Chapter 3 – Sasha #2
He pours, first for me, then for himself. The ruby liquid catches the glow as he hands me a glass, his fingers brushing mine, deliberate.
“To you,” he says, eyes steady on me. Then, with a smirk that twists my stomach into knots: “And to tonight.”
I raise the glass to my lips, desperate for the distraction, though I’m not sure the wine will calm me more than his gaze unsettles me.
“Are you ready for dinner?” he asks after downing his wine.
“Yes.”
I expect a private chef to step out of the shadows. Or at least some perfectly plated five-star spread waiting under silver domes.
But Lev leads me straight into the kitchen. Sleek marble counters, state-of-the-art everything, and him—already rolling up his sleeves higher, like this is the most natural thing in the world.
“You cook?” I can’t hide the disbelief in my voice.
He glances at me, gray eyes glinting. “For you, yes.”
My stomach does a ridiculous flip. I fold my arms, leaning against the counter, trying to look unimpressed while he pulls fresh pasta from somewhere, prawns from another, and gets to work like a man who’s done this before.
The smell of garlic and olive oil fills the air. He moves easily, like he owns not just the kitchen but the entire night. My eyes keep tracking the way his hands work—precise, steady, confident.
“You don’t strike me as the domestic type,” I say, needing to break the spell.
He smirks, tossing the pasta into the pan. “I’m not. But I like control. Even here.”
I roll my eyes, though my cheeks heat. “Of course you do.”
We talk as he cooks, the conversation light, random. He asks about my favorite meal on layovers, my worst flight story, whether I’ve ever snuck off to explore a city alone. I ask if he always hijacks airlines just to impress women, and he laughs, low and unbothered.
By the time he plates the pasta—handmade, steaming, prawns seared perfectly—I’m caught between irritation and…something else I don’t want to name.
I take the first bite and actually groan before I can stop myself. “God. This is unfair.”
Lev leans back against the counter, arms crossed, watching me with that infuriating smirk. “Good?”
“Better than good,” I admit, glaring at him because I hate giving him the win.
His smile deepens. “Then tonight is already worth it.”
We eat, and the conversation starts light—more travel stories, favorite cities, little anecdotes from flights. I’m good at this kind of talk: polished, easy, surface-level. It keeps things safe.
But Lev doesn’t stay on the surface. He leans in, glass of wine in hand, gaze steady. “Tell me about your family, Sasha.”
The fork pauses halfway to my mouth. “My family?”
“Yes.” He doesn’t blink. “You. Where you come from. What made you into this woman who can light up a plane and still keep everyone at arm’s length.”
His words land sharper than I expect, like he’s been studying me all night. My throat tightens. I want to brush it off, toss something flippant back at him. But his expression—open, curious, unflinchingly focused—makes it harder.
So I lower my fork.
“My dad died when I was really young,” I say slowly. “So it was just me and my mom. After that, we moved to America from Greece to continue our lives. But she…she had cancer. Passed away when I was eighteen.”
He doesn’t interrupt. Just listens.
“I was barely out of high school when she passed. I didn’t go to college—just started working right away. Flight attendant was the first thing that felt like…freedom.”
The words spill more easily than they should, and I hate how raw they sound out loud.
Lev tilts his head. “And before her death? What was life like?”
I suck in a breath. “We moved a lot. My mom’s job kept us on the move. Different schools, different cities. Never long enough to get close to people.” I give a small, practiced smile. “Guess that’s why I’m good at smiling and moving on. Keeps things simple.”
His eyes never leave me. Not once.
“You keep things safe,” he says softly. “But safe isn’t the same as living.”
The remark lands heavier than I want it to, curling inside me like the wine I’ve been sipping.
Lev leans back in his chair, watching me with a slow smile tugging at his mouth.
“You finished it all,” he says. “I love a woman with appetite.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks, but I laugh it off. “It was good. Too good.”
He pushes his chair back and stands. “Ice cream?”
“Yes, please,” I say before I can think better of it.
“Good.” He gathers the plates, stacking them with practiced ease, and disappears into the kitchen. I hear the clink of dishes, the rush of water, then the soft hum of the freezer door. A moment later, he’s back with two bowls, each piled high with vanilla, edges already starting to melt.
He sets one in front of me. “For the woman with appetite,” he says, sliding back into his seat.
I smile as I take the bowl, spoon cool in my hand. It feels…domestic. Too domestic. Like we’ve done this a hundred times before.
