Chapter 13 Sasha
Sasha
I’ve been asking Tony about his journalism career for twenty minutes, and he’s running out of lies.
We’re back at the Moscow safehouse after the train ride from St. Petersburg, and I’m curled up on one end of the couch while he sits on the other.
The threatening note is locked in Dmitri’s safe. The gallery evidence has been sent to my brother’s analysts.
Everything should feel like it’s getting resolved, but nothing does.
“So which editor assigned you to cover Alexei’s wedding?” I keep my voice casual. “You said it was the local paper, right?”
“Roman Dashkov. He handles their international coverage.”
“Interesting. I called the paper yesterday, and they don’t have anyone named Roman Dashkov on staff.”
Tony’s face doesn’t change, but something flickers behind his eyes. A recalculation. “He’s a freelance coordinator. Not technically on staff.”
“Mm-hmm.” I tuck my legs underneath me. “And that article you published about the Moscow art scene last month? The one you mentioned when we first met?”
“What about it?”
“I couldn’t find it anywhere. Not in their archives, not online, not anywhere.”
“It might not have run yet. Editorial delays happen.”
I let out an exhausted huff and snap, “Tony, stop.”
He goes still.
“I’m not an idiot,” I continue. “I’ve been checking your story since the gallery attack. The pieces don’t fit. Your contacts don’t exist. Your published work is a ghost. Whatever you’re doing in Moscow, it’s not journalism.”
He looks at me for a long moment, and I can almost see him weighing his options. Keep lying and hope I’ll let it go. Tell me the truth and risk everything. Or find another way out of this conversation.
He chooses option three.
Before I can react, Tony reaches across the couch and pulls me into his lap. His mouth finds mine, and the kiss is hard enough to make me forget what I was saying. He grabs my hips and positions me so I’m straddling him, and the contact sends heat flooding through my body.
I know he’s doing this to deflect my questions. It’s manipulative and obvious, and I should push him away.
Instead, I grab the front of his shirt and kiss him back.
I want him.
Even knowing he’s hiding something. Even knowing this is probably a terrible idea. The chemistry between us has built since day one, and that interrupted moment in my apartment only made it worse.
I’m so fucking tired of fighting it.
I rock my hips against his, and Tony groans into my mouth as his cock grinds against my core. The sound vibrates through me before settling low in my belly. He slides his palms up my thighs, pushing the hem of my dress higher until cool air hits my bare skin.
“We shouldn’t,” he manages between kisses.
“Definitely not.”
“This doesn’t solve anything.”
“I know.” I pull back just enough to meet his eyes. They’re dark with want, and his pupils are blown wide. His breathing is ragged, and I feel his heart pounding against my palm where it rests on his chest. “Do you want to stop?”
“No.” The word comes out rough. Almost desperate. “I haven’t wanted to stop since the first time I saw you.”
“Then don’t.”
Without another word, Tony flips us so I’m on my back against the couch cushions, and his body covers mine.
He’s still fully clothed, but I feel every inch of him through the fabric.
The weight of his body pressing me down.
The thick ridge of his arousal straining against his pants and against my throbbing center.
I reach for his belt, but he catches my wrists and pins them above my head with one hand. The position arches my back, pushing my breasts up against his chest.
His breath is scorching against my neck as his lips glide down to my collarbone in a path that leaves fire in its wake.
His free hand pushes my dress up to my waist, bunching the fabric around my hips, and he traces his fingers along the edge of my underwear, teasing the sensitive skin of my inner thigh but not touching where I need him most. “I want to hear every sound you make.”
Cold slides down my back.
There’s something about him—twelve extra years that show up in his patience. He takes his time, builds it slow, until I’m the one on the edge.
His fingers finally slip beneath the fabric, and I gasp when he finds me already soaking wet.
“You’ve been thinking about this, too,” he murmurs against my throat, his voice thick with satisfaction.
“Since St. Petersburg.” Since before that. Since the wedding. Since he covered my body with his at the gallery, and I felt every hard inch of him pressed against me.
He strokes me slowly at first, learning what makes me squirm and what makes me moan. His thumb circles my clit while two fingers slide inside me, curling to hit the spot that makes my vision go hazy at the edges.
“That’s it,” his voice is low and encouraging as he adds, “show me what you like.”
I can’t form words anymore. I can only move against his hand and chase the pleasure building low in my belly. He reads my body like he reads everything else, noticing every reaction, adjusting his rhythm, and driving me higher with each stroke until I’m trembling and gasping beneath him.
