Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Laurel
I wake up this morning with a smile on my face and a buzz between my legs. Even though I crashed on the couch, I still feel good, not cranky like I usually am when I fall asleep there after staying up late with my favorite show.
I walk into Prudence Elementary, all smiles, dressed in a simple navy dress, cardigan, and low heels.
The morning rush is already in full swing, the halls smell like fresh coffee and the faint lemon cleaner the janitors use.
A few early drop-offs are already here. I head straight for the teachers’ break room, desperate for my caffeine fix.
The coffee maker gurgles as I pour myself a generous mug. While it finishes brewing, I text Tasha a rough recap of last night and promise to call her after work.
I add a splash of oat milk, stir, and take a sip. I lean against the counter, eyes drifting toward the window that overlooks the drop-off circle.
A small, traitorous part of me hopes, stupidly, that Leonid Volkov will pull up in one of those black SUVs today. That I’ll catch a glimpse of him.
I close my eyes for a second, picturing him stepping out, tall and broad, the hard planes of his chest visible under whatever perfectly tailored shirt he’s wearing.
My fingers itch just thinking about running them over, tracing the ridges of muscle, feeling the warmth of his skin, the faint scars I glimpsed last night.
Heat pools low in my belly again, my lips curling up in a smile.
“Well, someone’s awfully chipper this morning. What’s got you smiling like the cat that got the cream, Harper?”
I turn slowly. Aria stands in the doorway, holding one of her signature green smoothies. She sips it through a metal straw, lips pursed in that perpetual expression of superiority.
I set my mug down with deliberate calm. “Unlike some people, Aria, I’m not unhappy with my life. So yeah. I’m smiling. Shocking concept, I know.”
She snorts. “Happy? Please. What exactly is there to be happy about in your life? Teaching other people’s children for pennies while living in that shoebox apartment in Brooklyn? You—”
I cut her off. “Aria, the only thing sadder than your green sludge is how hard you try to make everyone else feel as miserable as you do. Maybe if you spent less time judging my life and more time fixing yours, you wouldn’t need to sip cow dung just to feel superior.”
Her mouth drops open. The straw slips halfway out, dangling awkwardly. I pick up my coffee, give her a small, sweet smile, and walk past her without another word.
Aria is part of the non-teaching staff at Prudence, but she obviously doesn’t need the job.
She comes from money. Rumor has it her dad forced her to take the position to teach her the value of a dollar after she crashed his expensive car under the influence.
Aria is deeply unhappy here, and she’s on a mission to drag everyone down with her.
Thanks to her, I snap out of my daydream about Leonid Volkov. I shouldn’t be thinking about him. He’s a parent. This is so far beyond inappropriate it’s in another zip code.
I push through the door of The Rusty Anchor a little after seven, the familiar hum of low chatter and clinking glasses wrapping around me. The place is dimly lit, all exposed brick and Edison bulbs.
Tasha’s already claimed our usual corner booth, two drinks waiting. She waves me over with a grin that says she’s been dying for this all day. She’s messaged me multiple times, reminding me that drinks are happening whether I’m tired or not.
I slide into the seat across from her, shrugging off my coat. “Hey you.”
“Drinks on me, as promised,” she says, sliding a vodka tonic my way. “Now spill. I’ve been dying to hear about what happened, all day.”
I take a long sip, the cold bite of lime and the smooth burn of vodka going down my throat. And launch into it. By the time I finish, Tasha’s mouth is hanging open, eyes wide like I just told her I robbed a bank. She blinks once, twice, then snatches her phone off the table.
“Wait. Hold up.” She’s already typing. “Leonid Volkov, right? The billionaire guy? One of New York’s eligible bachelors?”
I nod, now sipping my second glass.
She turns the screen toward me. It’s one of those glossy magazine shots, him in a tailored black suit, arms crossed, staring straight into the camera, looking so confident.
Tasha lets out a long, appreciative “Wow.” She fans herself dramatically. “Laurel. You saw this man naked?”
