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And luxurious it certainly is. The tiles of the floor areheatedfor fuck’s sake, something that feels incredibly ostentatious, especially when compared to the apartment that I thought I’d be going back to tonight when I left Grisha’s this morning. I curl my toes against them, enjoying it as I turn the hot water on in the huge soaking tub, stripping off my sweater.
The entire room is huge, as big as half my studio probably, with one of those separate showers that has dual showerheads and an actual bench inside of it, the toilet tucked away in its own separate cubby, and a twin sink countertop that appears to be made of marble or something like it, with gilded hardware and a gilt-edged mirror above it. When I close the double doors that lead into the bathroom, I feel like I’m tucked away in some private retreat, warm and cozy.
It’s a nice feeling, even if I’m here under duress. I let the rest of the clothes fall to the floor, hesitating slightly as I go to take off my bra and panties, but I don’t think Levin is the type to burst in on me. If he was going to force me, he could have back when he’d had me pinned against the door. He could have easily picked me up and tossed me back onto the bed, followed me there and had his way with me—but he hadn’t. He’d actually made a point of keeping his distance—and he’d offered not to share the bed with me. That adds up to a man who at least doesn’t have intents for my body, even if he is designating where it’s going to be shared elsewhere.
A shudder runs through me, and I’m not sure if it’s a shiver of desire at the memory of Levin pinning me up against the door, or a shiver of disgust at the reminder that I’m going to have to go to bed with Grisha again. There’s really no way around it—if I’m going to convince him to get back into a relationship with me again, we’re going to sleep together, particularly if I’m going to get close enough to find whatever these secrets are that he’s supposedly hiding. It’s not as if I was chaste with him before—that cat is long out of the bag. He’ll expect us to pick up where we left off, and while I can definitely fault him for a whole hell of a lot, I can’t really fault him for that.
Which means, since I’ve agreed to all of this, it’s going to be up to me to figure out how to deal with that.
I bite my lower lip as I uncork one of the little glass bottles on the side of the tub, pouring some oil that smells like fragrant orange blossoms and vanilla into the already-steaming water. I need to figure out some way to want him again, or at least not hate him—or at theveryleast hide how I feel about him. I’ve never been a particularly good actress, or—as I’m sure his wife could attest—particularly good about hiding my feelings. But it seems that I’m going to have to learn.
Normally I’d pile my hair on top of my head, but it aches too much to even think about putting my hair up. Instead, I let it fall loosely around my shoulders as I step into the bath, floating around me as I sink into the almost too-hot water. I groan with audible pleasure as the steaming, silky bath closes in over my aching muscles, my skin instantly flushing.
A hot bath is my favorite thing in the world. It always has been. I used to spend hours in the jacuzzi soaking tub at Grisha’s. He called me his little mermaid, and when I pointed out that Ariel had red hair, he used to teasingly call me his blonde Ariel instead, alternating the two. It’s one of the good memories—and, if I’m being fair, there’s a lot of good ones. Enough that I’d legitimately thought I was falling in love with him until I figured out he was married, which is why it hurts so fucking bad to know now that all of it was lies.
And why I don’t want to go back to him, foralmostanything.
Unfortunately, Levin has hung the one thing I’d go back to him for over my head, and that means I have to figure out how to do this.
I try to imagine the good times with Grisha, before I found out. I trail my fingers over my slick, flushed, damp skin, over the slight swell of my breast as I recall the first time he took me to bed. I hadn’t made him wait long—in fact, it had been slightly embarrassing, in retrospect, how quickly I’d fallen into bed with him. He’d taken me out to dinner and the ballet that night, our second date. He’d only kissed me after our first, hadn’t even tried to do more than that when he’d had his driver drop me off at my apartment. That first kiss had been sweet and slow, his hand sliding into my hair, tugging my lips to his as he’d kissed me as unhurriedly and tenderly as any girl could ever hope to be kissed, without demands or expectation—and then he’d told me goodnight. He hadn’t asked to come up, hadn’t suggested that perhaps I owed him something for the admittedly lavish dinner he’d taken me out to for our first date, with drinks at a fancy lounge afterwards. He’d simply dropped me off.
And, in hindsight, he’d known what he was doing. I’d respected him for that, been intrigued by it. In the days between our first date and our second, when we’d texted each other at any possible opportunity, he’d talked about how much he wanted me, how hard it had been to let me go. But, he’d told me, he wanted me to feel I had influence in the relationship. Power, even. He wanted me to choose when it happened, no matter how desperately he wanted my body, and had since the moment he laid eyes on me.
As a result, by the time we went back out to his car after the ballet, half-tipsy on wine and giggling like teenagers, I’d declined his suggestion to go out for more drinks. Instead, I’d suggested we go back to his place.
I hadn’t had to suggest it twice.
