Chapter Twelve
Catalina
Alexei’s house is massive; a huge Victorian on a sunny, tree-lined street only a few minutes outside of downtown Minneapolis. The house is set back from the road, with a sprawling lawn and several huge trees in the yard that make it feel more private than it is.
I expected something ultra-modern, I think, so I’m surprised when he pulls his Range Rover into the garage of house like this one. “You live here?” I ask as I open the door and step out.
“Temporarily,” Alexei says with a shrug. “Until I find something I like better. This is rental.”
Oh. He’s been spending so much time with me when he’s not working that he might not have had the time, yet, to go house-hunting. Still, the rental is—really nice. Tidy enough that I wonder if it comes with a daily cleaning service, or if Alexei is just fastidious.
There’s a cozy living room wreathed in windows, and I swallow a laugh at the excessive number of throw pillows filling the couch that sits before the massive TV.
If he hadn’t told me this house was a rental, I think I would have known the instant I saw them.
I really don’t think Alexei is a throw pillow kind of guy.
Somewhere behind me, there’s the sound of a fridge opening. “Wine, koshechka?” Alexei asks from the kitchen.
“That’s okay. I really only like sweet wine.” And he’s very much not a sweet wine drinker. Even if he managed a glass at that first dinner date, I know he doesn’t like it himself.
The soft pop of a cork. “I have your sweet wine. You will like.”
“But you don’t drink it.” I wander back toward the kitchen and watch as he plucks a glass from a high cabinet and pours from a chilled bottle of moscato.
“No,” he says with a shrug. “But you do. So I buy a few bottles and hope one day you will come drink them with me.” His lips quirk into that wolfish half-smile. “Unless instead you want to drink vodka with me.”
My nose crinkles in distaste. It’s not like I’ve never had a mixed drink before—there have been rare occasions—but even the fruit juice in those drinks could hardly mask the bitter burn of the vodka. “I don’t care for it much,” I say.
“This is because you have had only American vodka,” he returns. “Maybe over dinner you try Russian vodka.”
“I don’t know,” I say, and I take the glass Alexei hands over to me. “I really can’t afford to get drunk.” I have work tomorrow, and being hungover at the coffee shop where every smell is already intense doesn’t exactly sound like my idea of fun.
My hand freezes halfway to my lips, still some inches from that first sip of sweet wine.
Shit. I have work tomorrow—and I don’t have a change of clothes.
I’ll have to catch the very first train tomorrow all the way back to my motel and, if I’m lucky, I’ll have about five minutes to shower before I’ll have to head back out to work.
Unless.
With one hand, I fish in my purse for my phone, pull up my text messages, and type: Darren, I’m calling in horny.
Seconds later, my phone chirps in my hand as a new text arrives. No words; just several party-hat emojis followed by about half a dozen eggplants. I’m pretty sure that’s permission.
“Okay,” I say as I take a sip of my wine. It’s good. Cold and sweet. I can’t remember the last time someone made any concessions to my tastes, or bought something for me on impulse just in case I wanted it. “Maybe I’ll try vodka.”
∞∞∞
I wish I had dressed nicer. I’m well aware that the hems of my jeans are ratty and ragged.
I do a lot of walking, and these were made for comfort, not fashion.
Alexei wears jeans, too, but they’re dark and clearly expensive.
Even his casual clothes are expensive. No obvious brands or logos, which means either ultra high-end or maybe even bespoke.
There’s a gold watch peeking out from beneath the sleeve of his jacket.
Probably it cost more than his car. He can afford an extravagant car, a watch that’s probably worth more than my life, and to rent this house that is clearly entirely too big for one person living on his own.
I’m not even certain if my bra matches my underwear.
I drink that thought down with another sip of wine, and another.
With a face like his and that accent besides, Alexei could probably walk into any bar in the city and walk out ten minutes later with any woman he pleased.
There are prettier women, wealthier women.
Women who are more his speed all around.
I’m sure his time is valuable, and he didn’t have to spend it on me.
He didn’t have to walk me to train stations, or take me sightseeing, or buy me sweet wine just in case I ever decided to come over to his place.
But he did do those things. So whether or not my underwear match, whether or not the elastic might be perilously close to giving out, is probably not high on his list of concerns.
Alexei shrugs of out his leather jacket and hangs it on the back of a chair at the kitchen bar.
