Chapter 13
ASTRID
Hours later I’m in my own office with my spreadsheet open, half-finished, eyes unfocused. I can still hear Tatiana’s voice and I hate it. I hate the way she got to me, the way I allowed her to get to me.
As the water begins to boil in the little electric kettle I brought from home, there’s a knock at the door.
“Come in.”
Yuri enters, flicking those gorgeous eyes to mine before shutting the door softly behind him. “You handled her well.”
I glance over my shoulder as I prepare my tea. He’s ditched the jacket, sleeves rolled to the elbow, top buttons undone.
“I didn’t do anything,” I mutter, turning around. “You did.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. I’ve seen grown men shrink like children under her words. I could tell you were moments away from tearing into her.”
I chuckle lightly. “You’re right about that. You beat me to it.”
He smiles. “I have a feeling whatever you were about to say, it wouldn’t have been so nice. My interrupting was more of a favor to her than you.”
“Well, in that case, she should be thanking you.”
His smile fades, a serious expression replacing it. “I don’t mean to suggest you can’t fight your own battles. But all the same, I didn’t like the way she spoke to you.” Anger flashes on his face for a brief moment.
I sit down at my desk with my mug and tap a key. “Well, thanks. All the same, you don’t strike me as the type to interfere in cafeteria drama.”
“I’m not. But I am the type to make sure my staff knows where the line is. Tatiana needed a little reminder. She often does.” He sits down in one of the chairs across from me.
“Thank you,” I repeat quietly. “I do like to fight my own battles, but it was nice to know someone had my back.”
“I’m very protective of my staff.” He changes the subject. “So, you grew up in Chicago?”
I nod. “Yep. Well, in Schaumburg. My foster parents were both educators—my mom taught high school history, and my dad was a community college English professor. Dinner conversations were basically mini lectures.”
Yuri’s brow lifts slightly. “Yet you ended up in finance.”
I shrug, a small smile tugging at my lips. “My little way of rebelling.”
Yuri chuckles. “My rebellion was going into finance as well instead of following my father into other parts of the family business.”
“Let me guess, he didn’t take it well.”
“He said it was fine. Then he stopped speaking to me for a year.”
I raise a brow. “Healthy.”
He smirks. “Everything with him was war in one way or another.”
Our eyes meet. Too long. Too direct. I look away, clearing my throat. “I don’t usually talk about my family.”
He’s silent for a moment. Then, “You don’t usually talk much at all. Not like this.”
“I don’t know you that well,” I counter.
“True. Anyway, Tatiana underestimated you. She thought she could cut you down and walk away untouched.”
I glance down at my tea. “But I still let her ruin my lunch.”
“She didn’t,” he says. “She just reminded you that you’re not here to be liked.”
That makes me smile. “What am I here for then?”
Yuri’s expression shifts into something more serious. “Money? Power? Whatever the hell you want.”
Silence wraps around us for a long, heavy moment before he finally says, “I’ll let you get back to it.”
He stands and leaves, my eyes wandering down to his perfect ass in those tailored slacks. The door shuts, and I let out a sigh.
It’s late. Rain taps at the windows in a slow, steady rhythm. The office is nearly empty, just the low hum of vacuums from the cleaning staff and distant hushed voices in conversation. My body aches from hours of being hunched over spreadsheets and financial reviews.
I gather my things slowly, stretching my neck as I slide my laptop into its sleeve. I feel the weight of him even before I turn around.
Yuri once again stands in the doorway of my office, one hand in his pocket. My pussy clenches at the sight of him.
“You’re here late.”
I glance at the clock—a little after nine. Holy shit. “Damn. I was in the zone, I guess.”
That gets me a quick nod of approval. “I’ll drive you home.”
I blink. “That’s not necessary. I’m a straight shot on the El.”
His head tilts slightly, and something flares behind his gray eyes. “I wasn’t offering. Come. The city’s dangerous at this hour.”
I open my mouth to push back, but the look he gives me stops the protest before it reaches my lips.
I nod without argument. Together, without speaking, we take the elevator down to the parking garage.
His car—a sleek, black Aston Martin—is parked in a spot reserved for him.
He unlocks the door and opens it for me. I slide inside.
