6. Sofia
6
SOFIA
M y fingers tighten around my clutch as I enter the Fairmont Copley Plaza Grand Ballroom. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm, soft radiance across the sea of designer gowns and tuxedos. Another charity gala. Boston’s social scene has been relentless this season.
My phone vibrates, and I fish it out, hoping for a distraction. It’s a text from Tash.
So sorry babe, emergency at the museum. Can’t make it tonight. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do
Ice spreads through my veins. Without Tash as my buffer, I’m exposed. Vulnerable. It’s been exactly a week since I last saw Nikolai at a similar event. Hopefully, he won’t be here.
“Ms. Henley! We’re so pleased you could join us.” The event chair, Margaret Winchester swoops in with her husband in tow. “Your gallery’s contribution to tonight’s auction is absolutely stunning.”
I paste on my professional smile. “Thank you for featuring us.”
“Let me show you to your table.” She guides me through the crowd, chattering about expected donation totals.
My steps falter as we approach table seven. A familiar broad-shouldered figure in an impeccable black tux rises from his seat, and unique gray eyes lock onto mine.
“I believe you know Mr. Ivanov?” Margaret beams, gesturing to the empty chair beside him. “We thought you two might have plenty to discuss, given your shared passion for the arts.”
My throat goes dry. “How... thoughtful.”
Nikolai pulls out my chair, his fingers brushing my bare shoulder as I sit. “Sofia. You look ravishing in emerald.”
The deep timbre of his voice turns my insides into liquid. Of course, he’d be here. Of course, I’d be seated next to him.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight,” I manage to say, reaching for my water glass to steady my hands.
“Weren’t you?” His knowing smile tells me he doesn’t believe that for a second. “I make it a point to attend events featuring such exceptional pieces.”
The way his gaze slides over me makes it clear he’s not talking about the artwork.
“This wasn’t a coincidence, was it?” I lean closer to avoid being overheard. The scent of his cologne fills my senses—spice and wood.
Nikolai takes a sip of his whiskey, never breaking eye contact. “Are you accusing me of something, malishka ?”
“Don’t play coy. You arranged this.” Heat rises to my cheeks—from anger or attraction, I’m not sure anymore.
His large hand slips beneath the tablecloth, landing on my thigh. His fingers dig into my flesh, sending electricity through my body. “And if I did? What exactly do you plan to do about it?”
My breath catches. I should push his hand away and cause a scene. I should do anything except sit here, pulse racing as he rubs circles on my inner thigh.
“I could leave right now,” I whisper.
“But you won’t.” His fingers squeeze again. “Because deep down, you’re exactly where you want to be.”
I grip my water glass, maintaining composure as servers circle with the first course. Nikolai’s hand doesn’t move.
The first course arrives—a delicate butternut squash soup. My spoon trembles as I focus on eating. His thumb continues its maddening circles higher up my thigh.
“You should eat,” he murmurs. “You’ll need your strength.”
I glare at him. “Remove your hand.”
“Make me.” His fingers inch higher, and my thighs clench.
I eat a spoonful of soup, determined to maintain my composure. The elderly couple across from us chats about their recent trip to Paris.
Nikolai leans closer, and his breath fans my neck. “You’re so tense. So responsive.”
“I could have you thrown out,” I threaten weakly, knowing full well that I don’t truly want him to stop. This situation is unlike anything I’ve experienced before. I pride myself on my self-control and poise, yet here I am, succumbing to his advances despite my better judgment. I should pull away and end this charade before it goes too far, but the words die in my throat as his fingers dance over my skin.
“Then why aren’t you stopping me?” His fingers trace patterns that make my breath hitch. “Why are your legs spreading wider?”
I hadn’t even realized I’d done it. Mortified, I snap my legs shut, but his hand stops me.
“Now, finish your soup like nothing’s happening. Show me how much control you possess.”
My hand shakes as I lift another spoonful. His fingers edge higher, and I sink my teeth into my lip to stifle a moan. The silk of my dress offers no barrier against his touch.
“God, you’re wet already?” His voice drops lower. “Your arousal is coating your inner thighs.”
The spoon clatters against the bowl. Several heads turn our way.
“Everything alright, dear?” Margaret calls from two seats down.
