Chapter 14 Noemi
NOEMI
The sheets smell faintly like the cologne Fyodor wears, something expensive, no doubt, and the soft fabric slides over my bare legs when I shift under the sheets.
I'm not fully awake yet, hovering in that gray space between sleep and consciousness where sounds reach me muffled and my body feels too heavy to move.
But Fyodor's voice pulls me closer to the surface, reverberating through the wall from the living area where he must be sitting with Sasha.
I don't open my eyes. I press my cheek deeper into the pillow and let the warmth of the mattress hold me in place while I listen to their conversation.
They're talking about the hippodrome, which is rumored to be Bratva controlled, so I'm not shocked to hear Fyodor speaking so confidently about it.
But the tone he's using does surprise me a little.
He's speaking in such soft, gentle tones, the way a father speaks to his son.
It makes me smile to think how hard Fyodor is actually trying to change so he can be a good father.
It almost makes up for the callous way he yanked me into this bed last night as if I belong to him as nothing more than a possession.
The conversation fades into murmurs I can't follow, and eventually, I hear Sasha's door close and the suite goes quiet. I reach for my journal on the nightstand, tugging myself to a seated position against the headboard, and flip to a blank page.
Today's journal entry is easy and flows from my pen seamlessly.
I never thought Fyodor Gravitch would be capable of such nurturing behavior but he's surprising me every day now. I still want to hate him for stealing me away, but I know I can't hate him for being Sasha's father. He can't change biology any more than I can.
But I don't hate him. I'm softening toward him.
For all his flaws and faults, he's not the monster I thought him to be originally.
Like every other human on this planet, he has complex layers to his personality, and he probably has more trauma and triggers than anyone I've ever met.
But the fact that he's trying so hard to do the right thing is moving.
Fyodor Gravitch isn't the sort of man a woman should fall in love with, no matter how her pulse quickens when he enters a room or how her skin heats when his gaze lingers too long on her mouth.
And God, the way he made my body feel yesterday was unlike any other sexual experience I've had.
He did the same actions that I've experienced several times before, but every single touch was electric because he knows how to speak to me.
But he's dangerous and broken in ways I could never hope to heal, cracked along fault lines that formed long before I stumbled into his life.
It's sad, really, to know a man with such potential stands just outside of reach because of his own choices, with which I don't think I'll ever come to terms.
The door opens before I can close the journal, and Fyodor stands in the doorway with his dark hair falling across his forehead and his eyes sweeping over me, making my skin flush.
"Sasha's getting dressed," he says.
"I heard you talking to him." I sit up against the headboard, the journal pressed to my chest.
His jaw tightens and his gaze drops to the journal. "You were listening?"
"Your voices woke me. I couldn't help it." I watch his face for any sign of anger, but there's none. "It was sweet, Fyodor, the way you spoke to him."
He doesn't answer, but something shifts in his expression, a softening around the eyes. He moves into the room and shuts the door behind him gracefully. He's gentle when he wants to be, but I know exactly how much power is in that body. I've seen the muscles that ripple beneath the surface.
"Would you come to the museum with us today?" he asks.
"You're asking me?" I almost scoff, but I hold myself back. For him to do a complete one-eighty and be polite and inviting after last night's bickering match is a huge stride.
"Yes."
"Not ordering…" I'm double-checking because I can't believe what I'm hearing. Maybe my comments have finally gotten to him.
"I am asking, Noemi."
God, I love the way he says my name. It's almost poetic. Though, when he called me Ms. Dragunova yesterday while pinning me to that desk, it made me feel something ethereal and unhinged.
"Then yes. I would like that."
He stands over me as I lay my journal on the nightstand and slide out of bed.
I gather my clothes from the chair and head toward the bathroom.
But when I set my things on the counter and reach for the door, Fyodor's hand catches the edge before it can swing shut, and he steps inside.
The space is small and he fills half of it himself, and my cheeks burn with embarrassment as I know a confrontation is about to happen again.
"Fyodor, you need to stay out."
"Do I?"
Instead of backing out of the room to respect my request, he stands blocking my escape and ogling me with his eyes.
Warmth flutters uncomfortably in my gut, and I find myself sensing the same magnetic chemistry I felt yesterday.
It's like once we flipped that switch and let the current start to flow, there became no way to turn it off.
"You're beautiful," he growls in a gravelly tone. "I can't stay away from you."
"That's not a reason to follow me in here," I say sheepishly, but part of me doesn't actually mind that he followed me in here. My body is alight with sensations now, making every nerve fire rapidly. My body is relatively the temperature of the sun right now, so I'm finding it difficult to breathe.
I try to respond to him, but my words catch in my throat and he steps closer, positioning himself behind me where I can see his reflection in the mirror. He looks good there behind me, towering over my reflection possessively as his hands settle on my hips, making my knees threaten to buckle.
"You're not going to tell me to leave," he says, and his eyes lock with mine. I can see the desire in his expression and feel my own body stirring and craving him too.
"No…" The word comes out barely louder than a breath.
"I'm not." Of course I'm not. I've just spent the past twenty minutes writing in my journal all the wonderful things I can't hate about him anymore.
He weaseled his way into my thoughts, and then got under my skin so I'd let him fuck me, and after he pinned me to his bed with no other intent than to sleep beside me comfortably, I have no clue what to think of him except that I know he can make me feel incredible.
His mouth finds the curve of my neck, moving slowly over the sensitive place beneath my ear.
I watch us in the mirror, my eyes half-closed and my lips parted, his dark head bent over me.
One hand stays firm on my hip while the other slides upward, fingers splaying across my stomach under my shirt.
He takes his time like he's trying to unravel me completely.
