Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Vittoria
The Grand Theatre looks abandoned when I step out of the SUV.
I glance back at Elio. "Stay here."
Elio's eyes say that he is not so sure, but he doesn't follow.
The Bratva guard holds the door open, and I step inside.
Silence.
The kind of silence that makes your skin prickle. No projector hum, no distant chatter, no background music pumped through invisible speakers. Just my heels clicking against worn carpet.
I pass the concession stand. Empty.
The ticket booth. Dark.
The lobby with its art deco fixtures and vintage movie posters. Not a soul.
Did he buy out the entire theater?
Room 1 sits at the end of a narrow hallway lined with framed photos of Hollywood's golden age. Garbo. Bogart. Dietrich staring down at me with those heavy-lidded eyes like she knows exactly what kind of mess I'm walking into.
Yeah, Marlene. I know. Bad decisions are kind of my thing lately.
I push open the door.
The theater stretches before me—rows and rows of red velvet seats cascading down toward a massive screen that dominates the far wall. And there, standing at the bottom like he owns the place (which, knowing him, he probably does now), is Dmitri.
Behind him, a small platform rises from the floor. A single chair sits on top of it, positioned like a throne.
Or a witness stand.
What the hell is this?
Dmitri's smile cuts through the dim lighting as I start down the aisle.
"You came," he says when I'm close enough to catch the cedar and smoke scent of him.
"You sent me handcuffs." I stop three feet away, crossing my arms. "Hard to ignore that kind of invitation."
His eyes drop to my wrists. "You're not wearing them."
"I'm not a complete idiot."
"Debatable." But he's still smiling, and something warm unfurls in my chest despite my best efforts to keep it contained.
I gesture at the empty theater around us. "Did you seriously rent out this entire place?"
"Rent implies temporary." Dmitri slides his hands into his pockets, the casual gesture at odds with the sharp lines of his black suit. "I bought it."
He bought it.
"You bought a historic Chicago theater for a date?"
"I bought a historic Chicago theater because you said you wanted to go." He shrugs like this is normal. Like people just purchase landmark buildings on a whim.
"Dmitri..." I don't know what to say. This is insane. He's insane. "This is too much."
"Nothing is too much for you." The words land between us, simple and devastating.
My pulse thrums against my throat. The velvet seats seem to lean in around us, witnesses to whatever this is becoming.
"Your father," I manage. "How is he?"
The softness in Dmitri's expression hardens, just slightly. "The same. Worse." A pause. "He asked about you this morning."
"About me?"
"I told him I was marrying the smartest woman in Chicago." His mouth quirks.
Before I can respond, his hands are on me.
One arm wraps around my waist, pulling me flush against his chest. The other cups the back of my head, fingers threading through my hair. I barely have time to gasp before his mouth crashes into mine.
His tongue slides past my lips and I moan into his mouth. His fingers tighten in my hair, tilting my head exactly where he wants it.
God.
When he finally pulls back, I'm panting. My lips feel swollen. My entire body hums like a live wire.
Dmitri doesn't say a word.
He just turns, walks to the front row, and sits down in one of the velvet seats. Legs spread. Arms relaxed. Those eyes fixed on me like I'm the only thing worth watching.
I stare at him, still trying to catch my breath.
"Take off your clothes."
The words hit me like ice water.
"What?" I laugh because surely I misheard him. "You're joking."
"I don't joke." His expression doesn't change. Not even a flicker of amusement.
Oh.
He's serious.
"Dmitri, I'm not—" I gesture vaguely at the empty theater around us. "We're in public."
"We're alone." He tilts his head, studying me. "Take them off."
"No." I cross my arms over my chest. "Absolutely not."
"If you don't do it yourself," he says, "I'll do it for you. And then you'll have to go home naked."
Heat floods my core so fast it makes me dizzy.
That shouldn't turn me on. That absolutely should not turn me on.
But my thighs press together anyway, betraying me.
Dmitri notices. Of course he notices. A ghost of a smile curves his lips as he lifts his arms and rests his hands behind his head. The picture of casual arrogance. Like he has all the time in the world.
Like he knows I'll give in.
Bastard.
My fingers find the zipper at my side before my brain catches up. The sound of it sliding down echoes in the silent theater.
What am I doing?
I don't stop.
The dress pools at my feet. I step out of it, standing in nothing but my black lace bra, matching underwear, and four-inch heels.
"Keep the heels on." Dmitri's voice has dropped an octave. Rougher now.
The air feels electric against my bare skin. I can feel his gaze tracking every inch of me, cataloging, devouring.
Then I see it.
His hand moves to his lap, pressing against the obvious bulge straining his pants. He doesn't try to hide it. Just strokes himself through the fabric, while watching me stand half-naked before him.
"The rest." His thumb traces his length. "Take it off."
My hands shake as I reach behind my back and unclasp my bra. It falls away, and the cool theater air tightens my nipples instantly.
Dmitri makes a sound low in his throat. Almost a growl.
I hook my thumbs in my underwear and pause, meeting his eyes.
I slide the lace down my thighs and step out of it.
Now I'm standing in nothing but my heels, completely bare, while Dmitri Baganov watches me from his velvet throne and strokes his cock through his pants.
Dmitri
My cock strains against my pants as I stroke myself. Watching her standing there, stripped bare except for those heels, is the most exquisite torture I've ever experienced.
"Bozhe moy," I breathe, my hand moving in slow, deliberate strokes. "Do you have any idea what you look like right now?"
She shivers but doesn't cover herself. Good girl.
