Chapter Twenty
In which chess can be foreplay.
Vadim…
"Can I ask you something?" Oksana asks.
It's midnight, and we're wandering through my - our - house. My bride pauses to look in each room, analyzing it before moving on.
"Of course," I say.
"There are sixteen rooms in this house," she muses, trailing her hand over a long, carved table in the hall that I had brought from St. Petersburg.
"Five bedrooms, five bathrooms, an office, a library.
Then, that enormous kitchen. Gordon Ramsey would give up his first born for that kitchen, by the way.
A garden room, the living room, and another meeting room. "
She gives me a sly glance, something I'm beginning to recognize as proof that she's beginning to understand me, almost more than I want her to.
"I suspect there are probably a few special rooms downstairs in the basement." She taps her chin, considering it. "Concrete rooms, soundproof, maybe they have drains?"
Raising a brow in appreciation at her analysis, I keep quiet.
As we keep walking, she continues. "Maybe half of these rooms are furnished.
Obvious ones, like the kitchen and bathrooms. Your study.
Your bedroom, Slava Bogu, thank god." She chuckles.
"I appreciate having somewhere to hang my clothes.
About half of these rooms, though, are empty.
You could have had a designer come in and do the entire house, but you didn't."
"This move could be temporary," I shrug.
"Now, see, I don't think so," she says, following me into the library. "You knew you were going to be here for the foreseeable future, overseeing whatever it is…?"
She pauses, waiting to see if I'll fill in the blanks.
"Whatever it is that you're manufacturing," she continues. "At the very least, you're planning a semi-permanent stay here in Chicago. So why all the empty rooms?"
Giving her the courtesy of considering it, I realize it wasn't a conscious decision, though I rarely purchase anything just for show. If something isn't useful, it's not interesting to me. But she is correct. What was I waiting for to fill those rooms?
"I hadn't thought about it," I say truthfully. I pour myself a glass of vodka from the bar here in the library, and pull out a bottle from the white fridge, holding it up inquiringly.
The library is my preferred room in the house.
The deep oak paneling and tall bookshelves remind me of our home in St. Petersburg.
The green and blue tiled fireplace is enormous, and there are a few different places to settle here.
Wingback chairs by the fireplace, or a couch by the bookshelves.
It occurs to me now that there's only one place where two people could sit comfortably together, a leather sectional by the windows.
Oksana has settled herself there, her shoes off and legs tucked under her.
"I'd love a glass, thank you," she says.
"Well, if I can be so bold, I think your focus has been somewhat narrow.
" She's treading carefully, I can see the little frown between her brows as she thinks it through.
"Horses. Your work. Basic functions of living.
It feels like the rest of your life is waiting for you to fill it up with something else.
" She takes a nervous sip of her wine. "I can't believe I'm talking like this to a man I married two days ago. "
Leaning against the window, I automatically run a quick visual check on the exterior of the house before my gaze returns to hers.
"What do you think I should fill it up with?" I ask.
Now, the look she gives me is uncertain. Questioning, perhaps, if she's pushing her luck. "I hope you'll let me fill up a bit of it," she says, offering me a small, teasing smile. "Maybe just a room or two. I would like to be one of the things that fills your life."
My mouth is curving into a smile, goddamnit.
A real one. Crossing the room swiftly, I kneel in front of her, putting two fingers under her chin and lifting it so I can kiss her.
Slowly, this time. No destination in mind, just appreciating the warmth of her lips and her warm scent of cinnamon.
Her lips are soft, yielding eagerly to my tongue and we stay like this, exploring with lips, tongues, and the occasional nip of teeth.
When I break the kiss, my forehead stays pressed against hers for a moment. My bride's eyes are closed, with a dreamy little smile on her lush mouth.
Drawing in a deep breath, she says, "That feels like it might be a yes."
Pinching her chin, I stand up. I'm not ready for more of this yet. This afternoon was almost too much. The unfamiliar sense of hope, the disappointment. The unexpected anticipation of how she'd respond to my private space.
Glancing over at the chess set on the table by the window, I ask, "Do you play?"
"I do. My mother taught me." She rises with her glass of wine, strolling over to the table. "This set must be very old," she says, carefully touching the black and white ivory squares.
"Two hundred years at least," I say, pulling out a chair for her at the table.
She turns the board carefully, choosing the white side.
"The head of the Turgenev family then used to challenge his opponents to a game.