I force a smile. “Just a bit clumsy tonight.”
Nikolai’s hand tightens possessively. “Don’t worry. I’ll ensure she’s taken care of.”
The double meaning in his words makes me squirm. His thumb finds a particularly sensitive spot.
“Careful now,” he whispers. “We wouldn’t want anyone to notice how desperate you are for me, would we?”
His thumb continues its relentless torture, and I can no longer meet the concerned gaze of our tablemates.
Nikolai’s mouth finds my ear, his words sending shivers through me. “My perfect malishka ,” he growls against my ear, “already so ready for me.’ “
I clench my thighs together, desperate to hide the evidence of my body’s betrayal. Instead, it increases the pressure. “Please,” I whisper, unsure what I’m begging for anymore.
“Please, what?” His lips mark a path along my neck. “Are you finally going to admit what you want, Sofia?”
“S-stop.” Even to my own ears, the denial lacks any conviction. How can I ask him to stop when every fiber of my being craves his touch?
“Stop?” His fingers delve deeper, and I have to bite my lip to muffle a moan. “You don’t want me to stop, baby girl. You want me to keep going.”
“N-no.” My denial is weak, but my body betrays me, arching into his hand.
“What do you want, Sofia?” He asks again, his voice a silken thread drawing me closer to the edge. “Tell me what you need, and I might just give it to you.”
His hand slips under my dress, sliding up my bare thigh. “You need a man to take control, don’t you?”
It feels like a challenge—a silent invitation to something darker. I pause, teetering on the edge of indecision. Every instinct tells me to pull away, to end this charade before it goes too far. But something about him—the way he commands the space around us, the heat in his eyes—draws me closer to the edge.
My eyes dart around the table, but thankfully, everyone else seems engrossed in their own conversations.
Nikolai’s lips brush my ear, his breath tickling my skin. “You love the idea of surrendering, don’t you, baby girl? Letting Daddy take charge.”
A rush of liquid pools between my legs at his words. I can’t even be outraged at the “daddy” comment. My inner walls clench at the thought.
“I can see it in your eyes,” he whispers. “You crave it. Need it.” His hand reaches my core, and he growls softly. “And you’re so fucking wet, aren’t you?”
His fingers slip beneath my panties, finding my arousal. The muted sounds of the ballroom fade away as a new awareness fills my senses—the pulse between my legs, the ache in my breasts.
“You’re so responsive, malishka . Eager for my touch.” His voice is dark with desire.
I squeeze my thighs together, helpless to stop the instinctual reaction. “Please,” I whisper again, afraid to say more, afraid to give him the power to incinerate me with a few well-chosen words.
“Please, what?” His fingers circle, teasing but never quite giving me what I crave.
Heat rushes to my face. I struggle to voice my submission. “Touch me,” I eventually rasp.
“With pleasure.” His fingers slip lower, finding my aching core, and he pushes a single digit into my tightness.
I brace myself on the table, trying to ground myself. What am I doing? This isn’t me. I don’t let men control me like this, especially not in public. Yet here I am, trembling under Nikolai’s touch, unable to form a coherent thought.
“You’re fighting it,” he murmurs. “Always so determined to maintain control.”
My fingers wrap around my water glass. He’s right. I’ve spent years building my reputation in art, cultivating an image of cool professionalism. One touch from him, and I’m coming undone.
“I don’t...” I swallow hard. “I don’t do this.”
“No?” His thumb traces patterns on my skin. “`Why aren’t you stopping me, then?”
The question surprises me. Why aren’t I? I’m Sofia Henley. I run a prominent Boston gallery. I negotiate million-dollar deals with ease. I’ve turned down advances from countless wealthy men.
But with Nikolai... there’s something different about him. He looks at me like he can see straight through my carefully constructed walls. The quiet authority in his voice coaxes me to yield.
“You’re overthinking, malishka .” His fingers tighten possessively. “Let go.”
A shiver skates down my spine at his commanding tone, crumbling my usual defenses.
“I can’t,” I whisper, but I don’t know if I’m protesting his touch or my own response.
“You can,” he counters. “You will.”
Heaven help me, I want to. Want to surrender to this magnetic pull between us and let him strip away my control until there’s nothing but raw need.
