52. Favorite Fantasy
FAVORITE FANTASY
Tonight, I’ve learned it’s possible to be incredibly irritated and insanely aroused simultaneously. And that it’s a surprisingly erotic sensation.
I cross my legs, but it doesn’t alleviate the ache. It makes it worse actually, the slight friction of lace rasping against my swollen clit, making it necessary for me to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from making any sound. Lev glances at me before taking another left.
I turn my chin so I’m looking out the window, partly to indicate I’m still mad and also because the sight of his broad, capable hands wrapped around the steering wheel aren’t helping to cool my libido.
My husband is dangerously attractive. I used to rationalize my fascination with Lev Sokolov as forbidden.
I knew he was someone my father would disapprove of, and we met at an age where I thoroughly wanted to rebel against my absentee family.
I was desperate for an outlet that proved I could think and act for myself, not exactly as I was expected to.
Now, in a very unexpected turn of events, I’m married to him. He’s the least forbidden man on the planet. By any metric—religious, legal, moral—he’s mine. And still, I can’t seem to shake the magnetism. The idea of me wanting anyone else is laughable.
I should hate that he’s trying to control me.
Mostly, I hate how I no longer want to rebel. How much him stating what I always viewed as a weakness—that I always went back to him, no matter who else I dated—makes me feel powerful. Makes us seem inevitable.
“We’re here.”
I was so consumed by my own thoughts that I didn’t notice the car stop.
I glance over, peering out his window at the building we’ve stopped in front of.
It’s a theater, and my stomach swoops as I scan the Cyrillic script on the fabric banner.
Most characters are unidentifiable, but I memorized симфония. Symphony.
Lev steps out of the car. I smooth the skirt of my dress, releasing a long breath. Some of my annoyance earlier was to mask my relief that he expects fidelity. Not only did he not spend the afternoon with another woman, but he brought me somewhere he knew I’d love.
My door opens. I slide off the seat, keeping my eyes on the man beside me and not anyone milling around.
“Lev …”
“This way.” He rests a hand on my lower back, guiding me over to the main doors.
Everyone we pass steps aside or looks away, obviously recognizing him. After what I witnessed earlier, I can’t say they’re wrong to be nervous. But I’m not, and that’s another thing I expected to change between us.
We enter the lobby. It’s busier inside, but the din lowers as we’re noticed. As we head up the carpeted staircase, two men who started to descend turn around and scurry back up.
“Guess they heard what happened at the restaurant.”
I feel Lev’s eyes on me after that glib comment, but he says nothing.
That makes it feel like a cheap shot after he told me the man was part of a plot to attack Aleksandr’s house.
He doesn’t live there alone. They presumably had no issue hurting a woman and a baby as well, and no decent person would do that.
It’s Darwinian—survival of the strongest.
Lev leads us to a private box overlooking the stage, ignoring the ushers who—I presume—ask if we need help finding our seats. None of them ask a second time.
He holds back the velvet curtain, nodding for me to enter first. The furnishings are lavish, rich reds and gold tones decorating the balcony, which has a center view of the stage, covered with chairs and stands.
I run a finger along the carved back of one seat. “Have you been here before?”
“No.” Lev is helping himself to a drink from the bottle set in the corner.
I frown. He catches it when he turns around, shaking his head once before swallowing a sip.
“I do not like being told what to do either.”
“You drinking vodka with a stab wound is not the same as my not appreciating being treated like a piece of property.”
Lev refills his glass, then a second, which he offers to me.
I take it, but don’t sip. I’ve never seen Lev drunk; he seems to have a ridiculously high vodka tolerance. But I’m assuming he’s on some sort of medication for his shoulder, so I should probably plan to drive us home.
The lights dim. A woman appears onstage, to a smattering of applause, then begins speaking in Russian.
I set the glass down on the small table between the chairs, then sink into the one on the left side. Lev doesn’t sit until all the musicians have filed onstage. I watch the shadow of his broad profile out of the corner of my eye, feeling his restless energy fill the small space between us.
I lean closer. Whisper, “Do you fund this symphony too?”
I feel rather than see his attention drift to me in the dim light, and it’s thrilling.
“No. You can donate.”