The ride is silent at first. His car is pristine, with black leather, dim console lights, the faint sound of classical piano playing low through the speakers. It even smells expensive, woodsy and dark with something I can’t name.
I give him my address and keep my hands in my lap, watching the city blur past in streaks of rain-washed gold.
“You don’t trust me,” he says suddenly.
I glance at him. “Why would I? I don’t know what you are.”
His fingers flex on the steering wheel, catching that I said “what” and not “who.” “What do you think I am?”
I hesitate, then turn back toward the window. “Dangerous. Cold. And apparently somehow entangled with a woman who was comfortable enough to call me fat in public.” I expect anger. A quick, sharp breath. Maybe silence.
“Tatiana is not my lover. Not anymore. Not for a long time.”
I don’t say anything.
“And if I am cold,” he adds, more quietly, “it’s not because of you. It’s just my nature.”
His comment pulls my gaze back to him. I study his profile, the elegant line of his jaw, the subtle tension in his shoulders. I want to believe him.
The rain streaks down the windows like little silver rivers. We pass under a stretch of streetlights that makes everything glow amber. My apartment building looms ahead.
Yuri pulls up to the curb and lets the car idle for a moment, the engine purring beneath us. He shifts into park and cuts the engine. Then he reaches for his door.
“I’ll walk you up.”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically as I reach for my things.
He glances out the window, eyes scanning the quiet street, the dim porch lights flickering across cracked sidewalks. I can see his jaw tighten.
“I’m going to walk you up,” he says again, more firmly, not leaving any room for argument.
“Okay, sure.” Clearly, there’s no point in arguing with him.
We walk in silence, side by side, the only sound our footsteps against the wet concrete.
The rain is nothing more than a drizzle now, almost a mist. At my door, I fumble with the keys, my fingers clumsy, too aware of the warmth at my back, of his presence, of the impossible heat between us, rising like steam.
“Do you want to come in?” I ask, voice barely above a whisper.
His answer is instant. And velvet-smooth. “I’d love to.”
Inside, the apartment feels smaller than usual. Quiet in a way that amplifies every breath, every heartbeat. I drop my keys into the bowl by the entrance. They clatter loudly in the hush.
I kick off my heels, my shoulders tense.
I expect him to stay by the threshold. A part of me needs him to.
But he doesn’t. He steps in, slow and certain, and closes the door behind him with a click that feels final.
I turn, heart in my throat. His silhouette stands against the shadows like something carved from stone.
“I can’t get mixed up with you,” I whisper, barely recognizing the sound of my own voice.
“You already are.” A breath suspends between us, then Yuri leans in slightly, just enough to make my pulse jump. “You’re dangerous when you look at me like that,” he says, his voice low and deep. “Like you know exactly what I want.”
I swallow hard, but I don’t step back. “And what do you want?”
“I want you, Astrid. I’ve wanted you from the moment I saw you on that plane.”
And there it is. He finally said it out loud.
“You know, I was starting to wonder if you remembered me.”
He chuckles. “You think you’re someone I could forget? No, there was just never the right moment to bring it up.”
I glance away. “Still, I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
His hands slide to my waist, thumbs brushing slow, possessive strokes through the thin silk of my blouse. “Then stop me.”
I should. Instead, my hands rise to his chest, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt. His heartbeat thrums beneath my palms—steady, strong, and infuriatingly calm.
“You’re not easy to resist,” I murmur.
“I’m not trying to be.”
And just like that, I’m lost in him again. I lean in, caught in the gravity between us, my mouth barely a breath away from his.
He leans in and kisses me, his mouth finding mine like he’s been starving for it, like he’s been waiting, burning for this. I don’t just fall into him. I crash.
My back hits the wall with a muted thud, his hands already working the buttons of my blouse, dragging it down my shoulders. His lips are fire against my neck, tracing the curve of my throat, and I feel his breath there—hot and ragged.
I fumble with his coat, tugging it off, then push at his shirt until my hands are on bare skin. He’s all muscle, heat, and tension, coiled tight.
There’s nothing soft about this. It’s rough and hungry, teeth grazing skin, fingers digging in. Beneath the urgency, something real yet unspoken hums under every touch.