I’ve never experienced anything like this—this overwhelming desire to submit and let someone else take charge. To trust someone else with my pleasure, my safety, my surrender.
The realization should terrify me. Instead, it sends another rush of heat through my body.
I grip my fork, trying to focus on the roasted duck breast. Each bite turns to ash in my mouth as Nikolai’s fingers dance along my soaked core, keeping me balanced on a knife’s edge of pleasure.
“You’re being very quiet, Sofia.” His voice carries enough concern to seem genuine to others at the table. “Not enjoying your meal?”
I glare at him, but it loses its effect when he circles my clit with his thumb. “It’s... perfect,” I manage.
“Here, try this.” He lifts his fork to my lips, offering a bite of his filet mignon. The intimate gesture draws knowing smiles from the others at our table.
As I part my lips, he curls his fingers inside me. I nearly choke on the meat.
“Careful,” he murmurs. “Small bites.”
My thighs tremble the moment he finds the spot inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyes. Just as the pressure builds, he withdraws, leaving me empty and aching.
“More wine?” He signals the server, acting as the attentive dinner companion.
I tense my jaw, not trusting my voice. My nipples strain against my dress, and I’m certain my face is flushed. How is he maintaining such perfect composure while reducing me to a quivering mess?
“You’re doing so well,” he whispers. “Such a good girl, taking whatever I give you.”
His praise sends another flood of wetness between my legs, and I clamp them together.
Nikolai tuts softly. “Spread them wider,” he commands. “Show me how badly you want it.”
I comply without thinking, despite my mind’s protests. His fingers resume their skilled torture, building me up only to deny me release again and again.
The dessert course appears—a chocolate soufflé. I stare at it, wondering how I’m supposed to eat when every nerve ending in my body is screaming for release.
I stare down at the soufflé, trying to steady my breathing. Nikolai’s touch between my legs is maddening, keeping me constantly on edge. I’m dangerously close to the precipice, barely clinging to my composure.
As I lift the first bite of soufflé to my lips, his fingers curl inside me again, stroking that sensitive spot with expert precision. My mouth falls open in a silent cry of pleasure, the chocolate melting over my tongue.
I quickly school my features and offer our tablemates a shaky smile. “My goodness, this is exquisite.”
Nikolai’s thumb circles my clit, faster now, ratcheting up the pressure. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it. Only the best for you, malishka .”
His possessive endearment in front of the others makes me clench around his fingers. I shift in my seat, fighting the urge to grind against his hand.
“Here, have a taste.” Before I can protest, he lifts a spoonful of soufflé to my lips. As I swallow, his fingers curl again, pushing me closer to release.
A strangled gasp escapes me. Our tablemates glance over in concern.
“Sorry,” I choke out with an embarrassed laugh. “It’s just so delicious. It took me by surprise.”
Nikolai smiles indulgently, though his eyes hold a predatory gleam. “I’ll get you another. We can’t have you missing out.”
As he flags down our server, his fingers increase their tempo between my legs. I grip the edge of my seat, torn between arching into his touch and maintaining decorum.
The server appears with another soufflé. I thank her through gritted teeth, trying not to betray the effect Nikolai is having on me under the table. He waits until she retreats before resuming his sweet torture, intent on completely breaking me.
My thighs tremble uncontrollably now. So close... I’m right there...
Nikolai’s breath feathers my ear. “Come for me, Sofia.”
His whispered command undoes me. My vision goes white as my inner walls convulse around his fingers. I cry out, unable to hold back any longer.
Concerned glances turn my way. I flush, lowering my eyes.
“Forgive me,” I stammer. “I’m just... overwhelmed by how delicious this is.” I lift a shaky bite of soufflé, avoiding the curious stares of our tablemates.
Nikolai withdraws his hand slowly, bringing his fingers to his mouth for a languid taste. My cheeks burn hotter at the intimacy of the gesture.
“You’re right, malishka ,” he murmurs, those stormy eyes fixed on me. “Absolutely delectable.”
The promise in his gaze leaves no doubt that our encounter is far from over. But for now, I can only sit here trembling in the aftermath, wondering how I’ll ever regain my composure after coming undone so completely under Nikolai’s touch.