitches and he smirks, his hands leave my breasts that are mere handfuls compared to what I thought he wanted, they go past my stomach which I feared was too flat for a man who needs robust, and they glide past my hipbones, that I expected him to be repulsed by for being slightly visible.
He slides his hand lower, his fingers dipping between my legs where I ache for him most. I’m bare before him, open, wanton.
I gasp when his fingers brush over my clit, pleasure sparking through me. My eyes flutter closed, but his grip tightens on my hip.
“Look at yourself, Mia Dea.”
His voice is a command wrapped in velvet. It ripples through me, stealing the air from my lungs, forcing my eyes open.
And what I see leaves me in awe.
The girl in the mirror is powerful. She is raw and uninhibited, her skin flushed, her lips parted, her body trembling under his worship. Santo’s eyes blaze with unfiltered possession, with love. He isn’t just touching me—he’s claiming me.
He loves what he sees. The proof evident, not only in his eyes, but the hardness of his thick cock pressed against me.
His hand leaves my pussy only to glide down the inside of my thigh, leaving slick trails on my skin, marking me with my own arousal. His smirk deepens, the kind that makes my knees weak, the kind that tells me he’s far from done.
“Vasilisa,” he whispers my name like a prayer, like a sacred vow. His hand cups my breast again, his fingers rolling my nipple between them, and I let out a soft moan, my back arching. “You’re a goddess.”
Heat blooms across my cheeks, down my neck, all the way to my chest. It isn’t embarrassment. It’s something deeper. Pleasure . It’s the pleasure of being seen, of being desired by him in a way I never thought possible.
I’ve been craving this feeling since I met him.
His hand moves back from tracing circles around my thighs, his finger teasing, before sliding inside me. My breath hitches. My body clenches greedily around the intrusion, seeking, needing.
“Watch it happen, Vasilisa,” he orders, his voice thick with arousal.
My eyes obey, locked onto the image of his finger disappearing inside me, of my body yielding to him so beautifully. He adds a second, stretching me, filling me, and I let out a trembling whimper, pressing my nails into his thighs. He hums near my neck, his warm lips vibrating against my skin.
“Perfect,” he murmurs appreciatively as he begins to pump his fingers in and out slowly. A wave of heat rushes through me at his words combined with his actions.
His fingers still and he slides them out. I whimper at the loss, my hips instinctively tilting toward him, searching, pleading. But Santo has other plans.
He brings those fingers to his lips.
And sucks.
My mouth falls open as I watch him taste me. His eyes close, a low, pleased hum escaping his throat, as if savoring the very essence of me. The sight alone shatters my last thread of restraint.
He groans, his tongue flicking out to chase the taste before his fingers return, slick and relentless against my clit.
Every movement sends electric jolts of ecstasy coursing through my body, rendering me speechless and lost in the throes of euphoria.
My grip tightens on his thighs as he rubs circles around my clit with one hand while caressing my breast with the other. The dual sensation is enough to have me arching off his chest, my moans echoing off the bathroom walls.
“Santo,” I gasp, clenching around nothing, desperate.
He chuckles, dark and wicked, as his fingers keep their rhythm.
“Show me how you fall apart.”
His words unravel me. Sending pleasure crashing through me in relentless waves.
I shatter.
I come with his name on my lips, my body bowing against his, my reflection a vision of sheer, unrestrained bliss.
His hands are gentle now, coaxing me down, smoothing over my shivering skin. His mouth presses a kiss to my shoulder, his arms a fortress around me as I sink into him, spent.
“Ti amo,” he whispers against my temple.
The words are more beautiful than any painting could ever be. To know that he loves me, adores me just as I am... It’s everything. His love for me feels like gravity, constant, steady and impossible to escape.
He holds me tightly to him, his hands soothingly caressing my body. As I meet his eyes in the mirror once more, something new blooms inside me—a delicious thought. A need to give back the same reverence, the same devotion.
I want to try something too.