Chapter 33
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
NIKOLAI
“This is it,” I announce, removing the blindfold I insisted Sofiya wear, not wanting to ruin a moment of the surprise. I push the door open and step aside, allowing her to walk in first.
She crosses the threshold, her head turning this way and that, soaking up every detail of the studio space around her. It’s pretty basic. A wall of mirrors, a worn wooden floor, and a barre lining the wall. When she turns to face me, her eyes shine, her smile stretching so wide it’s impossible not to feel the pull of it.
“You’re kidding,” she says, shaking her head. “This is my dance school?”
I nod, leaning against the doorframe, as she spins on the spot. “All yours,” I confirm.
She’s wearing a sweet red polka-dotted dress that flutters around her milky thighs, her auburn hair tumbling down her back. But it’s the awe in her expression that makes me feel something—something I didn’t think I was capable of feeling anymore.
I never had Christmas mornings growing up. I didn’t know the thrill of opening presents or watching someone else unwrap the perfect gift. Well, not entirely.
One year, I’d saved everything I had to buy Sergey a teddy bear from Moscow’s most luxurious kid’s toy store. The joy on his face when he opened it was enough to make me forget how much I had skimped and saved for months.
This moment feels like that—only more significant.
She grabs my shirt, her lips finding mine in a lingering kiss. When she pulls back, her voice is breathless. “Take me on the grand tour.”
I chuckle, grazing my knuckles along her cheek. “Where do you want to start? There is a second floor with another small studio, changing rooms, a staff room and an office.”
Objectively, the place is nothing special. The walls are a dull beige, and the wooden floors have seen better days, the varnish worn thin in spots. The mirrors, dull and streaked, look like they haven’t been cleaned this decade, and the overhead lights flicker faintly.
But she doesn’t seem to notice any of that. It’s like she only sees its potential. Maybe it’s the same way with me. She can see beyond my faults—and there are many.
It’s been a week since she ran into the forest; nothing and everything is different. We’ve fallen into place like two pieces of a puzzle that were always meant to fit. It’s new and familiar all at once.
As we tour the upstairs, her sharp eyes drink everything in, assessing. “New shower curtains and a fresh coat of paint on the lockers will go a long way in here,” she notes as we step out of the changing rooms.
“Make a list. That’s why we’re here. I wanted you to have a good look before we plan the renovations.”
She freezes, turning to me with wide eyes. “Renovations?”
“What did you think? That I’d leave it like this?”
“No, but… renovations take time.” Her lips press into a thin line, doubt creeping into her expression. She thinks we’re on borrowed time, that all of this—the school, us—is temporary.
I don’t agree.
“Not for me.” I shrug. “People tend to move quickly when I tell them to.”
She looks away, emotion getting the best of her. I let my fingers trail lightly over her shoulder, grounding her.
“What’s wrong?”
Her shoulders rise and fall, and she brushes at her damp lashes, as if the tears embarrass her. “I’m fine. I don’t even know why I’m crying.”
“Yes, you do.” I slip a finger beneath her chin, tipping it up so she can’t avoid my gaze.
She swallows hard. “No one’s ever done something so freakin’ nice for me.” A smile breaks through. “And of all people… it’s you. My captor.”
“Your husband,” I’m quick to correct. Because we’ve moved past captor/captive long ago. What we are is something very different, even if it can’t be easily named. “You deserve it all, moya sladost. The sun, the moon, and the stars. If I could give you the world on a fucking platter, I would.”
She lets out a soft laugh, sweeping away the last of her tears with the back of her hand. “Who are you? You don’t make sense.”
I lower my forehead to hers, letting her feel the weight of my conviction. “Maybe we don’t make sense, but I’m not sure if that matters. It’s just right between us.” She closes her eyes, our faces still pressed together. Both of us lost on this carousel of emotions. I pull back to meet her gaze. “Now that you’ve seen this place, what are you thinking?”
She pauses, biting her thumbnail. “Well, for starters, it needs a coat of paint, new floors, and real studio lighting. New barres as well, because those ones look like they’re held together with duct tape. The storage space needs to be expanded, and I was hoping we could add a library—just a small one—with books on dance history, anatomy, things to get the kids excited.”
I raise a brow, impressed. “A library? Look at you, thinking out of the box. I like it.”
She smiles, shaking her head. “Don’t make fun of me. These kids deserve more. They deserve to feel like they’re part of something important.”
“I’m not making fun,” I say, running my knuckles lightly along her jawline. “I love that you already care about your students. It’s more than I ever had growing up.”
Her head tilts. “What did you have?”
“Not much. My mother wasn’t a mother in any real sense. She was hooked on drugs, a prostitute. We had nothing. No stability, no safety. Just me trying to figure out how to keep Sergey and I alive.”
Her eyes soften, but I press on before the pity can take root. “I didn’t just look out for him. There were other kids in the neighborhood—ones like Emil—who needed someone too. I don’t know why I did it, but it felt… necessary. Like if I didn’t, no one would.”
She swallows hard, her fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt. “That’s a lot for a kid to carry.”
“It was. But it made me who I am. Taught me how to fight, how to survive.”
“Is that why you’re so hard on Emil?”
“I never wanted this life for him, but he chose a life of crime anyhow. At least working for me, I can keep him out of trouble.”
She purses her lips in thought. “That gives me an idea. Scholarships. For the kids who can’t afford shoes or uniforms. An outreach program that connects with schools or other organizations so we can help the students who need it most.”
