Chapter 20 #2
“They won’t stop coming after you if I don’t.” He kisses her cheek and then walks over and takes Claudia’s hands. “This okay?” She nods. “God, I hate that I didn’t watch you grow.”
He lets go of her hands and cups her cheeks, swiping her tears away, and then leans in and kisses her forehead. “I would have found you if I’d just… believed her.”
“I didn’t want to like you, Arthur, but I do, because you raised a great woman, Sofie, whom I claimed as family before I knew she was. And Mom, who I knew as Sherry, could have told me who you were. She… I blame her.”
“Can I please, just for me?” Sofie asks, holding her phone up. “A picture?”
She takes a couple and then I take her phone, “Go, let’s get you all together.”
“Do you know how to take a photo? You have to make sure the lighting is—”
“I’m sure I can take a picture better than you can skate, Tsarina,” I grumble.
Arthur laughs, and Sofie does too, and yes, tears fall when she does.
“You two get over here, I want Sofie to take a picture with you two Bears and me, edit it up and blast it on the socials.”
“Dad, you’re in your pajamas,” she whispers, as anyone outside of this room will hear her.
He looks down, “I’m sure you can make it look like a tux.”
As we stand beside Arthur Fairfax, a billionaire in pajamas, he whispers, “Hurt either of them and I will raise hell for you no matter where my mind or body are.”
Walking away, he tells Sofie, “She’s a good one. You make sure she knows I love her, like we didn’t miss a beat?”
She nods, and they stop at his door. He turns and takes her hands, “Remember me tomorrow?”
She hugs him, “I’ll remember you always.”
The penthouse is quiet, Arthur, whom I didn’t expect to like, but I do, is in bed. Claudia and Deacon are gone. Matteo has returned, unfortunately.
Sofie turns, motioning between us. “Okay. This needs to be addressed.”
I cross my arms and lean back against the wall.
“Don’t be AK,” she pouts, and I hate that I love it. “Be Aleks, right now.”
Fine.
Matteo steps forward. He looks uncomfortable, which is new. He holds out his hand, “I was wrong about you.”
I stare at his hand. He stared at mine once too, like it offended him that I existed.
Sofie sighs. “It’s midnight. You have a flight to catch. Shake his hand and accept his apology.”
“Is there a language preference?” I ask, and she throws her little hands in the air and brings them down, slapping her thighs.
“You said I would be broke, toothless, and irrelevant by thirty. That she’d spend her life paying for my mistakes and raising children that weren’t hers, because I couldn’t afford them.
” I push off the wall, step closer, and switch to French without effort.
“You worried about my career ending early? Perhaps you should worry about yours because you read me all wrong. Hell, you didn’t even know of me.
” I finally take his hand, one shake. “Apology accepted.”
After he leaves, she looks at me and jerks her thumb over her shoulder toward her room.
“I should stay,” she says. “I think tomorrow might be a big day.”
I nod slowly, watching her fidget. The way she does when she’s thinking three moves ahead and pretending she’s not. I shake my head slowly side to side.
“No?” she asks.
“If you’re asking whether I think you should leave,” I say, “the answer is no.”
“And if my father wakes up and—”
“He likes me,” I cut in. “So still no.”
“What if I don’t like you?” She pops her hip and plants a hand there, chin tipped up, daring me.
“I’m not fucking with this tonight,” I say, stepping toward her.
“Not fucking with whaaaaa—”
She squeals when I scoop her up and toss her over my shoulder.
“You’re such an asshole,” she laughs, breathless.
“Yes,” I say easily. “Most of the time. Which way to your room, Tsarina?”
“Left,” she says, still laughing.
I head that way, open the door, and kick it shut behind me.
“This place is fucking ridiculous,” I mutter, dropping her onto a bed that looks like a cloud. I step back, peel my shirt off, and glance around. “Is there even a TV?”
She doesn’t answer.
I turn back, and she’s pulling her shirt over her head, pale pink bra revealed as if she planned it that way. My jaw damn near hits the marble floor.