He lifts me like I weigh nothing, arms steady and sure. I wrap my legs around him without thinking, burying my face in his neck as he carries me across the room. The scent of rain clings to his skin—clean, masculine, warm. He lays me down on the couch, eyes locked on mine, and the world tilts.
I reach for him, tugging at his belt. The leather slips free with a sharp snap, and I pull the fabric of his trousers down past his hips.
We come apart slowly. Clothes stripped between breathless kisses. His hands worshipping every inch of me—palming the curve of my thigh, tracing the swell of my breast, mapping me like he’s etching it into memory.
He slides his thick, perfect cock into me slowly, filling me inch by inch. I gasp, hips tilting instinctively to take more of him. He groans—deep and guttural—like he’s been waiting to be inside me again since Paris.
The stretch of him is maddening, almost too much, yet not enough, and my breath leaves me in shallow, desperate pulses.
His hands frame my face like I’m fragile. He braces himself above me, foreheads pressed together, eyes locked on mine, steel-gray and shadowed.
“Astrid…” he murmurs, his voice raw.
He moves in slow, deep strokes that make my toes curl and my back arch. Every drag of his hips against mine sends little shocks through me, trembling bursts of pressure that mount higher with each thrust.
My fingers claw into his back, nails skimming his skin, to keep from flying apart. He scoops my breasts into his hands, leaning down and gently sucking my nipples. I moan at the intense pleasure.
“Harder,” I whisper, barely able to form the word through the tangle of breath and need. “Please…”
He groans, and his rhythm changes—harder, more urgent. My body rises to meet his, the sound of skin against skin echoing through the quiet of my apartment, my breasts bouncing with each thrust.
I cry out with every motion, every deep push driving the breath from my lungs and all thoughts from my head. He’s giving it to me so slow, so deep, so perfect.
“Yuri. Don’t stop.”
His mouth drops to my neck, his voice thick and gravel-rough against my ear. “You’re mine now.”
I can’t respond as an orgasm rushes through me, my back arching beneath him.
As it fades, I know instantly what I want next. I flip him before I can second guess it—shifting my weight, wrapping my thighs around him and rolling us over with a gasp and an explosion of cushions.
His eyes widen, surprised but hungry, as I straddle him, palms flat against his chest.
The power rushes through me, bold and electric as I take hold of his thick, hard cock and lower myself onto him.
I moan deeply as he fills me again. My hands slide up to his shoulders for balance, my hair falling in a messy curtain around our faces.
He watches me, entranced like I’m some sacred fire, his hands tight on my hips, thumbs digging into my flesh.
I ride him slowly at first, grinding down in deep, rolling waves, letting the friction build, letting the burn spread through me like fire licking up dry paper. Every movement sends sparks skittering along my nerves, the pressure winding tighter with each lift of my hips.
His hands grip my waist—firm and possessive—his thumbs dragging over the slick heat of my skin, moving along my stomach until my breasts are in his hands, his thumbs teasing my nipples.
“Faster,” he growls, his voice ragged.
I obey and quicken the pace, hips snapping harder now, my pussy slick and soaked enough for him to glide in and out with ease.
My thighs tremble with need, and I brace my hands against his chest, nails digging in just enough to make him hiss through his teeth. His muscles tense beneath my palms, every inch of him straining like he can’t get deep enough, close enough.
“Look at me,” he demands. “I want to see you when you come.”
I lift my gaze, locking onto his—and completely come undone.
The fire inside me ignites all at once, searing through my spine, my belly, my core. I cry out, head thrown back as my pussy clenches around his cock, pulsing hard with the force of it. Pleasure crashes over me in waves, hot and endless, and I feel him shudder beneath me.
He growls then whispers my name, and then he’s spilling into me with a guttural sound. His hands seize my hips as his body bucks upward, chasing every last ounce of release.
I collapse against his chest, trembling and slick with sweat. He wraps his arms around me without a word. We lie together, tangled and spent, the air cooling around us. I rest my cheek against him, his skin damp, his scent wrapping around me like a blanket.
We don’t speak. The silence between us is heavy. Not with doubt but with something fragile. Something real.
I don’t know what comes next.
But tonight, I’m exactly where I want to be.