Chapter 19 #2
"To a makeup Christmas."
The corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
"To a makeup Christmas."
The glasses clinked softly.
The appetizer was good—I wasn't bragging, it really was good. The avocado was perfectly ripe, the salmon's smokiness paired well with the lemon juice. He ate seriously, brow smoothing out.
I relaxed.
Looked like it hit the spot.
"Did you study this?" he asked.
"No," I said. "Just learned from videos. And I've got plenty of cooking experience. When I was at the orphanage, we took turns cooking. If you didn't make it taste good, everyone complained."
He set down his fork and looked at me.
"You rarely talk about the orphanage."
"Nothing much to say," I said. "It was what it was. Lots of people living together, no privacy, but you didn't starve either. Could've been worse. Could've been better."
He went quiet for a moment, then kept eating.
The main course was steak.
My hand shook a little when I cut into it. Worried I'd overcooked it. Worried it was too rare. But the moment I sliced through, I saw that beautiful pink center and breathed out.
"How is it?" I watched his expression as he cut a piece and put it in his mouth.
He chewed, swallowed, then looked at me.
"You sure you're not a chef?"
I laughed.
"Then in the future, I cook, you do dishes."
It came out so naturally. "In the future" left my mouth before I realized it. I froze for a second. He probably did too. But he answered quickly.
"Deal."
The second half of dinner, the atmosphere lightened.
We talked about a lot. He asked if I'd seen a certain movie. When I said no, he invited me to watch it together. Then we talked about favorite directors. He said he liked Tarkovsky. I said I was more basic—I liked superhero stories.
He laughed, fine lines appearing at the corners of his eyes.
"Ella, what do you think superhero stories are about?"
I thought about it. "Good beats evil? Heroes defeat villains?"
"No," he said. "They're about what a person chooses to do after gaining power beyond normal people. With great power comes great responsibility—who said that again?"
"Spider-Man," I said. "Uncle Ben."
He nodded. "I watched that as a kid, too.
In Moscow. Bootleg VHS, terrible quality, Russian dub with only one voice actor doing all the characters.
" The corner of his mouth lifted. "But I watched it over and over.
Because it was another world—people in tights flying around, bad guys always getting beaten, good guys always making it to the end. "
He paused.
"Reality isn't like that."
I looked at his face. Candlelight softened his features, but those gray eyes held something distant—like someone standing somewhere high, looking back at the road they'd traveled.
"In reality," he said, "having power beyond normal people usually means making a lot of impossible choices. Not every choice lets you sleep well at night."
Misha rolled over under the tablecloth with a soft grunt.
"What about you?" I asked. "Do you think you're a good guy or a bad guy?"
He looked at me. For a long time.
"I don't know," he said. "But I know I want to be the person who shows up when you need me."
This wasn't a definition of "good" or "bad."
This was his promise.
My throat tightened.
"Then you're a superhero," I said. "Mine."
He smiled. Not that restrained, barely-there smile. A real one, spilling out from his eyes.
"Then I need to design myself a suit."
"I'll design it for you," I said. "I'm a designer, after all."
"The kind that designs clothes for Misha?"
"Cross-industry," I said. "It's called diversification."
He laughed out loud.
First time I'd ever heard him actually laugh. Short, just once, but in the quiet dining room, it was like a stone dropped into water, ripples spreading outward.
Misha yawned hugely under the tablecloth.
"She's tired," I said, glancing down.
"She's always tired," Sergei shrugged. "Sleeps twenty hours a day."
I chuckled softly. "Don't say that. Misha just likes her sleep. Better than a beagle tearing up the house every day."
"No beagle discrimination allowed." He joked.
We both laughed.
"Sergei."
"Yeah."
"Are you happy today?"
He set down his wine glass, leaned back in his chair, and looked at me.
"Happy," he said. "Haven't felt like this in a long time."
Candlelight flickered across his face, softening the usually hard lines into something else.
My heart pounded hard.
God, he was so handsome it didn't seem real.
