31. Laila
31
LAILA
I can’t stop seeing Arsen with another woman.
Another woman in his passenger seat. Another woman with her hand tangled with his as they walk down the sidewalk. Some blonde, leggy supermodel, probably, with perfectly plump Cupid’s bow lips and a set of gravity-defying boobs that plastic surgeons all across the world would request blueprints of to try to replicate on the operating table—all that grinning up at my husband.
I groan at the cruelty of my own imagination, which in turn makes me lose my balance and sends me tumbling onto my ass from my shitty attempt at a scorpion pose.
“What is wrong with me?” I mumble, pounding a fist into the plush carpet.
Ever since Arsen picked me up from my classes this afternoon, I’ve been on edge. At first, I blamed it on him charging up to me and Trevor, all puffed-out chest and unspoken threats. It’s the twenty-first century, not the Neolithic Era—who acts like that? I was just talking to Trevor. It’s not like he was giving me naked piggybacks through the parking lot or something.
Arsen is my husband. He should know I’d never cheat on him.
But then I got to thinking… would it even be cheating? We’re separated, technically. I asked Arsen for space. I meant that I wanted my own room, but does it mean I could date around if I wanted?
I don’t want to. Not at all. But it leads to the next, horrifying question…
Could he?
When Polina poked her head into the bathroom an hour ago, she could immediately tell something was up. I was giving Nina a bath, so lost in thought that I was about to wash her hair with hand soap.
“You look like you could use a nap,” she suggested, plucking the hand soap and the rubber ducky I was slathering it on out of my hands. “Or a good, long soak of your own. I’ll watch Nina.”
With my head in such a mess, Nina wasn’t exactly getting great quality time from me, so I let Polina take the reins and retreated up to my room for some yoga.
I don’t know why I thought yoga would help clear my mind. All it did was make me think of the academy and Trevor, which made me think of Arsen getting jealous, which made me wonder if I’d get jealous of him in the same way.
Enter: the hypothetical blonde bimbo I created in my mind, who is hypothetically wrecking my home and hypothetically stealing my husband.
I sit up, legs crossed, back straight, and talk out loud to myself. “Be rational about this, Laila. Arsen isn’t seeing anyone else.”
Yet , my snotty subconscious adds in. But keep him on the hook much longer, and he might get tired of waiting.
I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to find my inner peace and block out the negative thoughts. But my “inner peace” is looking more and more like a tall drink of water with auburn hair and captivating green eyes.
I picture Arsen walking down the street again, but this time, I’m the leggy smokeshow walking next to him. His arm is slung low around my waist, his hand spread possessively across my hip. He pulls me against his hard body, pressing his lips to my cheek… my neck… my collarbone…
My breath catches, and I snap my eyes open.
“No,” I breathe, jumping to my feet. “Nope. Nuh-uh. Not going there.”
But it’s too late. I already went there.
This hell I’m in is the direct and obvious consequence of letting Arsen Adamov take you to bed. You think it’s going to be a one-time thing, but that’s what he wants you to think. That is how he gets you right where he wants you.
After months of celibacy, my body is wide awake.
And it wants more .
Without really meaning to, I walk around my bed and pull open the bottom drawer of my nightstand. I’m not going to grab anything—just look. But looking turns into grabbing… and changing old batteries… and suddenly, whaddaya know… I’m naked in the center of my bed, a vibrator buzzing between my legs.
“This is for me,” I pant softly. “I deserve to feel good.”
My feminist mantras are all well and good, but the second I find a good rhythm—my hips rolling off the bed, my toes curling—Arsen’s face floods my mind.
I yank the vibrator away and sit up.
“This is about relaxation,” I remind myself icily, heat pooling low in my belly. “This isn’t about him.”
It’s not about wanting him or about the way his eyes burned when he saw me with Trevor this afternoon.
I’ll fight any asshole who thinks he can have you.
I can still hear the deep rumble of his voice in the car. I can see the way he gripped the steering wheel, remember the way I wondered what those hands would feel like squeezing my hips, dragging me against him again and again.
When I press the vibrator between my thighs once more, I’m too desperate to pretend this is anything else.
Fine. Fuck it. It’s him.
I stroke a hand over my chest, pretending his rough, calloused fingers are rolling my nipples into hard points. The buzzing head nuzzles my clit, and I moan out, “Arsen…”
Even his name on my lips feels right. My skin tingles, and this is the feeling I was after.
Arsen. That’s who I want right now, and is that such a crime? After all, this is purely physical. I need to come, and he is the fastest way to do that. It’s economical, not a betrayal of my principles.
Leaping from the dizzying heights of my moral high ground, I plunge headfirst into the fantasy world waiting below. I groan as I imagine his lips on my skin, his dirty words in my ear.
“There,” I whine, circling the vibrator against my center. “Right there. That’s it.”
I swear I can even hear the heavy sound of his excited breathing.
My eyes flutter open for just a second—and all at once, the fantasy comes tumbling down around me.
Because he’s here.
I lose my grip on the vibrator and it goes tumbling from my grasp as I take in Arsen leaning over the bed, his eyes pitch black as he watches me. The toy is still whirring softly against the plush mattress while I stare up at him, frozen, horrified.
Slowly, he leans in. His fingers brush over the sensitive skin of my inner thighs as he retrieves the still-buzzing vibrator and presses it back into my hand. “Don’t stop on my account, roza .”
The nickname shivers over my skin, sending goosebumps racing up and down my arms.
Fantasizing about Arsen is one thing, and it’s bad enough on its own. But experiencing him in the flesh is very different. Any sense of control I might’ve scrambled together is gone. I feel naked and vulnerable.
Scratch that: I am naked and vulnerable.
Which is exactly why I meet his eyes and say, “I don’t plan on it. I need this. But you need to leave.”
In one small thrust, I put the toy back in place while he watches.
“Laila…” Arsen swallows, his eyes locked on where I’m gently fucking myself. “There is no way in heaven or hell I’m walking away from you right now.”
My back arches, and I already know this isn’t going to be enough. My body knows what I could have instead, and it won’t settle for second-best. The only thing doing anything for me is Arsen’s attention on me. I can feel a desperate need rolling off of him in hot, heady waves.
“Fine. But if you’re going to stay, you have to help.”
He kneels next to me on the bed. “Tell me what you need, Laila. Ask me, and I’ll give it to you.”
My heart lurches into my throat, and I immediately swallow it down. This is still about me—what I need. This isn’t about him or us .
“I need to come. That’s it,” I whimper. “I need you to be my release.”
His hand smooths over my thigh, and I almost jerk off the bed. “You’re my wife. My roza. I’ll be whatever you desire.”
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t make this something it isn’t. This is sex—nothing more.”
“It’s more for me. It’s everything for me, Laila. And it’ll be everything for you, too.” He wraps his hand around mine, claiming control of the toy. “But I can wait for you to come to terms with that.”