“Someone?” I repeat, wanting to make sure I’m not misunderstanding.
“A … woman.” Her voice is tentative yet resolute.
Despite the continual burn in my shoulder, I nearly smile. She’s jealous. I can’t think of any other reason she’d be asking.
“I am flattered you think I could fuck after being stabbed.”
Carina scoffs, shoving the medical kit back into the glove compartment, then crossing her arms. “You’ve done it before.”
I grin, but smother the smile quickly. This is important. And, I assumed, obvious. “I take vows seriously. I will never touch anyone else.”
“Because we’re married?”
I’m relieved she provided that explanation rather than simply asking the first word. I’m unaccustomed to explaining my feelings. The only person who makes demands of me is Igor, and he’s never concerned with emotions.
“Yes.”
“Lots of people aren’t faithful to their spouses. Like … your parents.”
“I know.”
“What if I wanted to sleep with someone else? Hypothetically?”
The hot rush of fury eradicates any pain in my shoulder. “I would kill him. Literally.”
She scowls. “I’ve slept with other guys in the past twelve years, you know. You never asked, but?—”
I still can’t feel anything except anger. “That was before.”
“So, you didn’t care who else I fucked before, but now youownme?”
Of course I cared. I just couldn’t act on it. Now, I can. “You asked what would happen if you let another man touch you; I told you. Hypothetically, it seems very unlikely.”
“What does that mean?”
I start the car. Check the clock. If I speed, which I do normally, we’ll make it to the theater in time.
“It means you always end up back in my bed, Carina.”
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????????. Symphony.