“I don’t have any money. I mean, none I have access to.”
He sips more vodka. I hear the ice clink against glass. The music hasn’t started yet, so it’s eerily quiet in the large theater. “You used the phone I left for you, so you saw the card with it. The limit is higher than the last account.”
The last account. Which he put ten million dollars into.
“I don’t want your money.”
Another clink. “Only my cock?”
The ache I’ve been trying to suppress grows more insistent. He left without waking me; it was the first morning where we didn’t have sex in over a week. I’d gone much, much longer without him before. But, like so much of my new life, it’s become too easy to get accustomed to.
“According to you, it’s the only one I get.”
I hear his low laugh just before the conductor begins gesturing, starting the performance. The acoustics in this building are breathtaking.
I nearly jump when his chilled hand lands on my leg. He wasn’t taking another sip; he was setting his glass down.
The silky fabric offers no resistance as his palm slides beneath it. Neither do I. My legs part eagerly, the steady pulse becoming intolerable as his hand moves higher up my thigh. He has to peel the wet lace away; I’m so soaked that it’s stuck to my skin.
“Are you disappointed?” he murmurs.
“Yes.”
Another laugh, and then he slips one finger inside of me. I grab at the arms of the fancy chair, arching my hips and allowing him easier access.
“Who did you think about when those boys touched you?”
The honest answer causes another wave of heat to wash over me.
Lev was the first guy to make me come. According to him, he’ll also be the last.
His hand slides lower, smearing a wet line down the inside of my thigh. I grab his wrist. Dig my nails into the firm skin, feeling the ropes of muscle that line his forearm.
“Tell me if you want to come.”
My inner muscles spasm, and my heart sinks as the depravity of his erotic torture registers.
Goading him earlier had a cost—one I’ll pay for with my dignity.
With the admission of how weak I am when it comes to him, the person who’s taught me to be strong.
I can swim, thanks to him. But in my dreams, I never attempt to.
I stay by his side, even when it’s a perilous place to be.
I tried to move on, over and over again, and I always failed.
I compared his crooked smirk to others’ smiles, and I pretended others’ touches were his.
I’m not proud of it, and I can’t lie about it.
“I can do it myself,” I hiss to Lev, releasing his wrist and replacing his hand with my own.
The theater is awash in shadows, and the music is loud, but I’m still touching myself in public.
Something Carina Carson would never have dared to do, but something that Carina Sokolov is quite enjoying.
My fingers don’t feel as good as his did, but I’m aroused enough that it won’t keep me from coming.
Until I’m pulled out of my chair and land on Lev’s lap.
My hands brace against his chest as I re-center myself.
I can feel the heat of his body emanating through the fabric and the stiff section of his shirt where blood dried.
I’m concerned about his injury for half of a second, but it fades when he pins both my arms behind my back as effortlessly as he has during our training sessions.
It’s not terrific for my ego—that he overpowers me so easily, even while seriously injured.
But it’s incendiary for my libido, which has a primal appreciation for the fact that this strong, powerful man is mine.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I quickly glance left, then right, to ensure that I’m still behind the divider between boxes. Not that anyone will intervene.
His white teeth flash as he smiles. “Who did you think about?”
He’s hard. I can feel the ridge of his erection right between my legs. I try to adjust, to move away, and all it does is stimulate more delicious friction. I’m soaking his pants.
“Who did you think about?” I snap.
I’ve been so careful not to get my hopes too high, about us and about what the future might look like, and it suddenly feels like I tipped my entire hand in one night.
“You.” Lev says it very matter-of-factly, like it’s a truth I should have already known. No hesitation or qualifiers.
I go still, most of the annoyance draining from my body.
“I ordered six weeks of surveillance and flew five thousand miles to fuck you once, Carina. You think I don’t pretend it’s your tight cunt every time I come?”
“I …” There’s no blood in my brain. It’s all pooling lower. “I think about you too.”
“When?”
“Always.” Too honest, but I’m too drugged on desire to care.
He’s my favorite fantasy.
His smile is triumphant as his hand slides back up my thigh. I feel feverish, certain I’ll come the second his fingers reach their destination.
It’s impossible to feel like I lost when he’s touching me.