I took a deep breath and stood up.
"Wait here."
I walked into the bedroom, grabbed the wrapped bag from the nightstand—deep blue wrapping paper, silver-gray ribbon. I held it against my chest, walked back out, and handed it to him.
"Christmas present," I said. "Late."
He took it, looked down at the wrapping.
"Can I open it?"
"Of course."
He unwrapped it carefully. Fingers working along the ribbon's knot, unfolding the paper without tearing it.
A dark gray scarf and sweater folded together. He picked them up and ran his fingers across the fabric. His expression changed.
"You made this?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "Same as Misha's. Took me three months."
He looked at the scarf in his hands, turned it over, and found the small hidden pattern in the corner—Misha's paw print.
"This," his finger stopped on the paw print, "you designed this?"
I nodded.
He didn't speak.
I stood across from him, waiting for his reaction.
Then he stood, walked around the table, and stopped in front of me.
"Ella."
"Yeah?"
"No one," he said, voice low, "no one has ever done anything like this for me."
My throat tightened.
"Do you like it?"
He didn't answer. He leaned down and pressed his forehead against mine.
"Thank you," he said.
Those three words coming from him, I don't know why, but they hit harder than any sweet talk ever could. My eyes stung.
He stepped back, picked up the sweater, and held it up against himself.
"Should I put it on now?"
"Sure."
He pulled off his loungewear and slipped on the dark gray sweater.
Perfect fit. Neckline just right. Sleeve length just right. Even the shoulder seam sat exactly where it should.
"How did you know my size?" he asked.
"Guessed," I said. "Studied the clothes in your closet. Took measurements."
He looked down at the sweater on his body, then back up at me.
"What about Misha's?"
I pulled the little maroon sweater out of the bag, crouched down, and waved Misha over.
"Misha, come here."
Misha crawled out from under the tablecloth, tail wagging, and walked over. I slipped the little sweater on her and buttoned it up. The maroon made her golden fur look gorgeous. The gold reindeer on her chest caught the light.
Misha looked down at herself, turned in a circle, tail wagging even faster.
"She likes it," Sergei said.
I watched Misha's goofy expression. She probably had no idea what she was wearing, just knew everyone was looking at her, so she was happy.
I felt myself smiling.
Couldn't control it. The smile bubbled up from deep inside, rising like air bubbles, finally breaking across my lips.
Sergei stood in the candlelight, wearing the sweater I'd made, Misha at his feet in the outfit I'd sewn.
This image froze in my mind.
"Ella." He walked over, stopped in front of me, and leaned down to eye level. "Gift received," he said, voice low and rough like sandpaper. "Now it's time to return the favor."
He took my hand, pulled me toward the bedroom.
Misha followed for two steps before Sergei stopped her with a gesture. She whined pitifully once, then obediently flopped back onto the living room carpet.
The bedroom door closed.
The lights stayed off. Just that little bit of glow from the living room seeping in—dim, soft, blurring all the edges in the room.
His mouth crashed into mine before my back even hit the door.
Hard. Hungry. His hands were everywhere—sliding up my ribs, cupping my breasts through my sweater, thumbs circling my nipples until they peaked against the fabric.
I gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, one hand dropping to grip my ass and haul me against him.
I could feel him. Hard. Thick. Pressed right against my stomach.
"Fuck," he breathed against my lips, grinding into me. "You have no idea what you do to me."
His hands slipped under my sweater, rough palms scraping up my bare skin.
He shoved the fabric up and over my head, tossed it somewhere behind him.
My bra followed. Then his mouth was on my neck, teeth scraping, tongue soothing, working his way down to my collarbone while his hands kept moving—squeezing, kneading, one thumb flicking over my nipple hard enough to make me arch off the door.
"Sergei—"
"Shh." His other hand slid down, popped the button on my jeans, and dragged the zipper down. He shoved his hand inside, past my underwear, fingers sliding through wetness. "Jesus Christ, Ella. You're soaked."