“You’ve thought of all this after just one visit. I’m fucking impressed,” I say, enjoying her eyes lighting up.
“There’s also something else I’ve been thinking about.” Her hazel eyes glint as she points to a lone chair in the corner of the studio. “Sit down, Nikolai.”
“Back to Nikolai again?”
She crosses her arms, the tilt of her head playful. “Would you just listen for once? I’m in charge now, and I want you to sit.”
I let out a low chuckle, raising my hands in mock surrender. “Yes, Mrs. Zhukov.” The name suits her fucking perfectly. I cross the room and drop into the chair, leaning back with my hands behind my head.
“You wanted me to dance for you, remember? Well, my ankle’s better.” She arches a brow, her lips curving into a wicked smile. “Play something sexy.”
My blood thrums at the suggestion in her tone. I scroll through my phone, landing on a track with a deep, pulsing rhythm that fills the room.
The look she gives me is dark with promise as her hands skim down her body, slow and sensuous, drawing my eyes to every curve. She turns, her back arching as she sways to the beat. The hem of her dress slides higher, flashing me glimpses of bare skin.
She's not just dancing. Each movement feels raw and intimate, meant for my eyes only.
Heat spreads through me with every sway of her body, every flick of her hair, every sultry glance she sends my way.
She steps closer, moving in time with the music. Her hands lift, fingers tangling in her hair, and I swear I feel every shift of her body like a physical touch.
My abs tighten when she sinks to her knees and crawls across the floor toward me. It’s so fucking sexy how she doesn’t break eye contact the whole time. My cock is hard and aching, every nerve alive with need.
Still on her knees, she settles between my legs and puts on a show. Her hands trace their way up her body, cupping her breasts and tugging at her nipples through the silky fabric of her dress. She leans in, her breath brushing against my lips, making me throb. I need to see those pretty lips wrapped around my cock.
She rises to her feet, undoing each button of her dress until it slips down, revealing every perfect inch of her. My gaze devours her—the glow of her skin in the soft light, the curve of her breasts, the tautness of her stomach.
She unhooks her bra, letting it fall away as she arches her back, unapologetic in her beauty. Next, her panties slide down her legs, and with a wicked smirk, she uses them to bind my hands behind my back.
“Jesus, what are you doing to me? A man of my age can only take so much.”
“Torturing you.” She gives me a saucy wink before doing her best to put me in cardiac arrest as she straddles one of my thighs, gripping my shoulders for balance. The friction from her bare pussy pressed against me, even through my pants, has me clenching my jaw to stay in control.
She starts to move, her hips undulating against me in time with the pounding bass. Her breath comes in soft pants, her body brushing mine with every shift.
“Fuck, baby, I’m going to come in my pants like a fucking teenager if you keep that up.”
She blushes, eyes downcast, as her breath warms my neck. Her hands glide up my chest, nails dragging over the fabric of my shirt.
She moves faster, rocking against me, her fingers tangling in my hair with a gentle tug. My body tenses, every nerve on edge, and when she kneels before me, that tension shifts—morphing into a raw, consuming hunger.
Her fingers trace my length over my pants. My muscles tense beneath her touch, anticipating what comes next.
She takes her time working my belt free, sliding the leather through the loops. The sound echoes in my ears, mingling with the rush of my own blood. She pops the button of my fly and lowers the zipper.
Cool air brushes against my heated skin as she eases my dick free. I suck in a sharp breath, my hands fighting against their lace restraints. But all thought empties from my brain when she wraps her fingers around me and strokes. Pleasure surges through me, hot and electric.
The tip of her tongue flicks out, and a guttural sound escapes my throat. Her eyes meet mine, dark with lust, a wicked smile curving her lips as she licks a bead of pre-cum from the tip, relishing it like a forbidden treat.
When the wet heat of her mouth finally wraps around me, it’s like I’ve died and gone to heaven. She takes me deeper than I thought she’d be able to. What Sofiya lacks in experience, she makes up for in enthusiasm.
When she’s reached her limit, she swallows, pushing just a little further, and a strangled curse escapes me.
“Eyes on me, I want to see that elegant neck working.”
One glance from beneath those lashes, and I unravel completely. Sofiya might be kneeling in front of me, but she has all the power. I grit my teeth, trying to hold back, but it’s a challenge when she looks this good with her plump lips wrapped around my fat cock.
Her tongue swirls around my length as she bobs up and down. One hand grips me at the base, twisting perfectly in sync with her lips. A low hum escapes her, sending a shiver of pleasure through me.
Her nails scrape along the sensitive cut of muscle just below my abs. She inches higher, her palm pressing against my stomach, tracing the ridges there as if she’s memorizing every dip and rise, testing my restraint.
My hips jerk involuntarily, pushing my cock to the back of her throat. Tears gather in her eyes, and she stills for a moment, breathing through her nose, adjusting to my size but not giving up.
“You’re doing so good, moya sladost.” My words sound tortured even to my own ears. “Are you going to swallow me down when I come for you?”
She gives a little nod of her head and widens her eyes. That’s all it takes for my cock to jerk in her mouth and for a flood of cum to erupt down her throat. She puts in the effort, drinking me down, giving as much as she takes, and damn if I don’t come undone right here.
She’s ruined me, this woman. And I don’t think there’s any way to come back.