“What?” she asks.
“You,” I say, clearing my throat. “You’re…” I point at her.
“They’re boobs,” she says dryly. “I do, in fact, have them.”
She reaches behind her back, unhooks the clasp, and lets it slide off her shoulders. Her skin catches the light, and it looks like it’s been polished daily by someone whose job it is to make perfection look effortless.
“You’re too perfect,” I say, my voice rougher than I mean it to be.
“Is that why you haven’t tried anything?” she asks, stretching back against the bed, hair fanning out on her pillow like it’s been staged.
I shake my head, “You’re not a girl to bend over a bed and fuck, then leave unscathed.”
She unbuttons her jeans slowly, hooks her thumbs into the waistband, and starts sliding them down.
“I’d prefer our first time with us facing each other,” she says lightly. “But I’m not opposed to variety.” She lifts one foot, wiggling it. “Pull them off?”
“I leave for the road tomorrow,” I say. “I don’t want to fuck you and disappear for —”
“Well,” she says, calm as anything, “you’ll be back for three days after that. And honestly, I’m sick of waiting for you to make a move.”
I grab the fabric and tug one leg free, then the other.
“I want you, Tsarina,” I say. “But I planned to wait until we weren’t heading into a stretch where I can’t be here. I need you ready for what I want from you.”
She studies me. Serious now.
“So,” I say quietly, “you’re going to have to tell me exactly what you want.”
“I want you to be the first boy t—”
“I’m no boy,” I interrupt, unbuttoning my jeans and shoving them down.
“Huh.” Her head tilts. There’s that bratty twitch at the corner of her mouth.
“Choose your words wisely,” I warn.
Her eyes flick down, then snap back up to mine, wide and unapologetic.
“Well,” she says thoughtfully, “this is going to require some spatial planning.”
I laugh before I can stop myself, leaning over her, bracing my hands on either side of her head.
She reaches up, traces her fingers across my ribs, and stops below my heart, her knuckles resting there, close enough to feel the pulse.
“Careful, Tsarina,” I say, my mouth just above her ear. “You’re already in trouble.”
She closes her eyes for a fraction of a second, like she’s banking the sensation for later analysis, then opens them wide. “You’re so sure I’m the one who needs to be careful,” she says, her voice going velvet-soft. “Maybe I have plans.”
There’s a moment, suspended in the diamond light of her chandelier, where neither of us speaks. She’s the first to break it, softer now, “Do you have a plan?”
“Of course I have a plan,” I say, but there’s a tremor under the words—because the truth is, I don’t. Not with her. Every time I think I do, raw desire is replaced by something deeper inside of me than I ever knew existed.
She cups my jaw, tilts my head toward her, and for a second, I think she’ll say something else, maybe even tease me.
But she just looks at me with that wide-open, unguarded expression that’s so at odds with how she is in every other moment.
“And I don’t want to overthink it,” she says, softer than I’ve ever heard her.
Her bare foot glides along the inside of my thigh, her toes brushing against my skin, before she hooks her ankle behind my knee and pulls me closer. As I settle over her, I shift my weight carefully, ensuring I don't smother her delicate frame beneath mine.
She trembles against me, her chest rising and falling rapidly with each breath, anticipation and perhaps a little fear coursing through her veins.
My own body is buzzing with pent-up excitement as I fight the urge to hurry.
Instead, I want to etch each second of our first time into memory, not just for her, but for me as well.
As we lie there together, I stretch my arm above her head and clasp both of her wrists firmly within my hand, pressing them against the softness of the pillow. "Tell me what you want," I whisper into her ear.
She hesitates for a moment, her breath coming in short gasps as a flicker of panic appears in her eyes.
Then she finds her voice. "I want you to kiss me," she murmurs, and so I lean down to capture her lips within mine – tender at first, then increasing in intensity. She lifts her hips to meet my hand, the urgency in her movements a silent plea, the kind of need that’s louder than words.
"Touch me," she manages, and the vulnerability in her voice makes something in my chest clench. I don’t hesitate.
