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“Drink, Sadie.” Even his voice makes my body tingle.
I lift the shot glass and take a tentative sip. It burns. I sputter like I’ve just inhaled fumes, and he bursts out laughing, the deep, booming sound so foreign to my ears I jump, startled.
“Do women in your country drink without making fools of themselves?” I mutter, my cheeks heating.
“Some,” he says through laughter, taking another shot. “And you haven’t made a fool of yourself. You’re just a virgin in far more ways than I anticipated.”
At the word virgin, I have to look away. He just took my virginity. Right here, in this room. I gave my virginity to my captor and I don’t regret it. I close my eyes in shame. How will I ever forgive myself? My whole body is under his command. I never knew pleasure and pain could be so intimately entwined. How being indulged with utter bliss could affect me.
My heart flutters when his eyes meet mine. My hands tremble at the sound of his voice. When he speaks my name, a shiver of eager anticipation courses through me.
When he looks at me, my head feels fuzzy and light, as if it’s tied to a balloon and suspended in the air.
“Wow, that’s strong stuff,” I slur.
“It is,” he says, completely unperturbed. “Not too much, though,” he admonishes. “I don’t want you vomiting on me.”
“Oh, ew,” I protest. But when he reaches for my shot glass, I give it to him and hope he fills it again. I want to dull this ache within my chest, ease the guilt I feel for letting him take my virginity.
I wasn’t saving it for anyone. No. Years ago, I decided it didn’t matter if I’d go the rest of my life never knowing what it was like to make love to someone. And now that I’ve experienced this… now that I’ve had climax after climax… I know how much pleasure it can bring.
I’m not angry with him. I’m angry at myself for letting me feel anything at all for him.
He told me I wouldn’t get pregnant, so either he’s fixed or Nikita gave me birth control pills, and I still haven’t reconciled the fact that I took them. It’s like I’m some sort of mindless animal they want to lead to slaughter. What will happen next?
“Years ago, I was trained with my brothers taking shots in an unnamed bar in the coldest part of Siberia.”
“Oh, God,” I say, drawing my knees up to my chest. “I thought it was inhumanly cold there?”
“It is,” he says with a shrug, downing another shot. I watch him thoughtfully.
Shaking his head, he smiles sadly, but doesn’t say anything. When he speaks again, he picks up his story. “It is so cold that sometimes, the vodka even freezes.”
“Travesty,” I say with a rueful smile.
“It was negative sixty degrees,” he says. “The day I took my first sip.”
“Fahrenheit?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “No, Celsius. In Fahrenheit it’s much colder.”
“I see. Oh, God. So did you have those huge fur coats?”
“Of course,” he says. “We all did. You have to cover every inch of your skin in the frigid temperatures, or you risk frostbite.”
“Ah. Wow. Even the wind will do that?”
“Even the wind. All parts of the body are covered. We would get together at the local pub with a roaring fire. When it is that cold out, drinking something that warms you to your toes is a welcome experience.”
I smile. “I bet.”
“And so, when we—”
But before he can talk, his phone rings and he freezes. “That’s Dimitri,” he says, then he puts the phone to his ear. He listens, speaks a few things, then shuts it off. There’s grim determination in his eyes.
“Come with me,” he says, reaching for my hand. “We will clean you up and then prepare for this evening.”
I follow him when he pulls my hand. “What is the big deal about this evening, Kazimir?”
A muscle ticks in his jaw while he hangs his head, but when his eyes finally meet mine, they’re earnest. “Shower first,” he tells me, leading me to the bathroom. When we get there, he lays out two plush navy towels and washcloths. Stepping out of his clothes, he tosses them all in a white wicker hamper before he puts the water on.
“Talking of Siberia makes me grateful for the warm shower,” he says. “I never want to experience that type of cold again.” But as he speaks to me, his eyes grow distant with whatever troubles him, I know there are many forms of cold. What makes him retreat and pull into himself?
When he tests the water and it’s to his liking, he takes my hand and leads me into the shower. He follows behind me, pulling my under the stream of hot water. He pulls the curtain to the side, and steps in behind me. “Head back,” he says, cupping water in his large palm and letting it trickle down my scalp. I swallow and close my eyes, letting the warm water soothe me. I hear him bend to pick something up, then the next thing I know he’s lathering my hair.
