Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Laurel
“Mr. Volkov, bienvenue! Votre table est prête.”
He shakes Leonid’s hand warmly, nods politely to me, and leads us past a handful of candlelit tables to a secluded corner spot right against the window. The view is breathtaking: the Seine glittering under the streetlights, the Louvre glowing across the water like a golden palace.
Leonid pulls out a chair for me and I slide into my seat. The ma?tre d’ bows slightly and leaves us with the menus.
Leonid settles across from me, and my eyes move to the strong column of his throat, then lower to the open collar, the hint of skin beneath. I force my gaze back to the menu, cheeks warm.
The waiter arrives and recites the specials in rapid French. After asking what I’d like, Leonid orders for both of us.
Once we’re alone again, he leans back, forearms resting on the table, sleeves rolled to reveal those tattooed forearms that have been haunting me since the plane.
“How was your day?” he asks. “Enjoying Paris?”
I exhale a small laugh. “Yeah, I am. I spent most of it sightseeing and shopping. Louis was… insistent about paying for everything with the card you gave him.”
Leonid’s mouth curves. “That’s why I gave it to him.”
“You didn’t have to.”
He holds my gaze, eyes darkening. “I wanted to. And I did.”
The heat in his look makes my breath catch. I open my mouth to remind him that we agreed to keep this professional, but he beats me to it.
“Relax, it’s no strings attached. I invited you to Paris,” he says evenly. “Disrupted your schedule. The least I can do is pay for your shopping.” He pauses, voice softening. “Let me.”
When he puts it like that, it’s impossible to argue without sounding ungrateful. I close my mouth, reach for my wine instead. The first sip is velvet and black cherry; it blooms across my tongue like nothing I’ve ever tasted before. I let out an involuntary sound of pleasure.
When he puts it like that, it’s impossible to argue without sounding ungrateful. I close my mouth, reach for my wine instead. I let out an involuntary sound of pleasure.
Leonid’s eyes flick to my lips for half a second before returning to mine.
“I’m sorry, the wine tastes so good.”
“No need to apologize, it’s a great wine.” He takes a sip of his own, gaze holding mine.
“How did your meetings go?” I ask, clearing my throat.
“They went well. I still have a couple more before the deal I came for will be finalized.”
I nod, taking another sip of my wine. “Oh, I see.”
“So, teaching, do you love what you do?”
I set the glass down slowly, surprised by the question. I wait for the usual follow-up “But don’t you want more?” look I’ve gotten from so many people over the years.
It isn’t there. Leonid’s expression is curious, genuinely interested.
“Yeah,” I say softly. “I do. I’ve wanted to be a teacher since I was little. I love working with kids.”
I hesitate, the old reflex kicking in. “I know it doesn’t sound ambitious, but—”
“Don’t do that,” he cuts in, voice firm but not unkind.
I blink. “Don’t do what?”
“Be self-deprecating.” He leans forward slightly, forearms braced on the table.
“Wanting to teach is as ambitious as any other dream. You’re shaping people, minds, hearts, and futures.
If wonderful people like you didn’t exist, no one would be there to teach the children.
Imagine what a world like that would look like. ”
He says it so seriously, eyes locked on mine, no trace of mockery. I swallow. “Thank you,” I whisper.
He holds my gaze a moment longer, then nods once.
Our meals arrive just then, the plates steaming, the aroma filling the table between us. The waiter leaves, and we both dig in.
“So… about Alexei,” I begin.
Leonid tilts his head, giving me his full attention. “Go on,” he says gently.
I explain how Alexei has been acting lately, withdrawn, refusing to mingle with the other kids, and growing more aggressive by the day. “He’s smart,” I say, “one of the smartest in my class, but the way he interacts with his classmates… It’s concerning. I think it’s a cry for help.”
Leonid lets out a harsh breath, nodding.
“Has he always been like this?”
Leonid leans back in his seat, no longer eating.
His gaze is distant, pained. “No. Alexei lost his nanny a year ago. She had been with us… with him, his entire life. He took her death hard. After that… he became withdrawn. We’ve gone through four different nannies since then.