The ice cream is sweet and cold on my tongue, but my attention is suddenly on Lev. He sets his bowl down, and suddenly he’s closer—too close. My breath stumbles in my chest when his hand brushes a curl from my cheek. His eyes hold mine like he’s unraveling me thread by thread.
“I’ve been thinking about this,” he says, voice low. “Since the first time I saw you.”
The words settle deep, heavy in my stomach. I can’t look away. My lungs forget how to work, and for a heartbeat, it feels like the whole house is silent—just me and him and the distance between us shrinking.
His thumb lingers near my jaw, not quite touching. His gaze drops to my mouth, then back up again. “I want to kiss you so badly,” he whispers. “Is that okay?”
My throat is dry, but the word comes out anyway, breathless and certain. “Yes.”
The smile that flickers on his lips is brief, almost reverent, and then his mouth finally meets mine.
The kiss starts soft, almost tentative, and my body betrays me instantly, leaning forward, answering him before my mind can muster even the hint of protest.
Heat flares. His lips deepen against mine, hungry now, insistent.
Somehow we’ve stumbled to the sofa, and I don’t even remember moving.
He pulls me onto his lap, and I’m gasping, fingers clutching at his shoulders as his hands begin to explore—spanning my back, tracing my waist, dragging fire wherever they land.
The city lights blur behind us. All I feel is him.
Lev’s kiss is sharp, claiming, like he’s marking me, and the world narrows until it’s just him and me.
My chest heaves, my pulse hammering in my ears.
Then, without warning, he lifts me effortlessly into his arms. I gasp, clutching at his shoulders, the heat of his body pressing into mine as he carries me through the penthouse.
The door shuts behind us. The city lights spill through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but I barely see them. His eyes are all I can focus on—gray, intense, unyielding. His lips brush mine again, softening, teasing, but there’s a tension in him, a feral edge that makes my skin prickle.
He lays me gently on the bed, and my heart hammers in my chest. Every movement of his is slow, almost reverent.
His hands slide over my dress, peeling it down inch by inch, and I can’t help but shiver.
The way he looks at me…like I’m fragile, sacred, yet entirely his…
it makes something inside me ache. I’m usually proud of my body, confident, bold.
But under his gaze, the intensity is almost too much.
I feel the urge to curl up, to hide, and I fight it.
His lips trail over my skin as the dress falls away, reverent kisses leaving a fire in their wake.
Every touch is intentional, making me hyper-aware of every nerve, every inch of me.
He pauses sometimes, his eyes drinking me in, and I almost cry at the way he’s worshiping me silently with his hands and lips.
Then, his hand brushes lower, skimming my skin until it rests at the apex between my thighs. I freeze, stiffening immediately. My chest rises and falls, heart thundering, and I find the courage to speak, my voice small but clear:
“I…I’ve never done this before.”
He stills immediately. For a long moment, he doesn’t move.
Then his voice—low, husky, threaded with something raw. “Christ, Sasha. You’ve never…?”
Shame flares hot in my chest, but I manage a nod. “No.”
The shift in him is immediate. I see possessiveness ignite in his eyes, that feral need burning hotter, but then he softens. He leans back slightly, his hands retreating, and his voice drops, low and intimate, almost a whisper meant only for me.
“Then we take it slow. Only what you want. I’m not going anywhere. I want this…you…to feel safe. To feel pleasure. Nothing else matters.”
I swallow at the softness of his voice. I was prepared for him to peel off me and turn away, to scoff and leave me hanging, but the hunger in his eyes only deepens. It’s almost savage, and yet it makes me relax.
Then his head lowers, and before I can even think, his mouth closes over my nipple. Heat explodes through me. I cry out, my back arching off the bed, my fingers tangling desperately in his hair.
“Lev—” His name tears from my throat, half gasp, half plea.
His tongue teases, circling, flicking, while his hand cups my other breast, kneading gently as though he’s memorizing me. He hums low in his throat, the vibration sending a shiver straight through me. I don’t know if I’m trembling because it’s too much or because it’s not enough.
He lifts his head just enough to look at me, lips glistening, eyes dark and molten. “You taste like I imagined,” he rasps, his accent thicker now, guttural, roughened by restraint. “Sweet. Addictive. Mine.”
The word mine rolls over me like a brand.
My breath catches, and instead of pulling away, I cling tighter, dragging him closer.