Chapter 3
CLARA
His hands are warm against my skin as he coaxes me out of bed.
I am still blindfolded, still shaky, and still trying to convince myself that what just happened was real. The problem is that every inch of my body remembers him too clearly for denial to stand a chance.
When he guides me toward the sound of a bathroom, I dig my heels in.
"Wait. What are you doing?"
"Cleaning you up."
"I am not getting into the shower. I worked too hard on my hair and makeup."
What I do not say is that if I walk into Emily's bachelorette party looking like I just spent the last hour being thoroughly ruined by a mysterious Russian stranger, she is going to know something happened before I open my mouth.
There is a low rumble of laughter.
"I believe we have already done a number on both."
"That is not comforting."
"No. But it is true."
I hear the water turn on. His hand returns to mine, gentler now, and he helps me step into the tub. Warm water laps around my feet. A soft cloth touches my shoulder.
For a while, there are no words.
There is only the careful movement of his hands, the warmth of the cloth, and the strange tenderness of a man who has just taken me apart piece by piece and now seems intent on putting me back together.
The silence should feel awkward.
It does not. It feels intimate in a way I am not prepared for, like something that should have a different name than what it is.
His mouth brushes the side of my neck and I shiver.
"You are quiet now," he murmurs.
"I am trying to figure out whether I have lost my mind."
"And?"
"The jury is still out."
His laugh is soft against my skin.
I want to ask him his name. I want to ask why he let me stay.
I want to ask if this is something he does often, or if tonight was as unexpected for him as it was for me.
I noticed the way he held me at the end, too long and too tightly, like someone bracing against a loss they have not recovered from. I want to ask about that most of all.
I ask none of it.
The questions feel too real for a night that was never supposed to be real.
So I stay quiet while he washes me with a care that keeps catching me off guard.
When he helps me out, my legs are steadier, but only slightly. He wraps a plush towel around me.
"Arms up," he says.
I obey before I can think better of it.
The silk of my costume slides over my arms and head. He adjusts it with slow precision, then reties the corset. His fingers brush my waist and my breath catches all over again.
"You should not touch me like that if you expect me to leave," I say.
"I do not expect anything from you."
"That is a lie."
"It is," he admits.
Fabric rustles. A zipper slides up. He is dressing again, and I am surprised by the sharp little pang that moves through me at the sound.
This fantasy is ending.
The thought should bring relief.
Instead it makes me ache.
"What happened to my underwear?" I ask as the realization hits me.
A pause follows.
"No underwear."
My mouth drops open. "Excuse me?"
"You will go without for the rest of the night."
"I do not remember agreeing to that."
"You can come take them back," he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "If you are brave enough."
Heat surges through me so fast I have to grip the towel.
"You are impossible."
"I have been called worse."
"Recently, I assume."
His chuckle is low and wicked.
"I want to remember the vision of you walking away from me," he says. "Flushed, satisfied, wearing my scent under that ridiculous little costume."
I should be scandalized.
I am scandalized.
I am also so turned on that I briefly consider tackling him back onto the nearest flat surface and letting Emily wait another hour.
"I really have to go," I say, though the words sound breathless and reluctant even to my own ears.
"Yes," he says. "You do."
He takes my hand.
The walk back through the penthouse feels different now. I am still blindfolded, but I know this space is not Emily's Fantasy Land. I know this man was never part of the game. I know I made a reckless, deliberate choice and I know I will remember it for the rest of my life.
At the elevator, we wait in silence.
His hand envelops mine and I hate how natural it feels.
The elevator dings.
He guides me inside and closes my fingers around the strap of my purse.
"Do not remove the blindfold yet," he says.
I laugh softly. "Still giving orders?"
"Always."
"When can I take it off?"
"When the doors open again."
"That sounds suspicious."
"It is merciful."
I tilt my face toward him. "Merciful for whom?"
He does not answer right away.
Then he steps into my space, cups my jaw, and kisses me.
It is not gentle. It is rough and deep and demanding, full of heat and something dangerously close to possession. I melt into him before I can stop myself. My hands find his shirt and twist in the fabric, and for a few wild seconds I almost beg him to take me back inside.
Then he pulls away.
The doors begin to close.
"Go where you belong, Clara," he says.
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