They always end up quitting because Alexei makes it hard for them to do their job. ”
My heart clenches. “I hope I’m not prying,” I say softly, “but what about his mother?”
Leonid’s eyes darken. “She’s dead.”
I wince inwardly. No wonder the nanny’s death hit him so hard. I blink back the sudden sting in my eyes. “I… I’m so sorry.”
He waves me off. “No need. And I’m sorry that Alexei has made your job harder. I’m working on it.”
I shake my head. “There’s no need to apologize. That’s my job. I’ve had more difficult kids before. But I like to make sure my students are okay, and since I’ve been teaching Alexei’s class these past three months, I’ve noticed a pattern and thought it was worth mentioning.”
He nods slightly, eyes steady on me. “I appreciate it,” he says.
I swallow, then tentatively ask, “Can I… make a suggestion?”
“Go ahead,” he says without hesitation.
“I think… he needs more time with you. Bonding time. Even small things, such as reading together, games, and dinners. Just… showing him he isn’t alone, that he isn’t being abandoned.
I know you’re busy, but you need to make time for him, and…
” I quickly shut my mouth, realizing I’m lecturing him.
“Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… teach you how to be a parent. ”
He surprises me by smiling. “It’s okay,” he says. “A lecture well deserved.”
I blink, caught off guard.
“I appreciate your concern for Alexei,” he continues. “I’m working on cutting back, spending more time with him.”
I glance at our food. He follows my gaze. “It’s getting cold,” he says, almost teasingly. “We should eat.”
The meal is incredible. I’ve never had French cuisine like this: seared duck with a cherry reduction, buttery ratatouille, and delicate escargot that melts in my mouth. Every bite tastes better than the last, and I can’t stop thinking that I’ll never be able to eat ordinary food after this trip.
We eat in companionable quiet for a few minutes before Leonid sets his fork down, eyes on me.
“So,” he says, voice low, “do you always go to parents’ homes to discuss their children’s behavior?”
My cheeks ignite instantly as the memory of our first meeting comes back. I duck my head, pretending to concentrate on cutting another piece of duck.
“Yeah,” I manage, “but not all the time. Mostly, I meet them at school.”
He nods slowly. “That’s better. It’s risky going to a stranger’s home.”
The way he says it, holding my eyes, makes heat crawl up my neck. I nod and look away, suddenly fascinated by the candle flame flickering between us.
The rest of the meal passes in easy conversation: how I spent the day wandering the Tuileries, how the city feels slower and softer than New York. He listens, asks questions, and laughs quietly at my wide-eyed descriptions of the patisseries and the Seine at sunset.
After dessert—crème br?lée with a perfect glassy top that cracks under my spoon—we leave. Louis is waiting outside, opens the car door for us, and drives us back to the hotel in comfortable silence.
The elevator ride up is torture.
It’s just the two of us. The mirrored walls reflect us from every angle, and our eyes meet in the mirror. He doesn’t look away. Neither do I.
“Laurel,” he growls. “I know we agreed to keep things professional.”
My breath catches.
“But right now,” he continues, gaze locked on mine in the reflection, “I would really love to kiss you.”
The words land like a match on dry grass. Before I can think and remember all the reasons I shouldn’t, I blurt, “Please kiss me—”
He’s on me before I finish the sentence.
One hand cups my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone, and the other slides to my waist and pulls me flush against him.
His mouth crashes down on mine, hot, hungry, claiming.
I gasp into the kiss, and he takes advantage, tongue sliding against mine in a slow stroke that makes my knees buckle.
I wrap my arms around his neck, fingers sinking into his hair, tugging him closer. He groans low in his throat, and the sound vibrates through me. He deepens the kiss, tilting my head to the exact angle he wants, licking into my mouth like he’s starving for it.
His teeth graze my lower lip, just enough to sting, and he soothes the spot with another slow sweep of his tongue. One hand slides down my back, palm splaying possessively over the curve of my ass, pulling me tighter against the hard ridge of him.
I moan, and he answers with a rough sound, fingers flexing against my skin.
The elevator dings. We break apart just as the doors slide open. Breathing hard, we stare at each other for one suspended second. Then he takes my hand and pulls me out into the hallway.
