11. Katya #2
"It's lovely," I say, though I'm not sure I mean it. "Very... sophisticated."
He smiles. "You don't like it."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to. Your face is very expressive." He hands me the wine. "It came with the apartment. Most of this did. I haven't had time to make it more personal."
That explains the hotel feeling. "How long have you lived here?"
"About a year." He settles onto the sofa, patting the space beside him. "I keep meaning to redecorate, but work keeps me busy." He smiles at me. "And now I have more interesting things to do with my time than decorate."
My cheeks heat up, and I sit next to him, hyperaware of his presence. He smells amazing, like soap, and the soft lighting in his home makes his pale hair look almost silver.
"I have a confession."
"Oh?" I feel a pit form in my stomach. I'd told Lacey that he was too good to be true, and now I feel like that is going to be confirmed.
"I'm not cooking."
I laugh, unable to help myself. "It's alright." I place my hand on his arm. As the warmth of him seeps into me, I feel a sort of bravery take over. "I came for something else."
His eyes turn dark, and he watches me as I place my glass down on the table, hike my dress up over my thighs, and straddle him.
"You're extraordinary. Do you know that?" His large hands wrap themselves around my waist, pulling me closer.
Before I can answer, he's kissing me, and all thoughts scatter. This kiss is different from the others. It's deeper, more urgent, flavored with wine and playfulness and desire.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"Katya," he says, my name like a question. One of his hands cradles my waist and the other is in my hair. I want them all over my body.
"Yes?" I'm breathless with adrenaline and desire.
"Are you sure about this? About us? Because once we cross this line..."
I know what he's asking. I can feel it in the tension between us.
"I'm sure."
He studies my face for a long moment, searching for something. Whatever he finds there must satisfy him, because he stands and extends his hand.
"Come with me."
I take his hand and let him lead me through the penthouse to his bedroom. Like the rest of the apartment, it's beautiful and impersonal. There's a king-sized bed with expensive linens, more city views, soft lighting that makes everything feel dreamlike.
He turns to face me, hands settling on my waist.
"If you want to stop at any point—if anything doesn't feel right, you tell me. Promise?"
"I promise."
He nods, then reaches for the zipper of my dress. His movements are slow, deliberate, giving me plenty of time to change my mind. When I don't, when I just stand there watching him with what must be obvious want, he slides the zipper down.
The dress pools at my feet, leaving me in black lace lingerie that suddenly feels incredibly daring.
"Beautiful," he breathes, and the reverence in his voice makes me believe him.
He shrugs out of his shirt, and I let myself look at him—really look at him. I've seen his chest before, but in this context it feels different. More intimate. More significant.
I reach for him, running my hands over his shoulders, his chest, marveling at the way his muscles move under my palms. When my fingers trace over a scar on his left ribs, he catches my hand.
"Old injury," he tells me.
"From your work in finance?" I raise a brow in challenge. I suspect there's more to that story, but I don't push. After all, I'm not exactly an open book.
"Something like that."
He's kissing me again, and questions become irrelevant. His hands move over my skin with careful reverence, learning the shape of me, finding places that make me gasp and arch into his touch.
When he lays me down on his bed and covers my body with his, I feel small and protected and completely cherished.
This is everything I've wanted, and I didn't even know it.
"Are you nervous?" he asks, propped up on his forearms above me.
"Terrified," I admit.
He smiles, and it's soft and understanding. "Good. You should be. This matters."
He's right. This does matter. More than I expected, more than I was prepared for.
I remember the condom in my clutch and reach for it on the nightstand, pressing it into his hand. Something unreadable flickers across his face.
"I'm on the shot," I tell him. "But Lacey insisted."
He sets it aside on the nightstand without comment, his attention returning to me entirely. "I'll take care of you," he promises, and something in his voice makes me believe completely that he will.
What follows is careful and slow and achingly tender. He takes his time preparing my body, using his mouth and his hands until I'm trembling and desperate, until the fear gives way to pure want.
When he finally pushes inside me, there's pain—sharp and immediate—but he stills completely, letting me adjust, murmuring soft reassurances in Russian against my ear until the discomfort fades into something else entirely.
"Okay?"
"Okay."
He moves slowly, carefully, building a rhythm that sends sparks of pleasure through my entire body. I lose myself in the sensation of it—the weight of him above me, the way he fills me completely, the soft sounds he makes that tell me he's as affected by this as I am.
Something changes in him as we move together. His control wavers, his breathing becomes ragged, and when he looks at me, there's something in his eyes I've never seen before. Something that looks almost like wonder.
"Katya." My name sounds different in his mouth. More real. More important.
I arch, running my hands through his hair.
When I finally break apart beneath him, it's with his name on my lips and the feeling that something fundamental has shifted between us. He follows me over the edge a moment later, my name a prayer against my throat.
Afterward, we lie tangled together, my head on his chest, his hand stroking my hair. The city glitters beyond the windows, but I barely notice. All of my attention is focused on this moment, this perfect, fragile bubble we've created.
"How do you feel?" he asks quietly.
"Different," I say, which is true. I do feel different. Older, somehow. More myself than I was an hour ago.
"Good different?"
I lift my head to look at him. There's something in his expression I can't quite read—tenderness, yes, but also something that looks almost like confusion.
"Very good different," I confirm.
He smiles, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I should let you rest."
"I'm not tired."
"You will be."
He's right—I can already feel exhaustion creeping in, the emotional weight of the evening combining with the physical aftermath.
"Will you stay?" I ask. "I mean, will you stay here with me?"
Something flickers in his expression. "If you want me to."
"I want you to."
He pulls the covers up over both of us and settles me more comfortably against his side. I listen to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat and let myself drift in the satisfaction of feeling completely safe, completely cared for, completely his.
Just before I fall asleep, I think I hear him whisper something in Russian, but I'm too far gone to make sense of the words.
When I wake up in the morning, sunlight is streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and Artem is already awake, watching me with an expression I can't decipher.
"Good morning," I say, suddenly shy.
"Good morning." His voice is soft, careful. "How do you feel?"
"Sore. Happy. A little overwhelmed."
He nods like that's exactly what he expected. "We should get you breakfast."
"Should we?"
"You need to eat. And probably shower. And definitely go slowly today."
The care in his voice, the way he's thinking about my needs before his own—it makes my chest tight with emotion.
"Artem?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For being so gentle. For making it so perfect."
Something complicated crosses his face. "It was my pleasure."
But there's something in the way he says it that doesn't quite match the words. Something that makes me think there's more happening here than I understand.
I file the observation away to think about later. For now, I'm content to lie in his arms and watch the city wake up below us, feeling like I've crossed some invisible threshold into a different version of my life.