It’s been hot in Minneapolis lately, but I’ve never seen him without it.
His t-shirt is white, scrupulously clean, and devoid of wrinkles.
A thin silver chain hangs around his neck, pendant obscured beneath the neckline of his shirt.
His arms are covered in tattoos. Some old, the black ink faded to a blurred blue-grey. Some newer, though well past healed. I wonder if there’s some meaning to them, if they mark important events in his life. If he’ll tell me why he got them.
I wonder if he’s got any tattoos I can’t see.
Alexei kicks off his shoes and peels away his socks as he crosses to the couch, leaving them carelessly discarded on the floor.
With a swipe of his arm, he shoves half the frilly throw pillows off onto the floor and reclines in the newly-vacant space.
“Come, Katya,” he calls to me over his shoulder, and thumps his chest with his fist in that way I’ve decided sounds like a summons. “Bring your wine.”
I always obey. Maybe because it doesn’t feel as much like a demand as it should. Maybe because it’s always followed by his arms around me, his hands sliding beneath my clothes. His lips on mine or elsewhere. A sort of affection I think I’m growing addicted to.
Now, he pats his knee as I meander toward him.
My heart trips through a few frenzied beats as my fingers curl tighter around the stem of my glass.
“Come sit, koshechka,” he says, and I feel a little silly about it, but I sit.
Perched on his knee, my spine straight, feet flat on the floor, legs angled between the man-spready splay of his.
His left hand finds the small of my back, slipping beneath the hem of my t-shirt so his fingers can stroke my skin. It’s such a smooth, practiced motion—but I like the heat of his hands. I like that he takes any available opportunity available to touch me, like he can’t help himself.
With his right hand, he tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “Hard day, Katya?” he asks as his fingers curl around my nape.
I shake my head slowly. “No, not really.” My feet ache a little, but they always do after a long day spent standing. My shoulders rise and fall in a helpless shrug. “I guess I just—I keep thinking about that guy on the train.”
“He frightens you?”
“No—” I hesitate. “Yes,” I say sheepishly. “A little.” Probably I’m just overly sensitive. “I’m not even sure he’s been watching me. I just can’t help thinking about it, about how—how he’s always there.”
Alexei smiles that glinting, predatory smile. “You want me to frighten him?”
“No.” Exasperated, I push his shoulder with one hand in admonition, because I’m not entirely sure he wouldn’t do it. “You can’t go around just—just threatening people.”
“Katya,” he says, and lifts his hand from my neck to scrape the grin off of his face. “I can do anything I want.”
It’s not overconfidence. I really, genuinely think he believes that.
That hand on the small of my back slides up my spine. “Finish your wine,” he says. “I want to kiss you.”
I want that, too. Another icy swallow of my sweet wine as his fingers meander up my spine beneath my shirt. There’s a little pinch, the subtle tightening in the elastic of my bra before it loosens altogether. I cough through another long drink. “Did you just unhook my bra?”
“Da.” This shameless man! “Is not hard.” He lifts his chin, indicating my glass. “Finish, Katya.”
The hot splay of his hand between my shoulder blades is all the encouragement I need. I finish the wine in three swallows. My hand trembles as I cast my head about, looking for a table. “Where do I put this?”
“Drop it. I don’t care.”
I hear the glass fall to the carpeted floor with a dull thunk as Alexei shifts beneath me, toppling me back onto the couch. My shoulders land in the remaining mountain of throw pillows he failed to sweep off.
My head spins. It can’t be the wine. Not yet.
Maybe it’s just those hands that slide up my belly, peeling my t-shirt off over my head and my bra along with it.
“Ah, koshechka,” he says in that low, rumbly purr of a voice.
“You keep this hidden from me?” He palms my breast, and the sensation sears my skin, makes me gasp.
“Alexei,” I sigh. His knee is between my legs, pressing the seam of my jeans against my pussy.
“Alyosha,” he says against the delicate skin in the valley between my breasts. “Now, koshechka, you call me Alyosha.”
“Alyosha.” A nickname. Like Katya. I like it.
It sounds softer, somehow. Sweeter. Like a kind of affection only I’m allowed to use with him.
My fingers graze his hair, and the cool, soft strands slide through them as my nails rasp his scalp.
He makes a satisfied sound deep in his throat as he slips one hand beneath my neck, pulling me up.