"You like watching," he murmurs against my skin. The words vibrate through me as his palm flattens, pressing me back until my body is flush against his chest. I feel how hard he's getting, grinding against my ass so I can't pretend I don't notice.
A small whimper escapes me and his grip tightens.
"That's it," he whispers. "Let me hear you breathe heavy."
His free hand drifts lower, tracing the waistband of my slacks, long since wrinkled from sleep.
My breath hitches when his fingers slip beneath the waistband with no hesitation, just possessive movements.
His hot palm glides over my belly until he cups me fully, hand pressed to my mound, and I watch his wrist disappear under the fabric in the mirror.
The sight is obscene—my own flushed face, parted lips, his forearm flexing as he begins to move.
He strokes me gently, two fingers parting my folds under my panties. My hips jerk forward on instinct but he holds me tighter against himself.
"Stay still," he orders softly. "Let me take care of you."
I try.
God, I try.
But when he circles my clit with the pad of his middle finger, my knees buckle.
He catches me, arm banding across my waist, keeping me upright while he rubs in tight, patient circles.
My reflection shows everything—my chest rising and falling too fast, the way my thighs tremble, the faint sheen of sweat I can feel gathering at my hairline. What is this man doing to me?
His mouth moves to my ear. "You get so wet for me," he whispers. "Every time I touch you, you melt. You were made for my fingers to fuck you like this, Noemi."
I bite my lip to keep quiet, but a whimper slips out anyway.
His finger dips lower, pressing inside just enough to tease, then drags back up, spreading the slickness he finds.
He groans low in his throat when he feels how ready I am and the rumble vibrates against my back as his free hand slides under my shirt to grip one of my breasts through my bra.
"Look at you," he says, voice darker now. "Look how beautiful you are when you're lusting after me."
I do—I can't look away. His hand works me in devastating, slow drags, firm circles, then a sudden press that makes my vision blur.
My head tips back against his shoulder. He takes advantage, kissing along my jaw, then claiming my mouth in a deep, hungry kiss.
Our tongues slide together and tangle and our teeth clash twice, but I'm desperate for him to make me feel alive again.
His hips roll again, grinding his erection against my ass in time with the rhythm of his fingers. I can feel every thick inch of him, trapped behind that zipper. The friction makes me clench around nothing, and he growls into my mouth like he can feel it too.
"So perfect," he mutters against my lips. "So fucking perfect for me. You don't know what you do—how badly I want to keep you like this, trembling, begging, all mine."
And I'm right there, teetering on the edge, ready to let him devastate me again, when Sasha's voice interrupts.
"Papa?"
Fyodor freezes. His hand stills between my legs. For one long second, neither of us moves. Then he exhales as he bites down on my shoulder and carefully withdraws his fingers. He presses one last soft kiss to the side of my neck before stepping back.
I sway without his support, cheeks burning, pulse hammering, and he adjusts himself with a grimace, then glances at my reflection one more time. I see how hungry he is for me. I feel it to my very core, but fatherhood is more important than pleasure.
"Later," he says quietly.
Then he turns, opens the door, and leaves me there—aching, breathless, staring at my own wrecked expression in the mirror.
I lock the door because after that, I don't think I'm going to walk straight today unless I fix the growing problem between my legs. Fyodor has no clue what he does to me. I'm so flustered and worked up, I physically ache for relief.
My reflection is flushed, lips almost bruised a dark pink from the blood that rushed to them as he kissed me. I shove my pants down and yank my sweater and bra off and turn on the water of the shower to let it warm up, but my fingers find the place I ache and start rubbing.
It's nothing like him and the way he feels, and I can't speak to myself the way he speaks to me, but I can imagine…
I picture Fyodor staying right there behind me, dropping to his knees and sliding my panties aside so he can press his mouth to me. His tongue is hot and flat against my clit from the start, licking slowly through my folds while he groans because he loves how wet I am for him.
He tells me my pussy tastes so good it makes him crazy, then sucks my clit between his lips and flicks it with his tongue until my hips rock forward and my legs start to shake.
He holds me steady with his hands on my ass, pulling me back onto his face so I grind against him and feel his nose nudge my clit every time he thrusts his tongue inside me.
My fingers circle faster through the slickness he left behind, but it's his tongue I feel in my head, sucking harder as he slides two fingers into me and pumps them deep, curling them to hit that spot that makes everything tighten.
I imagine him pulling back to spit on my clit, watching it drip, licking it up with sloppy strokes before he thrusts his fingers into me harder.
I slide two fingers inside myself, thrusting deep and curling them while my other hand stays firm on my clit. In my mind he finger fucks me but his mouth never leaves my clit, sucking and flicking until I'm dripping down his arm.
Then he turns me around and lifts me onto the counter, hooking my legs over his shoulders. God he'd say such nasty things to me and make me say things back to him as he fucked me. And my god do I want him to do that.
The pressure builds quickly in my core as I continue pleasuring myself while imagining him doing all manner of erotic things to me and when the orgasm hits it's exquisite, though nowhere near what I know he could do to me.
My body jolts and twitches, and I try but fail to see myself in the steamed mirror.
I'm giddy, jerking and grunting under my breath as the waves wash over me and my juices coat my thighs.
Even without his physical presence he has a way of making my body feel incredible, and though I'd never tell him I did this, it doesn't stop me from enjoying it.
I slide my hand free and rinse it in the flow of water still spraying from the shower head, then step under the stream and let the heat relax the last of the tension from my body.
Fyodor has some sort of power over me, but I know somehow, it's the same for him. I make him come unhinged somehow, and I like that feeling. If only I could convince him to let me have my normal life and not one tethered to him at all times, we'd get along much better.
But would he be as alluring to me as he is right now if he did let me go back to teaching Sasha in my classroom? Or would the magic fade the moment he no longer had me like a caged bird?
I don't even know anymore.