I nod again, cheeks burning. “Unfortunately. Or… fortunately? I don’t know anymore.”
“Oh my God.” She leans in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “What I would give to have your eyes right now. Just once.”
I laugh despite myself. “Tasha. You have a boyfriend.”
She waves a hand. “A little admiration here and there hasn’t done anyone any harm. James would understand.”
“I’m sure he would,” I say dryly, rolling my eyes. “Totally chill about his girlfriend drooling over another naked man.”
Tasha’s still glued to the phone, scrolling through more pictures. “Way to go, babe,” she murmurs, almost reverent. “You bagged the hottest forbidden fruit in New York.”
I shake my head, setting my glass down with a soft clink. “No, I didn’t bag him. Unfortunately, I can’t go on with what we did last night.”
Her head snaps up. “Why not?”
“Obviously because it’s against every school rule in the book. You don’t frolic with a student’s parent. It’s literally in the ethics handbook. I could lose my job.”
Tasha snorts, waving me off like I just suggested the sky is green.
“Yeah, but they’re not going to find out.
Who’s going to tell them? You? Definitely not Mr. Hot Daddy.
He’s got a hell of a lot more to lose if this gets out.
He’s not going to be the one running his mouth, and neither would you. So I don’t see the problem here.”
I laugh at the nickname. “Tasha.”
“I’m serious,” she presses. “You’ve already crossed the line. Why stop now? For the first time since forever, you’ve found a man who actually catches your fancy. A man who clearly wants you. A man you can finally lose your V-card to and get properly laid. And you’re just going to… give that up?”
I roll my eyes so hard it hurts. “I’m definitely not losing my virginity to Leonid Volkov.”
Tasha leans back, crossing her arms, one brow arched high. “Why the hell not? You’re twenty-five, babe. You’ve waited long enough for Mr. Right. Maybe Mr. Right is actually Mr. Tall, Dark, Dangerous, and Hung Like a—”
“Stop,” I groan, but I’m smiling despite myself. The vodka’s warming my veins.
She shrugs, unrepentant. “Just saying. Life’s too short to keep playing it safe. And from what you told me? That man is not safe. He’s exactly the kind of trouble you need.”
I inhale deeply. “I’m sure a man like that likes his women experienced,” I say quietly, staring into my drink.
Tasha waves a hand. “What I’m saying is, don’t shut this down. Go with it, for the plot. You never know what might come of it. Maybe it’s just one wild night. Maybe it’s more. But you’ll never find out if you keep playing it safe.”
Before I can respond, her phone alarm chirps. She glances at the screen and sighs. “Shit. Shift starts in an hour. Gotta head to the club.”
She fishes a few bills from her wallet and drops them on the table to cover both our tabs.
“I can give you a ride,” I offer, already reaching for my coat.
“Nah, babe. Taxi’s faster. You don’t need to drive all the way to the Meatpacking District and back in rush hour.”
We slide out of the booth and weave through the growing crowd toward the door. Outside, the air carries the familiar scent of exhaust and pretzels from a nearby cart. Manhattan rush hour is in full swing, horns blaring, pedestrians spilling off sidewalks.
Tasha steps to the curb and raises her hand. A taxi pulls over almost immediately. Before she climbs in, she turns to me, expression suddenly serious.
“Promise me something.”
I tilt my head. “What?”
“Go with the flow. See where the tide takes you. Don’t overthink it to death.”
She pulls me into a quick, fierce hug, then releases me with a wink and disappears into the back seat. The taxi pulls away, taillights disappearing into the sea of red brake lights.
I stand there for a second, breath fogging in the cold, then turn toward where I parked my Honda three blocks away.
Finding a spot in Manhattan during rush hour is hell, so I had to walk farther than I wanted.
My heels click against the sidewalk as I weave through the crowd, Tasha’s words looping in my head.
Should I go with the plot? I’m not hurting anyone, right? Last I checked, Leonid was single. The tabloids would’ve screamed it from every rooftop if he had a girlfriend.