"Your skin..." I let my gaze travel from her face down to her breasts, peaked from the cold air of the empty theatre. "And those curves—" My voice goes rough as I take in the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips. "Made for my hands."
My grip tightens on myself. If I keep this up, I'll come in my pants. That's what she does to me.
I force myself to stop stroking, my breathing ragged. Standing from the velvet seat, I close the distance between us. Each step echoes in the empty theatre like a heartbeat.
She watches me approach, her chest rising and falling faster now. But she doesn't step back. Doesn't try to cover herself. My little sun has a spine of steel beneath all that soft skin.
I stop close enough to feel the heat radiating from her body.
"Turn around."
She hesitates for just a second. Then she turns, giving me her back. The curve of her spine, the dimples just above her ass. I bite back a groan.
"The cuffs," I say, my voice barely controlled. "Where are they?"
"My purse." She gestures toward where she dropped it near the first row of seats. "Inside pocket."
I retrieve the rose gold handcuffs. When I return to her, I let my fingers trail across her shoulder blade. She shivers.
"Walk to the platform."
Vittoria moves toward the stage, her heels clicking against the worn wooden floor. The spotlight I arranged earlier catches her as she steps onto the platform, bathing her in golden light. Like she belongs there. Like she was made to be displayed for me.
A single chair sits center stage. Antique. Red velvet cushion. I had Igor bring it from a dealer who owed us money. Cost me nothing but a forgiven debt.
"Sit."
Vittoria lowers herself onto the chair, her back straight, her chin lifted. Even naked, even following my commands, she looks like a queen on a throne.
I climb the three steps to the stage, the handcuffs dangling from my fingers. The metal catches the spotlight, glinting like a promise.
Kneeling before her feels right. Like worship. Like prayer.
I take her wrists in my hands.
"These hands," I murmur, pressing my lips to her pulse point. Her heartbeat races against my mouth. "These hands that build security systems and type code and could probably bring down governments if you wanted."
I close the first cuff around her left wrist. The click echoes through the empty theatre.
"I'm going to own them tonight."
The second cuff closes around her right wrist. She's bound now, her hands together in front of her like she's praying. The rose gold looks beautiful against her skin.
"Dmitri." My name on her lips is barely a whisper.
I look up at her face, my hands still cradling her bound wrists. Her eyes are wide, pupils blown. Her lips parted. She's not afraid. She's hungry.
I reach into my jacket pocket, my fingers closing around velvet. The red ribbon I brought slides free.
Vittoria's eyes track the movement.
"Open your legs."
Her breath catches. For a moment, I think she'll refuse. Challenge me.
But she doesn't.
Slowly, her thighs part. The chair is wide enough, the arms curved and ornate. Perfect for what I have planned.
I kneel at her feet.
I wrap the velvet ribbon around her left ankle. She shivers. I tie it to the carved leg of the chair, testing the knot. Secure but not painful.
"Dmitri—"
"Quiet."
I move to her right ankle. Same ribbon. When I'm done, she's spread open for me. Bound at the wrists, tied at the ankles, completely exposed under the golden spotlight.
She's perfect.
I look up at her face. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips swollen from biting them.
I stand slowly. Leaning down, I cup her face in my hands. I press my lips to hers.
When I pull back, her eyes flutter open.
"You're my queen," I tell her. "You know this, yes? Since the moment I saw you at that gala, running from me like I was something dangerous."
"You are something dangerous."
I smile. "Yes. But I'm your dangerous something now." I brush my thumb across her lower lip. "And queens deserve worship, solnyshko. They deserve to be shown proper respect."
I drop to my knees again. This time, I don't go at her ankles.
I press my mouth to the inside of her thigh. Her muscles clench beneath my lips. I can smell her now—sweet. My cock throbs painfully against my zipper, but I ignore it. This isn't about me.
This is about making her understand what she is to me.
I drag my tongue higher. Her hips jerk against the restraints.
"Stay still," I command against her skin.
"I can't—"
"You can. You will."
I reach the apex of her thighs and pause. Just breathe against her. Let her feel my breath on her pussy, wet and swollen and waiting.
Then I lick.
One long, slow stroke from her entrance to her clit.
"Dmitri—" Her voice breaks on my name.
I do it again. And again. Slow strokes that make her thighs shake. Her bound hands come down to grip my hair.
"Fuck," she gasps. "Oh fuck—"
I seal my mouth around her clit and suck. She cries out, the sound echoing through the empty theatre. Bouncing off the walls. Filling the space where audiences once sat and watched performances.
This is a performance. My worship of her. My devotion made physical.
I reach up with one hand and cup her breast. The weight of it fills my palm perfectly. I roll her nipple between my fingers, tugging gently, and feel her pussy clench against my tongue.
She's close. I can feel it in the way her thighs tremble. In the desperate sounds she's making. In the way her fingers tighten in my hair like she's trying to hold herself to the earth.
I pull back just enough to speak against her swollen flesh. "You taste like everything I've ever wanted, solnyshko."
"Don't stop—" She's begging now. My queen, begging me. "Please, Dmitri, don't—"
I push my tongue inside her. She screams.
My thumb finds her clit, circling in time with the thrust of my tongue. My other hand keeps working her breast, pinching and rolling until she's writhing against the restraints. The chair creaks. The velvet ribbons strain.
She's completely at my mercy. Bound and spread and desperate.
I worship her with my mouth until her thighs clamp around my head. Until her back arches off the chair. Until she comes apart on my tongue, screaming my name into the empty theatre like a prayer.