Chapter Twenty #2
Alexei reaches across the table as I approach, snatching up a tiny pancake-looking piece of bread. He slaps a dollop of some sort of cream onto it, then reaches for a mother-of-pearl spoon and dabs on a generous amount of caviar. He holds this concoction out to me, and I nip it out of his fingers.
I don’t know if I’m just too hungry, or if it really is that good. The sour cream is cold and mild; the caviar is nutty, buttery, and tastes faintly of the sea.
Alexei pours himself a fresh glass of chilled vodka. “Turn,” he says. “I want to see if I have to spank you.”
“Fuck all the way off,” I snip, and sink into a chair.
I really am too hungry to deal with his bullshit at the moment.
I pick up a fork and spear a tiny pickle from a plate of them.
It’s too good. Salty, sour. The briny, vinegar tang follows the caviar well.
I follow it up with a chunk of mystery meat—and immediately spit it out into my palm. “What is that?”
“Pickled herring.” Alexei chuckles as I drop the half-chewed bit of herring back onto the plate. He pours again, into another shot glass, which he slides across the table toward me. “Drink. Zakuski is meant to be enjoyed with vodka.”
My nose wrinkles in distaste. “I don’t like vodka.”
“You do not like your shit American vodka,” he corrects, and he reaches for another little pancake, filling it again with sour cream, caviar, and this time a little sprinkle of what looks like tiny bits of crumbled egg white and thinly-sliced scallions.
“You drink vodka all at once,” he says as he hands over the pancake, “and then you eat blini.”
The glass is cold in my fingers, condensation already collecting on the outside. I’ve never taken a shot before, but the rare mixed drinks I’ve had where vodka was the liquor of choice have been mostly unpalatable. I can always taste the vodka above the sweetness of the mixer.
Papa would be horrified at the thought of me sitting here in only a bikini, with a glass of vodka in my hand.
And that clinches it. I brace myself, lift the glass, and throw it back.
The liquor hits my tongue, flooding my mouth.
It’s so cold that my tongue numbs immediately.
I don’t even taste it as I swallow it back, but the cold vies with the burn of the liquor down my throat, and it’s…
a strangely pleasant feeling. Odd, but pleasant.
As my tongue loses its numbness, I briefly taste the astringency of the vodka, but even that fades quickly as I pop the blini into my mouth and the sour cream and caviar instantly flood my tongue.
“You see? Russian vodka is best,” Alexei says, and he retrieves my glass to pour again while I scan the table to determine which of the various dishes I’ll try next.
The little open-faced finger sandwiches look like a good choice. They’re topped with something that looks almost, but not quite, like tuna salad. The bread is dark, probably rye or pumpernickel. I pick up a piece and pop it into my mouth.
Alexei laughs again as I spit it out. “Forshmak,” he says. “Also herring.” I skewer him with a glare, knowing he let me choose it just from the enjoyment he derived from watching me spit it out again. He reached across the table and drags a plate in my direction. “This one, you like.”
I’m suspicious that there might be more herring hiding within, but it looks like it’s just mushrooms flecked with thin, almost translucent slices of onion and sprinkled liberally with fresh dill.
I stab my fork into one and eat. Also pickled, but the flavor is milder, softer.
The mushroom is springy and tender, the onion crisp and sour, the dill fresh and fragrant.
The second shot goes down even smoother.
I know what to expect now, and the cold vodka burns a path straight to my stomach.
The next bite—from a tiny wedge of sharp-tasting cheese—tastes even better.
Like my palate is cleansed at the conclusion of each shot, and everything that comes after is cleaner, crisper.
The vodka makes everything taste incredible. There’s garlicky pickled bell peppers with a delicious crunch. A soft cheese spread slathered across pungent rye bread. Sour cherries with a richer, deeper flavor than the sweet maraschinos I had planned to eat from the jar at the pool.
Oh, right. The pool.
I’ve eaten more than enough, now. And probably I’ve had too much to drink, I realize as I rise to my feet. My head spins with the motion. My limbs are loose. I feel—soft. Pleasantly hazy. Like there’s a film draped across my vision, making everything feel…muted. Subdued.