I pause mid-step on the crowded sidewalk, a businessman brushing past me with an annoyed huff.
What if he does have someone? Someone the media doesn’t know about? The last thing I want, the absolute last, is to be the other woman. I’ve seen what that does to people.
By the time I reach my car, I decide that the safest and smartest thing to do is to end it. Before it goes any further.
An hour later, I lie in bed, freshly showered, the sheets cool against my bare legs. The room is dark except for the faint glow of the city lights slipping through the blinds. I should be exhausted, but sleep won’t come. Every time I close my eyes, I see Leonid.
My phone pings on the nightstand. I reach for it, screen lighting up my face in the dark. It’s a text from him.
Leonid Volkov: You awake?
My breath catches. My thumbs are already moving before I can talk myself out of it.
Me: Yes.
The three dots appear instantly. I bite my lip, pulse racing, and type faster, trying to get the question off my chest.
Me: Do you have a girlfriend?
The dots stop. Then:
Leonid Volkov: No. Why?
Me: Just… making sure I’m not stepping on anyone’s toes.
Leonid Volkov: And do you have a boyfriend?
I hesitate, a tiny smile tugging at my lips. I decide to play.
Me: What if I do?
Leonid Volkov: That’s not an answer.
I giggle into the dark.
Me: Would you be jealous if I did?
Leonid Volkov: Answer the question, Laurel.
Before I can type back, the screen lights up with an incoming call. His name. My thumb hovers, then swipes. I bring the phone to my ear.
“Hello?”
His voice rolls through the speaker, deep, rough, accented. “Do you?”
Hearing him speak does obscene things to me. My thighs clench again, nipples tightening against the thin cotton of my tank top.
I don’t answer right away.
“Laurel.” It’s a reprimand. The tone alone sends a shiver straight down my spine. I almost moan.
“No,” I whisper.
“No what?”
“No… I don’t have a boyfriend.”
A low growl rumbles through the line. “You’re being a bad girl, teasing me like that.”
Heat floods me. “What are you going to do about it?” I ask, voice shaky. “Punish me?”
Another growl, deeper this time. “Keep talking like that, and I will.”
I shift under the covers, thighs rubbing together. “Tell me how.”
“Take off your clothes.”
My breath hitches. I set the phone on speaker and place it on the pillow beside me, then peel the tank top over my head, shimmy out of my sleep shorts and panties. Cool air hits my skin, making me shiver.
“They’re off,” I whisper.
“Good girl.” His voice is darker now, rougher. “Lie back. Spread your legs for me.”
I obey, heart hammering.
“Touch yourself. Slow. Tell me how wet you are.”
My fingers slide down, finding slick heat. I gasp. “So wet.”
“Fuck.” The word is growled. “Circle your clit slowly.”
I do, moaning softly as pleasure sparks through me.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Now slide a finger inside. Feel how much you need me stretching you.”
I push in, the stretch making my hips lift off the bed. “Leonid…”
“Say my name again.”
“Leonid.”
“Fuck, I like how you say it.” His breathing is heavier now. I can hear the faint rustle of fabric, the slick sound of his hand moving. “Pump your fingers.”
I obey, hips rocking, moans slipping out unchecked. “I’m close…”
“Not yet.” His voice is steel. “Edge yourself. Stop right before you come. Then start again.”
I whimper, pulling my hand away just as the coil tightens to breaking. My whole body shakes.
“Good girl,” he praises, voice thick with want. “Again. Faster this time.”
I dive back in, fingers curling, thumb on my clit. The pleasure builds fast. “Leonid—”
“Come for me. Let me hear you fall apart.”
The command shatters me.
My back arches, a broken cry tearing from my throat as the orgasm crashes through me, harder than last night, wave after blinding wave. My inner walls pulse around my finger.
When the aftershocks fade, I’m boneless, chest heaving. And it finally hits me: there’s no undoing what I just did with Leonid Volkov.