I was. God, I was dripping for him.
He pulled his hand out, brought his fingers to his mouth, and sucked them clean. His eyes locked on mine the whole time. Gray and molten and so intense I thought I might combust.
Then he stepped back. Just far enough to work his belt open, unbutton his pants, and shove them down with his boxers.
His cock sprang free. Thick and flushed and already leaking at the tip.
He wrapped his hand around himself, gave himself one slow stroke from base to tip, and said, "This is your Christmas present."
I stared.
"You can do whatever you want with it," he said, voice rough and low. "However you want. It's yours."
My mouth went dry.
I dropped to my knees.
His breath hitched. "Ella—"
I wrapped my hand around him. Hot. Heavy. Pulsing in my palm. I leaned in, dragged my tongue up the underside from base to tip, and he groaned—this deep, guttural sound that sent heat flooding between my thighs.
I took him into my mouth.
"Fuck," he hissed, one hand flying to the back of my head. Not pushing. Just holding. Fingers threading through my hair. "That's it. Just like that."
I hollowed my cheeks, took him deeper. Tasted salt and musk and something uniquely him. His thighs tensed under my free hand. I could feel the muscle there, tight and trembling.
I pulled back, swirled my tongue around the head, then sank down again. Deeper this time. Until he hit the back of my throat and I had to breathe through my nose and blink back tears.
"Jesus, Ella—" His hips jerked forward involuntarily. "You're gonna make me come if you keep doing that."
I pulled off with a wet pop and looked up at him. His pupils were blown wide, chest heaving.
"Not yet," I said.
I stood, shoved my jeans and underwear down, and kicked them off. Then I grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the bed.
He followed. Let me push him down onto the mattress. Let me straddle his hips.
His hands found my waist immediately. Gripping. Steadying.
I reached between us, wrapped my hand around him again, and lined him up.
"Ella..." His voice cracked.
Something flashed in his eyes. Something raw and possessive and almost vulnerable.
I sank down.
Slow. Inch by inch. Stretching around him until he was buried to the hilt and I was so full I couldn't breathe.
"Fuck," I gasped.
"God!" His hands tightened on my waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "You feel, fuck, Ella, you feel incredible."
I braced my hands on his chest, felt his heart slamming under my palms, and started to move.
Slow at first. Rolling my hips. Finding the angle that made my breath catch and my thighs shake. His hands guided me, helped me lift and drop, over and over until the rhythm turned frantic.
"That's it," he growled, watching where we were joined. "Ride me. Take what you need."
I did. God, I did. I chased the pleasure building low in my belly, the tension coiling tighter and tighter with every roll of my hips. His cock dragged against that perfect spot inside me, and I whimpered, nails digging into his chest.
"Sergei..."
"I know." One of his hands left my waist, slid between my legs, and found my clit. He rubbed tight circles, and I cried out, hips stuttering. "Come for me, Ella. I want to feel it."
I shattered. Clenched around him so hard he cursed and thrust up into me, prolonging it until I was sobbing his name and collapsing forward onto his chest.
He rolled us. Pinned me under him. Drove into me hard and deep and relentless until his rhythm broke and he buried himself one last time with a ragged groan, spilling hot inside me.
We collapsed onto the tangled sheets, breathing hard, hearts pounding against each other.
He kept one arm around my waist, the other cradling the back of my head, fingers tangled in my hair.
I lay on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow from a gallop to something steady.
The sweater was crumpled at the foot of the bed. The dark gray sweater I'd made.
I saw it.
"You wrinkled the sweater I made you." My voice was still hoarse.
"I'll iron it tomorrow."
I lifted my head to look at him.
He looked down at me, that smile I loved curving his mouth.
"Sergei. Merry Christmas. Belated."
He was quiet for a moment, then tightened his arms and pulled me fully against him.
"Merry Christmas," he said.
Outside, Manhattan's lights still blazed. Dense. Unending.
But in this room, there was only him and me, and two breaths tangled together.