My fingers glide along the silky skin of her inner thighs — featherlight at first, then firmer, tracing invisible lines that map every curve, every inch of her as if I were memorizing her for an exam I could never afford to fail.
Her legs part, trembling, and the air between us heats to something nearly unbearable.
I let my hand hover at the place where her thigh meets her hip, teasing, waiting for her to look up at me with those desperate, pleading eyes.
When she does, it’s like flipping a switch.
I swallow the sound of my name on her lips as I finally touch her, slowly tracing the seam of her with two fingers, feeling the electric thrum that pulses there.
The sound she makes as I slip my hand between her legs—half gasp, half moan, almost animal—nearly undoes me.
I circle her with my thumb, gentle and unhurried, building the pressure until her breathing turns erratic, until her fingers claw at the sheets and her back bows off the bed.
I want to see how far she'll go before she breaks, but I also want her to know she's safe, anchored, so I press my forehead to hers and whisper, “Tsarina moya.” My queen.
Her hands tangle in my hair, nails grazing my scalp, and she arches toward me, her hips seeking friction, grinding hard against my palm.
“Please,” she rasps, almost inaudible. “Please, I want—”
The end of the sentence is lost to another shuddering gasp as I slip a finger inside her, then another, finding a rhythm that matches the racing of her heart against my chest. Already I can feel her tightening around me, her body curling in on itself, trying to keep me inside, desperate to prolong the sensation.
Her eyes flutter closed, lashes damp, mouth falling open as she pants my name over and over, and I realize she’s close, so fucking close, and I want to see her come apart.
But I want it to last. I slow my hand, drawing her back from the edge, and she whimpers—a sound of protest—but then I’m shifting lower, mouth following the trail my hand has marked out.
I kiss her breasts, slow and deliberate, sucking each nipple until they pebble hard against my tongue and she writhes beneath me.
I make sure to leave my mark down the slope of her sternum.
I want her to look in the mirror and see her, and me… us.
My lips trail down, over the soft plane of her belly, pausing to dip into the hollow above her navel, and I feel her tremble in anticipation, her whole body a live wire.
When I finally settle between her thighs, she’s already dripping, and I take a moment just to look at her, open and beautiful and utterly undone. I flatten my tongue against her, lick slowly from bottom to top, and she cries out, bucking her hips.
I let her ride my mouth, let her use me, tongue flicking and circling, teasing her clit while my fingers press deeper inside, curling just right to make her see stars. She’s so wet it coats my chin, and I lap it up greedily, savoring the taste of her, the slick and salt and sweetness.
She’s babbling now, senseless, and I love all of it. I can feel her tensing, bracing, and then she breaks—her whole body jerking as she comes, thighs clamped around my head, a sob tears from her throat as she pulses around my fingers.
I ride out her orgasm, only easing up when she goes limp, her chest heaving, glazed eyes staring up at the ceiling as if she’s just seen heaven and she’s not sure how to come back to earth.
I kiss the inside of her thigh, the top of her knee, and move up to hover above her, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand. Her cheeks are flushed, hair a wild halo against the pillow, and yes, it’s fucking perfect too. Maybe even more so.
“Fuck me," she gasps at last, her voice torn from somewhere deep and hungry inside her.
The words hit me like a jolt to the spine.
I hook my hands beneath her knees, drawing her legs up, higher, until her ankles rest on my shoulders, and the new angle makes her eyes go wide as I drag my throbbing cock against her gorgeous, soaked cunt, and then… my whole fucking world changes.
For a long minute, neither of us can speak. My vision is blurred; the world seems to tilt and settle. I run my palm down her thigh, feeling the aftershocks that make her shiver, and she takes a shaky breath, turning her face toward mine.
"Jesus," she whispers, and the laugh that bubbles up from her is half relief, half disbelief.
We stay like that, bodies pressed together, listening to the echo of rain on the windows and each other's breath, until I finally find my voice, hoarse and a little awed. “I am yours now, and you’re mine now, only mine.”