Alexei’s strong fingers wrap around my wrist. “Not so fast, Katya.”
My pulse flutters. “I’m going swimming,” I tell him.
He huffs. “Probably you will drown yourself,” he says. “I will take you swimming, Katya. After.”
After what?
He snickers, and I know he’s felt the jump of my pulse under his fingers.
With a swipe of one arm he shoves the plates littering the table away.
China clinks together, silverware clatters to the ground.
And Alexei shoves his chair back and tugs my wrist, pulling me close enough to catch me about the waist and lift me straight off of my feet and onto edge of the table.
My hands land on either side of my hips in a desperate bid to steady myself. My legs dangle, my feet hang at least a foot above the floor. Alexei seizes one, bending my knee to brace my foot against his shoulder. His fingers wrap around my ankle, tracing my skin upward toward my knee.
There’s an odd catch in my breath. “What are you doing?”
“Checking,” he says absently, “in case you need to be spanked.” His fingers find a patch of reddened skin near my knee that’s just a little tender to the touch. “What happened here?” he asks, and his thumb strokes the inside of my thigh.
My fingers curl, nails biting into the wood of the table. “Sugar scrub,” I say. “I rubbed too hard.” It doesn’t really hurt. I didn’t even notice until I washed it off, and the hot water stung. My toes curl as his hands slide up my thighs.
“You shave here, too, Katya?” The words are soft, teasing. His fingers slip beneath the thin fabric of my bikini bottoms. “Maybe I see for myself.”
Oh, God. My breath tears itself out of my lungs as his fingers touch me, and I feel the slow burn of arousal deep in my belly.
It blends with the warmth of the vodka, and I sway, shaken.
Somehow I gather together the strength to shove at his shoulder with my foot. “I’m drunk,” I tell him reproachfully.
A dismissive snort sears the skin of my thigh. “Is cute you think I care about this, koshechka.” His thumb rakes the material of my bikini bottoms aside. He splays his hands against my inner thighs, shoving them apart.
The flick of his tongue across my clit makes my back bow and my head fall back. Of course he doesn’t care. Taking advantage of my drunkenness is probably the least of his crimes, something akin to jaywalking in the vast scheme of his criminal empire.
Another hungry swipe of his tongue makes a moan rise in my throat. I shouldn’t want this. It’s wrong. I’m still angry. I’m not going to not be angry just because he’s good at eating me out. A shudder slides down my spine as he works two fingers inside me.
Okay. Really, really good. He growls like he’s starving, and the vibration of it makes my toes curl even tighter. My breath comes in sharp little pants. I breathe, “Alexei.”
And then I give a startled yelp as he pinches my ass. Hard. “Alyosha,” he corrects as he lifts his head, and his green eyes lock with mine. “You call me this, or I don’t let you come.”
That’s just fucking mean. “Alexei—”
Another sharp pinch. “You want to be spanked anyway, Katya?” His cheek scrapes against the inside of my thigh, and I shiver at the abrasive sensation of it.
His fingers plunge again in a punishing thrust, and I clench around them.
It’s simultaneously too much and not nearly enough, as if he’s pushing me inexorably toward that precipice, only to snatch me back from it at the last possible moment.
A frustrated sound ekes from my throat. Alexei’s chuckle whisks across my skin as he rubs his cheek against my thigh.
“Da, like that,” he says, and I realize I’ve lifted one of my hands to pet his hair.
“Be sweet for me tonight, koshechka.” The next stroke of his tongue is soothing, almost apologetic. “Say it, and you can come.”
Always manipulating me, twisting me around to suit his ends. But I want to come, and I’m almost there. My fingers fist in his hair. I whisper, “Alyosha.”
An approving sound, low and velvety. “Good girl,” he says, and his fingers thrust and hold.
His tongue laves my clit. The orgasm that tears through me is violent, ruinous.
It steals all my strength, wrenches a cry from my lungs.
My muscles seize, shudder—relax. I wilt backward, unable to remain upright any longer, and I hear the distinctive clatter of china again.
In my peripheral vision, I see a tiny bowl of crumbled egg whites go flying, scattering its contents across the table as it falls to the floor and out of sight.