His mouth slants over mine in that devouring kiss that scrambles my senses, and I sink back into the pillows as his weight bears me down. I love the sweep of his fingers across my skin, the possessive clutch of them around the back of my neck.
Too soon his lips break from mine, coasting across my cheek and down my throat to that place he loves to bite which makes my toes curl.
His tongue tastes my skin in a slow, wet lap; his teeth scrape across my pulse.
I know in the morning there’ll be another new mark there that I’ll have to figure out a way to hide. But I like knowing they’re there.
His stubble abrades my skin as he draws his mouth down my throat, to the swell of my breast. His hand slips down my belly, fingers toying lazily with the button of my jeans.
An odd, strained noise warbles in my throat as his tongue curls around my nipple and every nerve of my body comes to life, sizzling with awareness.
“The sounds you make, Katya,” he rumbles against my breast, and the waistband of my jeans loosens.
In that same deft, dexterous manner that my bra fell victim to his clever fingers, he’s somehow managed to slide my jeans over my hips until they’re wedged down around my thighs, trapped by the pressure of his knee between my legs.
It’s not a lot of room to maneuver, but if there’s even a sliver of an opening, I know already that Alexei will find it.
And he does, his fingers sliding effortlessly beneath the tight elastic leg of my panties to slip between my thighs.
The pressure of his knee between my legs deepens, forcing them wider as he strokes my pussy, fingertips sliding easily in my wetness.
My fingernails prick his shoulders as my hips lift into that intimate touch. I hear myself make an embarrassing sound; weak and needy. His answering growl shivers over my skin as his teeth pinch my nipple, the sensation just this side of painful.
My skin feels fever-hot. Arousal is a sharp ache in my belly, an itch in desperate need of scratching. I need to move, to satisfy the electric jolts that pull at my muscles, but the weight of his chest keeps me pinned.
One long, thick finger slides inside me and my back arches as a ragged, wild sound claws at my throat. My eyes flash open, the bright overhead lights burning my eyes. It’s not the light that gives me pause.
It’s the windows. The massive windows with their curtains thrown open. Where anybody could see in. In the fading light, I can’t tell the difference between what might be shadows cast by the setting sun and what might be the movement of some unknown figure lurking outside, peering in.
A shiver climbs up my spine. Anxiety ties a knot in my chest. My fingernails dig into his shoulders, harder than I intended. “Alexei,” I whisper as my shoulders pinch tight with distress.
“Alyosha.” The gruff correction is delivered with a sharp graze of his teeth on my nipple, and my toes curl.
“Alyosha,” I squeak. “The windows…” I hear the rake of my nails across the fabric of his shirt. “Not here. Please.” Not where anyone can see in. Not where I don’t know who might be watching. Who might be waiting.
With a menacing sound that comes from somewhere deep in his chest, he lifts his head at last, and his weight over me eases as he braces one hand on the couch.
His green eyes burn into mine, hungry, avaricious.
And his finger thrusts deeper inside me; a sharp, punishing plunge.
It doesn’t hurt. It does make my thighs clamp together around his knee, make my blood pound in my veins.
“I would kill anyone who dared to see you like this.” His voice is thick, guttural. His finger withdraws; his whole hand palms my pussy and the heel of it presses my clit and sends a vicious pulse of pleasure skittering along every nerve. “This is only for me.”
I’m so close to coming, but fear swells over arousal. “Please,” I whimper, even as my hips buck into the pressure of his hand. “Please.”
He gives an abbreviated sigh, displeased to have been interrupted by something he considers beneath his notice.
A muscle twitches in his jaw. Once more he grips me, as if to impress his ownership upon me.
“Okay, koshechka,” he says, in a sulky, faintly resentful tone as his fingers withdraw at last.
I shouldn’t be so grateful for the concession, I don’t think. But I am—I think because he makes it despite himself, placing my wishes over his own.
Sort of. I breathe a sigh of relief as he shoves himself off the couch, and I can suck in a lungful of air at last. That sigh turns into a short shriek as he grasps the cuffs of my jeans and yanks them off of me with such force that it takes my ankle socks off with them.
I don’t even have time to cover my breasts before he manhandles me off the couch in one smooth motion and slings me bodily over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes as he stalks from the room.
And still, I breathe a sigh of relief.
I trust him.