“I need—” My words dissolve into a moan when he adds a third finger and increases his pace.
“I know what you need.”
He withdraws his hand, and I whimper at the loss. The sound is embarrassing and desperate, but I don’t care. I need him inside me. Now.
Tony seems to understand. He releases my wrists and reaches for his belt.
I hear the clink of metal and the rasp of a zipper, and then he’s shoving his pants down just far enough to free himself.
He doesn’t bother removing them or anything else; he just yanks my underwear to the side and positions himself at my entrance.
“Tell me you want this,” he demands as the head of his cock nudges against me without pushing in. “I need to hear you say it.”
“I want this.” I grab his hips and try to pull him closer. “I want you. Please, Tony.”
He thrusts inside me in one long stroke, and then we both freeze for a moment.
Adjusting. Savoring. He fills me, stretching me in ways that border on too much in the best way.
I feel impossibly full, pinned beneath him with my dress bunched around my waist and his body still mostly clothed above me.
“Okay?” he asks through gritted teeth, the muscles in his neck corded with the effort of holding still.
“Yes. God, yes.” I dig my heels into the backs of his thighs, urging him to move.
He does. Slowly at first, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in. Each thrust drags against my inner walls, hitting spots that make sparks dance behind my eyelids. I wrap my legs around his waist and try to pull him closer and deeper, needing more than he’s giving me.
“Patience,” he says, but his voice is strained. He’s holding back. Trying to make this last.
“I don’t want patience.” I rake my nails down his back hard enough to leave marks through his shirt. “I want you to fuck me like you mean it.”
At that, his pace increases, snapping his hips against mine with enough force to make the couch creak beneath us. The sound of skin against skin fills the room. I’m still wearing my dress, and he’s still mostly clothed, but neither of us cares enough to stop and undress.
This is need. Pure and overwhelming. Weeks of buildup finally finding release.
Tony hooks one of my legs over his shoulder, and the new angle changes everything. Suddenly, every thrust hits exactly right, grinding against my clit with each stroke. I cry out, unable to stay quiet, and he covers my mouth with his palm.
“The walls aren’t that thick,” he reminds me, but his eyes are burning with desire. He likes the sounds I’m making. Wants to hear more of them even as he muffles them.
I’m so close. The pressure is building to something inevitable, coiling tighter with every thrust. I can tell from the way his rhythm is becoming erratic that he’s right there with me.
“That’s it,” he murmurs at my ear, breath hot on my skin. “Let go on me. I want to feel you.”
The words push me over the edge. My release crashes through me in waves, and I bite down on his palm to keep from screaming.
My inner walls clench around him in rhythmic pulses, and Tony follows seconds later with a groan that vibrates through his body.
I feel him pulse inside me, and his hips jerk through the aftershocks while I milk every drop from him.
For a long moment, we just breathe. His forehead rests against mine. His weight is a comfortable pressure keeping me anchored to the couch. To reality. To whatever this thing between us has become.
Then, his phone rings.
Tony’s body goes rigid. He pulls out of me carefully but quickly, reaching for his pants pocket. When he sees the screen, something unreadable crosses his face.
“I have to take this,” he says.
“Now?” I scoff. “Right now?”
“I’m sorry. I’ll be quick.”
He stands and tucks himself back into his pants before zipping up while I’m still lying there, exposed and confused. The intimacy of thirty seconds ago evaporates like it never existed.
“Tony—”
But he’s already walking toward the bedroom, the phone pressed to his ear. “Yeah, I’m here,” I hear him say before the door closes behind him.
I sit up slowly. My dress is wrinkled, and my underwear is twisted and damp. And the man who just made me come harder than I ever have is taking a phone call from someone more important than me.
I straighten my clothes and smooth my hair, pulling myself back together physically even though everything else is scattered. I walk to my bedroom and close the door before he comes back in.
Then, I sit on the edge of my bed and try to understand what just happened.
Tony touched me like I was precious. Like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. He made my body sing in ways I didn’t know were possible. And then, he took a call that couldn’t wait five minutes.
I’m falling for someone I might not know at all.
The realization settles into my stomach like a stone. Every conversation we’ve had, every moment of connection, every time I thought I was seeing the real him. … How much of it was genuine and how much was manipulation?
I don’t have answers. Only questions that multiply every time I think I’m getting close to the truth.
But I know one thing for certain.
Whatever Tony Haugh is hiding, I will find it out. Even if the truth destroys whatever is growing between us.