Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Katya
Charlotte’s question lingered in the air between us, delicate yet weighted, like the last note of a song that refuses to fade. I took a slow sip of my wine, stalling, pretending I needed to think when, in truth, I was simply surprised.
What was the etiquette for this? Discussing an ex-lover with someone I wanted to know—no, with someone I wanted, period.
It wasn’t as though I were embarrassed by my past, but with Charlotte, it felt different.
I’d spent years spilling my life onto stages, bleeding every ounce of my truth into lyrics, screaming my defiance into microphones.
But now, sitting in the gentle glow of her balcony, wrapped in the hush of the city beneath us, I hesitated.
Perhaps because I knew the chances of anything happening between us were impossibly slim.
She was an ambassador, a woman bound by diplomacy and restraint.
I was a fugitive in the eyes of my homeland, a relic of a deposed dynasty, a musician whose rebellion had led to exile.
Our lives were meant to run parallel, never intersect. And yet, here we were.
I exhaled, setting my glass down. “Irina,” I murmured, tasting her name on my tongue as if testing its weight. “We met in school, back in St. Petersburg.”
Charlotte’s posture remained poised, but I saw the flicker of curiosity in her eyes, the way she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. A hint, I thought, of someone who wanted to know more but wouldn’t push. I liked that about her—she never pushed.
“We were both musicians,” I continued. “Irina had this wild energy about her—restless, electric. She was the first person I met who made me feel… understood.”
The memory tugged at me, drawing me back to dimly lit rehearsal rooms, the scent of cigarette smoke curling through the air, Irina’s laughter ringing against the concrete walls. We’d been just girls then, full of fury and dreams, unafraid of anything except being seen for what we really were.
“It started as friendship,” I said, tracing the rim of my glass.
“Late-night talks about music and poetry, sneaking onto rooftops to drink cheap vodka, skipping class to spend hours in record stores. And then…” I let out a soft breath, my lips curling into something between a smirk and a grimace. “Then it became something else.”
Charlotte didn’t react outwardly, but I noticed the way her fingers tightened slightly around the stem of her wineglass.
“We were young,” I continued. “Still figuring out what we were. But in Russia, you don’t get much time to figure things out. You hide or you suffer.”
For a while, we’d hidden it well. Quick kisses in darkened stairwells, fingers brushing under school desks, stolen moments where we could pretend the world wasn’t waiting to crush us. It was thrilling. And terrifying. And unsustainable.
“The stress of keeping it a secret wore us down,” I admitted. “By the time we were nineteen, it felt less like love and more like survival.”
It had been Irina who’d ended it, her voice shaking but her decision firm.
I wanted to fight, to rage against the unfairness of it, but I’d seen the exhaustion in her eyes, the weight of what we carried between us.
And then, not long after, she started dating Sergei—our soon-to-be music producer.
A man with an amiable smile and expensive tastes, who spoke of revolution but lived comfortably in his privilege.
I hated him at first. Not because I wanted Irina back, but because it felt like a betrayal.
“And yet, we stayed friends,” I said, shaking my head at the absurdity of it. “We formed Crimson Silence with our producer, Sergei, and poured everything we had into our music. And somewhere along the way, I realized I’d never truly been in love with her.”
I glanced at Charlotte then, expecting—what? Judgment? Pity? But there was none of that. Just quiet understanding. And something else, something deeper, that I couldn’t name.
“It was never meant to last,” I murmured. “But I don’t regret it. She was a part of my life, my history. And I wouldn’t be who I am without her.”
For a long moment, Charlotte said nothing, and I wondered if I’d told her too much or not enough. But then she offered me a small, knowing smile, one that sent warmth curling through my chest.
“Thank you for telling me,” she said simply.
And just like that, the conversation shifted. But something between us had changed. I felt it in the air, in the way her gaze lingered a second longer than necessary, in the unspoken words that hummed beneath the surface. Something had shifted. And I wasn’t sure I wanted it to shift back.
Charlotte set her glass down, her fingers grazing mine as she did. The contact was brief, but it sent a current through me, sharp and undeniable. I should have pulled away, should have let the moment pass. But I didn’t.
Her eyes held mine, searching, questioning. Then she leaned in.
I met her halfway, my lips pressing against hers in a kiss that was both hesitant and desperate all at once.
A rush of heat spread through me as I felt her respond, her fingers threading through my hair, pulling me closer.
My hands found her waist, the silk of her dress cool beneath my touch, a stark contrast to the fire building between us.
She sighed against my mouth, parting her lips just enough for me to taste the wine on her tongue. She was intoxicating.
We stood up, then stumbled backward, barely making it inside before she pressed me against the closed balcony door.
The city lights framed her like something ethereal, but there was nothing untouchable about her now.
Her hands roamed, fingers tracing the curve of my back, the dip of my waist, learning me as I learned her.
I gasped as her lips trailed down my jaw, then my neck, igniting something deep and uncontrollable within me. My head tilted back, granting her access, and I felt her smile against my skin before she bit down softly, sending a delicious shiver through my body.
“I shouldn’t be doing this,” she murmured, though her hands contradicted her words, pulling me impossibly closer.
“Then stop,” I challenged, my voice husky, daring her.