We stumble toward the suite, his mouth on my throat, teeth grazing my pulse point. He growls against my skin, fumbles the key card, and gets the door open.
The moment it clicks shut behind us, he’s on me again.
This kiss is hungrier, less controlled. My hands tear at his shirt, buttons popping, fabric ripping a little.
I need him naked. Need to feel his skin.
He helps me by shrugging out of it. Tattoos cover his arms, chest, and ribs, dark ink curling over muscle, scars faint beneath.
I drag my nails down his pecs; he hisses, hands already bunching my dress up around my hips.
We stumble backward, toward his bedroom, mouths fused. When we finally come up for air, chests heaving, foreheads pressed together, I realize I’m trembling.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, chest heaving, eyes dark and molten.
“I want to fuck you so badly,” he rasps, voice wrecked, forehead pressed to mine. “But I also need you to enjoy it. So I need to know how you like being fucked.”
Heat floods between my legs, and my thighs clench involuntarily. He must feel the way my body reacts because his thumb strokes slowly across my lower lip, voice dropping even lower. “I know you’ve fantasized about me splitting you in half with my cock.”
My face ignites. Tomato-red doesn’t begin to cover it. I can feel the flush burning from my chest to my hairline.
He cups my cheek, thumb brushing my lip again, gentler this time. “No need to be embarrassed. I’ve dreamed about what I’m going to do to your body, too.” His gaze drops to my mouth, then lower, then back up. “But we need to be on the same page. What do you like in the bedroom?”
“Uh… normal stuff.”
He tilts his head. “What’s ‘normal stuff’?”
I scramble. “I—I like… kissing. Touching. You know the usual.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “What makes you come? What exactly do you like?”
My face must give me away because his expression shifts. He goes very still.
“Is this your first time?” he asks quietly.
I can’t lie. He’s going to find out anyway. I nod, biting my lower lip so hard I taste copper.
He exhales roughly, drags both hands through his hair, and steps back half a pace. “What?”
He stares at me, jaw working. “All those messages. All those fantasies you typed about me splitting you open, about me fucking you until you scream. You’ve never…”
I nod again.
He lets out a harsh breath, shaking his head. “We can’t do this.”
My heart plummets. “Why not? Because I’m a virgin?” The words come out sharper than I intend. “You have a thing against virgins?”
“No.” He steps closer again, voice low and strained. “Because this is your first time. You deserve more than me. More than just sex. I can’t give you more, Laurel. I can’t give you gentle, slow, or romance. I like things a certain way in the bedroom, ways you won’t be able to handle.”
I close the distance between us in one step, press my chest to his, palms flat against the hard planes of his pecs. His heartbeat thunders under my fingers.
“I’m not asking for more,” I whisper. “I’m not asking you to treat me like porcelain. I want you to drill me. I want you to fuck me the way you want to. The way I’ve been imagining since the first time I saw you.”
He groans, low, guttural, almost pained, and his control snaps.
His mouth crashes down on mine, hungry, desperate. One hand fists in my hair, tilting my head exactly where he wants it; the other clamps around my hip, yanking me flush against him so I can feel every thick, hard inch of him pressing into my stomach.
I moan into his mouth. He swallows the sound, tongue stroking deep, claiming, tasting like wine and want. His teeth graze my lower lip, tug, then soothe with another slow lick. My hands scramble up his back, nails digging into muscle, trying to pull him closer, deeper, more.
He walks me backward until my spine hits the wall. His thigh wedges between mine, pressing up against my aching center. I gasp, hips jerking forward on instinct, grinding against the hard muscle there.
“Fuck,” he growls against my mouth. “You have no idea what you’re asking for.”
“I do,” I breathe, trembling. “I want it. I want you.”
His eyes are filled with want. His hand slides down and cups me through my dress. I whimper, hips rocking into his palm.
“Last chance,” he rasps, forehead pressed to mine, breathing ragged. “Tell me to stop.”
I shake my head. “Don’t you dare.”
He groans and kisses me again, harder, hungrier, devouring. And I know there’s no going back.