He said it taught him how they strategized for warfare and conflict, their weaknesses. "
"Interesting," she says, picking up her queen, and admiring the elaborate detailing. I seat myself across from her, and she eyes me speculatively. "What should we play for?"
Tapping the table with my fingers, I consider it. "A confession, or a kiss," I say. "The winner can demand a confession from the loser. A memory, perhaps." Her smile falters a little. "Or a kiss," I finish.
"I accept your terms," she says, straightening up in her chair like a student called on for an answer. It's an oddly endearing move. She eyes the board and her pieces again; brow furrowed in concentration before moving the king's pawn two squares toward the center.
It's distracting, how much I enjoy watching her play. She's bold, a risk taker. In two or three moves, it's clear she's running the King's Gambit. When I decline the pawn, she glances up at me with a little frown before switching her approach.
My fingers brush hers as I move my knight and there's the slightest hint of color rising on her cheeks, that delicious pink that makes me want to strip her bare and see if she's that color everywhere.
Her pussy was an exquisite shade of rose when I'd finger-fucked her into an orgasm yesterday, she's so pretty when she comes.
My cock is thickening and I curse it silently, trying to focus on the board.
I wouldn't put it past Oksana to try to distract me, and if she is - damn her - it's working.
She makes a little humming sound every now and then when she takes a piece of mine off the board.
When I'm thinking about my next move, she watches me, not the game.
It's a well-fought battle, but finally, I take her king, twirling it between my fingers. That little furrow is back between her brows as she studies the board to find her mistake.
"You play well," I say gently.
"As do you," she sighs.
Pushing back from the table, I pat my thigh.
Oksana glances around the room, as if searching for an escape before rising to step over to my side of the table and gingerly sit on my leg.
Her posture is defensive, knees tight together and hands clasped.
Bouncing my knee up, I send her off balance.
With a little yelp, she grabs my shoulders to steady herself.
"A confession, or a kiss?" I ask.
Cautiously settling herself more comfortably, she says, "I'm not- a confession, I guess?"
This isn't the question I intend to ask, but it comes out anyway. "Why aren't you afraid of me?"
"I…" she glances away from me, then sucks in a deep breath.
"I've spent so much time hyper focused on who in my life was safe, and who wasn't." She shrugs.
"Maybe all women do it, especially in our world.
That night when we all met for dinner, I knew you were curious.
You were cold, but you were never cruel. I knew you were going to be safe.
"Oh, I've heard all the stories about you." She looks at me now. "I'm pretty sure most of them are true. But you saved me from Yefim." Her mouth twists as she spits out his name like it tastes bad.
"I will always keep you safe," I promise.
Her cool hand goes to my cheek, feather light, as if she's waiting for me to pull away.
When I don't, her palm slightly scrapes over my stubble and I close my eyes.
The simple act of leaving myself vulnerable, letting someone get so close to me shouldn't feel safe.
There's no atavistic shudder, no urgent desire to push her away.
"Vadim?" It's a whisper in my ear, her breath puffing against my skin.
"Yes?"
"Were you disappointed that I picked a confession instead of a kiss?" She's blushing again.
"Would you like me to kiss you?" I know she does. But is it from curiosity, gratitude, or genuine need?
She bites her lower lip again and I want to pull her lip free from her teeth and bite it myself. Hard, so there's a stain of red that I can lick away, the taste of bright copper in my mouth.
Oksana is a virgin, you heartless fuck. Give her time.
"Yes," she says. Clearly, no hesitation.
Turning her so she's straddling me on the chair, I cup her cheeks, my thumb stroking over her lips.
Her tongue darts out, the tip touching my skin and I groan, pulling her to me and kissing her with weeks of pent-up need.
She kisses me back enthusiastically, inexpertly, following my movements and then trying them herself.
When she repeats my action, lightly biting down on my lower lip and tugging, my vision whites out.
My hands are on her ass, squeezing them roughly, pulling her flush against me where there's no pretending I'm not hard as a piece of granite.
Oksana's hand slides around to the back of my neck, another thing I would have never allowed from anyone before now.
I let her do it, feeling her fingers curl through the strands of my hair.
Stop this. She's not ready.
With an involuntary groan, I pull back. "Why don't you go to bed," I rasp, "I have some work to finish here."
Her disappointment is flatteringly clear, but this is the right move. I don't want her fucking gratitude or her sense of obligation. When I take her to bed, I want her needs, her desperation.
I can wait.