She didn’t.
Charlotte’s fingers were hot and urgent as they wrapped around mine, pulling me towards her bedroom like she owned me—and maybe she did. The anticipation was electric, sparking between us as her door clicked shut, sealing us in a world where nothing else mattered.
“I’ve never felt so overwhelmed by a woman before,” Charlotte breathed.
She dropped her gown; it hit the floor in a cascade of silk, pooling around her ankles and revealing skin so flawless it could have been carved from the purest marble.
My gown followed with a whisper, and the air between us was heavy with the scent of our arousal, thick and sweet like honey soaked in sin.
Charlotte pushed me onto the bed, and I sank into the soft mattress.
Her mouth descended on my nipple, her tongue flicking and swirling with a skill that made my back arch off the bed.
A moan tore from my throat, low and guttural, a sound I didn’t even know I could make.
Her lips were relentless, sucking, biting, teasing, and I was already unraveling, my body begging for more.
But Charlotte wasn’t done. Oh no, she was just getting started. Her kisses trailed down my stomach, each one driving me closer to the edge. Her tongue dipped into my navel, and I shivered, my thighs trembling as she settled between them.
Charlotte’s breath was hot against my clit, and when her tongue finally touched me, it was like lightning—sharp, searing, and dangerous.
She licked me slow at first, savoring every drop of my wetness, then faster, harder.
Her fingers slid inside me with a precision that made my hips buck.
She curled them just right, hitting that sweet spot over and over until I was moaning like an insatiable whore, my orgasm crashing through me like a tidal wave.
“Gde ty nauchilsya etomu?” I muttered, then repeated it in English. “Where did you learn how to do that?”
Charlotte moved up my body and smiled. “You inspired me.”
I grabbed her shoulders, flipping her onto her back with a growl that would’ve made a lesser woman tremble.
Her pussy glistened, wet and ready, and I couldn’t wait another second.
I buried my face between her thighs, my tongue lapping at her folds like I was starving.
She tasted like heaven, pure and addictive, and I couldn’t get enough.
My fingers dipped inside as I used my tongue on her clit.
A few moments later, she was gasping, her pussy grinding against my mouth like she was trying to fuse us together.
“Oh God,” Charlotte groaned, then Charlotte’s thighs clamped around my head, her orgasm shaking her entire body.
She screamed my name, her nails digging into my shoulders, and I didn’t stop—couldn’t stop—until she was trembling, spent and satisfied.
She collapsed back onto the bed, her chest heaving, her skin slick with sweat.
I wrapped my arms around her as Charlotte’s breathing slowed. “I wish I could stay the night, but my guard is downstairs, and…”
“Jesus,” Charlotte muttered. “For a little while I forgot about, well, why you’re here in America. If the Secretary of State finds out about this, I’m…”
“Is he your boss?” I asked. “I thought it was the President.”
“They both are,” Charlotte grimaced. “I hate to say this, but we need to keep this, whatever we have between us, a secret. If the government discovered this, my career would be ruined.”
Inwardly, I bristled at Charlotte’s words.
Secret.
The very notion scraped against my soul like fingernails on concrete.
I’d spent years hiding in Russia—my desires all shrouded in metaphor and shadow.
I’d fled that life, crossed oceans and borders, sacrificed everything I knew to finally stand in my truth.
And now, here was this woman, this stunning woman with her government clearances, asking me to step back into darkness.
Yet as I watched Charlotte there, sprawled across white sheets that caught the city lights filtering through her curtains, I couldn’t deny the pull she had on me.
Her chest still rose and fell with the aftershocks of pleasure, a thin sheen of sweat making her skin luminous.
Her eyes, heavy-lidded but alert, followed my movements as I slid from the bed.
“I understand,” I said finally, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. But did I? Did I truly want to be someone’s secret again?
I retrieved my underwear from where it had been flung in our frenzy. Charlotte propped herself up on her elbows, watching me dress with an intensity that made me feel oddly exposed.
“Katya,” she murmured, my name sounding different in her mouth—softer, almost reverent. “It’s not forever. Just until—”
“Until what?” I interrupted, reaching for my gown. “Until your government decides I’m not a liability? Until the political climate changes? Or when you finally decide to be open about yourself to the world?”
Charlotte sat up fully now, clutching the sheet to her chest in a sudden display of modesty that struck me as absurd after what we’d just done. “That’s not fair.”
“No,” I agreed, sliding my arms through the sleeves of my dress. “It’s not fair. None of this is fair.”
I struggled with the zipper at the back of my gown, and before I could protest, Charlotte was there, her warm fingers brushing against my spine as she helped me. The gesture was intimate, and it sent a pang of longing through me so acute it was almost painful.
“I defected because I wanted to be free,” I breathed as she zipped me up. “Free to make music without censorship. Free to love without fear. And now you’re asking me to hide again.”
Charlotte’s hands lingered at the nape of my neck, her touch so gentle I could barely feel it. “I’m not asking you to hide who you are, Katya. Just... this. Us. For now.”
I turned to face her, taking in the vulnerability in her eyes, the way her lower lip trembled slightly. Despite my anger, I leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of her nose.
“If I keep this secret, can we keep seeing each other?”