There in the bath, I trace my fingers around my nipple, trying to recall every bit of it, to rouse that old desire that I’d felt for him. It hadn’t been fake or calculated, that was the worst part. If I’d been using him for his money or connections, faking my desire, it would have felt less awful to discover that he was married. We would have been using each other, then. But while Grishahadbeen using me, I’d been completely, entirely too trusting. I’d been falling head over heels, even before I’d fallen into his bed. He’d been everything I’d never thought I’d find in a lover—devastatingly handsome, intelligent, polished, and that night, I’d found out something else, too.
He hadn’t been selfish in bed, either. He’d undressed me slowly, I recall, as I trace a path over and around my nipples with my fingers, spreading the oil-slick water over them as they stiffen under my touch, desire starting to bloom across my skin. He’d stripped every inch of my clothing off before he’d let me touch him, kissing me in between each piece, until he’d finally backed me against the side of his huge king four-poster bed and knelt down, spreading my legs so that he could have full access to my already drenched pussy.
Something deep within me tightens at that memory, my body clenching with renewed desire. He’d eaten me out for what had felt like forever—compared to other men I’d been with, at least—licking me expertly as he’d started to learn what I liked best. He’d been intent on making me come first, something else I hadn’t experienced before, and when I’d tried to tell him he didn’t have to keep going until I came, he’d shushed me, pushed my thighs wider apart, and continued.
I swallow hard at the memory, sliding my hand lower, over my abdomen until my fingers are just above my folds. Even without touching myself, I know I’m not all that wet. The memory is a good one—Grisha had refused to let me go down on him that first night, insisting he wanted our first time to be all about my pleasure. He’d used a condom without my asking him to, undressed while I still lay trembling on the bed after my first orgasm, and then slowly slid into me, fucking me with a slow rhythm that had made me come again before he finally had his own climax some time later.
It had been good. Sex with him had always been good, progressively better as we’d learned each other’s bodies. But all of it is so tainted now with the knowledge of what he’d done, that he’d been married the whole time, that he’d been fucking other women the whole time, that for him none of it had ever been asrealas it had been for me, that I can’t find the desire that I’m trying to summon. I can’t make myself want him again, not really.
Unbidden, my thoughts flick back to earlier, to the way I’d felt when Levin had pinned me to the door, when I’d squirmed against him and realized he was hard.Sofucking hard, like iron straining against his jeans, and fucking huge. I try to imagine what he might look like naked, and it’s so much easier than it should be.Fartoo easy to imagine him coming back too soon, striding in here to find me naked and wet and flushed in the bath, my fingers trailing down to the apex of my thighs. Too easy to imagine him stripping off his shirt, the dark hair that might cover his broad, muscled chest, trailing down over his rippling abs to where I could see that thick, ridged cock in all its glory, hard and aching for me.
Without meaning to, my fantasies run away from me. I imagine him standing there, those piercing blue eyes fixed on my body, greedily taking in every inch of my naked flesh as his hand wraps around himself, starting to stroke slowly.
When my fingers slide further down, between my folds, I find that Iamwet, from more than just the water. Wet and swollen, my clit pulsing lightly beneath my touch as I start to rub it, picturing Levin standing there, imagining that he’s watching me, that we’re getting off on each other. I imagine him threatening to tie me up again, telling me that if I try to run, he’ll tie me to the bed, that I won’t be able to escape. That if I don’t come for him, he’ll tie me up andmakeme come.
It shouldn’t send a flush of desire through me, shouldn’t make me reach down with my other hand, sliding two fingers into myself as I rub my clit more furiously, imagining that it’s his thick fingers, that the wet sloshing of water over my clit as I rub faster, harder, is his tongue instead.
The thought of him standing there, ordering me to come for him, shouldn’t make every muscle in my body tighten with a sudden, delicious pleasure that rockets through me, bringing me to the very edge of bliss as I arch my back, my head falling backward against the rim of the tub. I thrust my fingers into myself, feeling my pussy clench around them, rubbing my clit frantically as I spread my thighs in the water, imagining him standing over me, ordering me to come again in that thickly accented voice as he strokes harder too.
“Oh god!” I cry out as the orgasm hits me, water splashing over my skin as I imagine that it’s his cum, flying from his cock over my breasts and belly and thighs as he comes too, and I clench my thighs around my hands, grinding down onto my own fingers as the orgasm ripples and shudders through me, pleasure overtaking every last bit of sense I have until I’m gasping and moaning aloud with no real sense of where I am.
And then, half-dazed, I come back to myself as the pleasure recedes, and shrink into the bath, my face flaming red with the realization of what I’ve just done. The hotel room is still quiet, with no indication that he’s back, but Levin could have returned any time to hear me shrieking in pleasure in the bathtub, and what kind of ideas would he have gotten then?
What on earth was I thinking?
I have to get ahold of myself. I’m in danger, a good deal more than I’d realized at first, and this isnotthe way I should be handling it. Not in the slightest.
I can’t afford to want Levin Volkov.
Not even for a second more.
