Chapter Thirteen
Juliet
Today moved slower than a DMV line in hell. Work numbed my soul.
I forgot the fucking notebook. Poor thing just sitting there with a plate number. A plate number I still need to run.
Tomorrow.
I’ll do it tomorrow.
I’ll deal with Mr. Mall Lurker.
Tonight belongs to Vitaly.
The clock finally taps out, surrendering me to something worthwhile.
Vitaly is picking me up at the office.
Sweet man.
Said it was because it’s between his place and the restaurant.
I know it’s because he doesn’t want that bitch to know where I live.
I’m wearing the sundress.
The innocent white one with tiny daisies that screams, ‘I volunteer at the library and have never had a single impure thought.’
The one I picked while making eye contact with Mr. Who the Hell Are You.
I’ve paired it with heels that are just high enough to make him question my innocence.
Vitaly’s already in the lot when I walk out.
Sitting behind the wheel like he rehearsed this pickup twice and still worried he’d screw it up.
His eyes still go black when he sees me.
Good.
Mission already half-accomplished.
“Juliet,” he says.
Fuck. I need to hear that moaned against my mouth.
He opens the car door like a gentleman.
I slide in and immediately imagine zip-tying his wrists to the headrest and riding him until the windows fog so bad the GPS gives up.
I smile, small and shy. “Thank you.”
God, he smells edible.
I want to lick his throat and then watch him try to explain the hickey to Mrs. Patel.
He’s nervous. It’s adorable.
Fingers drumming the steering wheel.
Stealing glances like I’m made of spun sugar and might float away.
If only he knew I’ve already bookmarked the security-camera blind spot behind this restaurant and calculated how many minutes we’d have before the valet notices the rocking car.
We’re seated outside.
Fairy lights. Jazz trio.
Some couple at the next table is celebrating an anniversary with dessert forks and soft kisses.
I want to vault the table, shove Vitaly against the brick wall, and find out if he makes that little caught breath when I bite his collarbone.
Instead, I fold my hands in my lap and let my eyelashes flutter. “So… tell me something I don’t know about you.”
He laughs, shy. “You don’t want to know about me.”
Oh, sweet summer child.
I know the brand of coffee you buy.
The exact time you jerk off on Thursdays.
That you sleep in boxer briefs and nothing else.
Because I watch the camera feeds.
I tilt my head, all wide-eyed curiosity. “I do. What makes Vitaly happy?”
He starts talking. About growing up with his mother and grandmother, learning to cook pelmeni.
His voice is soft, accented, careful.
I nod in all the right places while my brain plays a highlight reel of spreading him out on his kitchen counter and eating pelmeni off his abs with my tongue.
The waiter brings wine.
Vitaly tastes it. Approves it.
I almost moan because watching his throat work when he swallows is foreplay I didn’t consent to but will absolutely be replaying later.
I sip my own.
Let my foot accidentally brush his calf under the table.
His eyes snap to mine.
I give him the tiniest smile.
Let me ruin you.
“Tell me more,” I say.
He talks about childhood winters, his mother’s hands dusted with flour, his grandmother humming old folk songs while pinching dumpling edges.
His voice goes distant. Warm. Aching.
And for just a second, I’m not performing.
I’m just... listening.
Really listening.
Because this is why he’s mine.
Not just the body. Not just the accent.
But this.
The softness underneath all that fear.
The way he carries his grandmother in every fold of dough.
The way he makes beauty from grief.
I want to protect that.
It makes me want to wrap him in a blanket and also ruin his entire life.
“You’re very quiet tonight,” he says, voice low. “Everything okay?”
What flour will scent my skin when he eventually drags me over the prep table?
“Perfect,” I answer, sweet as the crème br?lée I’m going to smear across his chest if the universe is kind. “I just like listening to you.”
He blushes. Actually blushes.
I want to crawl under the table and show him exactly how much I like every part of him.
Dessert arrives.
Tiramisu to share. One spoon.
I take the first bite.
Close my eyes.
Make the soft little happy noise I practiced in the mirror this morning.
When I open them, he’s staring like I just stripped naked.
“Vitaly,” I say softly, leaning in. “Do you believe in love at first sight… or should I walk by again?”
He laughs, startled and delighted.
I want to bottle that sound and get high on it later while I add today’s stolen fork to my shrine.
The check comes. He pays.
As we stand, I let my fingers brush his.
His sharp inhale is better than any drug.
In the car on the way back, he’s quiet again, knuckles bone-white on the wheel like he’s trying to choke the steering column into submission.
I slide my hand onto his thigh.
High enough that the heat of my palm brands him through his slacks.
Low enough that he can still pretend this is innocent.
His muscle locks under my touch. Granite.
This is the kind of tension that ends with teeth marks and apologies neither of us will mean.
He parks beside my car, engine still growling like it knows what’s coming and refuses to leave us unsupervised.
“Thank you,” I whisper, soft and sugary.
He turns. Really looks at me.
That look. The one that says I’m about to throw every good intention I have into the fucking ocean for you.
I unbuckle slowly.
Let the seatbelt slither across my chest, dragging the fabric of my sundress tight for one deliberate second.
His gaze drops to my breasts, snaps back up, guilty and starving.
“Juliet…” My name cracks in his throat.
I lean in.
Just a fraction.
Just enough that the air between us thickens, turns humid.
His breath stutters against my lips.
“Can I… take you out again?”
Poor darling.
I want to bite that question off his tongue and swallow it whole.
“Yes,” I breathe, so close the word brushes his mouth.
His hand lifts. Slow. Shaking. Cups my cheek like I’m made of glass and dynamite.
Warm. Careful.
His thumb strokes once, twice, tracing the edge of my lip.
“Juliet,” he says again, rougher, like tasting me is inevitable.
It is.
I’ve waited long enough.
I close the last inch.
Our lips meet soft.
Then not soft at all.
He kisses like a man who’s been starving in secret: careful at first, lips barely parted, asking permission he’s terrified I’ll revoke.
I don’t revoke.
I open for him.
The second my tongue touches his, something inside him snaps.
A low sound rumbles out of his chest.
Surprised. Helpless.
Then he’s kissing me like he’ll die if he doesn’t get deeper.
His hand slides from my cheek to the back of my neck, fingers tunneling into my hair, gripping just hard enough to tilt my head exactly where he wants it.
I let him think he’s in control for three whole seconds.
Then I suck his bottom lip, bite down gentle but sharp.
He groans into my mouth.
Raw, shocked, perfect.
His free hand finds my waist, yanks me closer over the console.
I taste coffee and restraint and the faintest hint of desperation.
I could crawl into his lap right now.
Could grind down until he forgets his own name.
Could mark him so thoroughly he’d have to wear a turtleneck in July.
Instead I pull back. Just enough that he chases, lips searching for mine like I stole his oxygen.
His eyes open, black and wrecked.
“I,” he starts, voice shredded.
“Vitaly,” I whisper, tracing his wet lower lip with my thumb. “Goodnight.”
I slip out of the car before he recovers the power of speech.
My legs are shaking.
My panties are a lost cause.
Behind me the engine roars, idles, roars again.
Like he’s trying to fuck the gas pedal into submission.
He sits there a full minute after I’m in my own car.
Watching me in the rearview.
Breathing hard.
Hooked.
Reeling.
Utterly, beautifully fucked.
Let the slow burn turn into an inferno.