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I flip through his tailored clothes, swiping hangers right and left. There’s a mix of suits, dress shirts, cargo pants, and sweaters. I examine a pair of sweatpants but the waist is huge. There’s no way they’ll ever fit me. I touch one of the sweaters and pull it off the shelf. It’s a muted green–almost jade–and super soft like cashmere. I check the label. Peruvian vicuña. I pull out a half dozen other sweaters and they’re all made of the same thing. Sasha doesn’t mess around when he likes something. Hopefully he won’t mind me borrowing one. I slip the green sweater over my head and I’m instantly warmer. I roll the long sleeves up over the dress shirt and scrounge around some more. Next, I find a pair of long socks I’m able to roll up and over my knees. Much better. Since there’s nothing I can do about my shredded underwear, I’ll just have to wait for Mr. Dark-and-Moody to buy me a few pairs.
Back in the bedroom, I grab my phone. For some reason, I find a little comfort with the one item that is completely mine. My finger rolls across the screen. Should I call my mom and Lucy while he’s out? I have to be mindful of what I say, but I’m going to have to tell them something at some point. Especially my mom. I’ve lived with my parents my whole life–even through college– so not coming home for a month isn’t going to work. I don’t think either myself or Sasha completely thought this through, but I’m sure we can hash that out along with my underwear problem later.
Clutching my phone, I wander back out into the living area. The place is deceptively huge and a mischievous part of me decides this calls for additional poking around. I don’t want to watch TV and I just ate breakfast. I’ve already showered, so it’s like Sasha’s given me no choice but to explore my lavish cage . Besides, he never said there was a room in here that was off-limits, except for the gun safe in the closet apparently.
There’s nothing exciting in the living room and kitchen so I pad in my new warm knee socks toward the back of the apartment. I count several doors and try them all. There are two more guest rooms with bathrooms. Funny how I didn’t get one of those. Both are decorated immaculately with decidedly Russian influences. One has a painting of The Winter Palace in St. Petersburg over the bed. The other has a painting of St. Basil’s and the Red Square. Both are beautiful. What sort of guests does he have visit him?
Down the hall is Sasha’s office. It’s decorated in blood red and black decor. What does an enforcer for the Bratva need an office for exactly anyway? I sit at his large desk and put my phone down. I try to open a drawer, but it’s locked. The top is finished in a black lacquer so shiny it could be a mirror. I glide my palms over the entire surface. What would it be like to be laid out on top of it? I shiver and sit back down. His desk chair is comfortable and so big it dwarfs me. I swivel around in it giggling.
Is Sasha watching me right now? If so, he’s getting an eyeful for sure. On my last turn at the desk, a set of Russian dolls laid out over the mantle of an electric fireplace catches my eye. Apparently criminal masterminds need a little warmth.
I move toward the fireplace. The dolls are intricately painted. They remind me of the sets my sister and I got from our grandparents one Christmas when we were little. I have fond memories of playing with them. Sasha’s dolls appear worn but well loved. What kind of cold man has paintings of his homeland, expensive clothes, and children’s toys in his home?
Turning to leave his office, I pause. On a side table, in a simple frame, is a black-and-white photo of a woman and a little boy maybe four- or five-years old. They’re dressed simply. I pick up the picture and study it a moment before turning it over. Sasha and Mamma in Vorkuta is written in pretty handwriting.
I turn it back over. His mother holds his hand and wears a scarf over her head. They’re staring straight into the camera, neither smiling. With the photo still in hand, I take it back to the desk and grab my phone. I pull up a web browser and search Vorkuta. Several hits come up including one report of a disastrous mining accident about thirty-five years ago. Fifty-six men died in a methane gas explosion. The bodies were never recovered and the scarred mine shaft had been filled up by the company who owned it. My heart hurts for the little boy in the photo.
Leaving me with more questions than answers, I put it back on the table and move on to the next room. I open a set of double doors and almost back out from the glaring light shining through the large windows with the curtains drawn back. The space is huge with polished wood floors that reflect the sunlight. It’s the perfect size for a small studio. I picture a wall of mirrors with a barre bar in front of it. A wave of inspiration washes over me. I stride through the floating dust particles glimmering in the sun until I reach the center of the room where I twirl and test the strength in my ankle.
I head over to a stack of boxes and pull up my music playlist on my phone. I select a dreamy mix and close my eyes, losing myself in the rhythm. Walking back to the middle of the floor, I make my bow to an imaginary audience. Then, I move. I’m stiff and a bit uncoordinated at first. It’s been so long since I’ve danced and the strain on my muscles is making itself known. Everything hurts, but in a good way, so I keep pushing.
Time seems to take on its own meaning. It could be minutes or it could be hours that pass during this small escape from reality. Low experimental jumps, a few pirouettes, and so many plies follow. Lord how I’ve missed expressing myself creatively. I don’t get to do that with a spreadsheet of exacting numbers. In ballet, there’s a freedom of spirit and the music dictates where I go.
I dance until I’m sweating and take off the sweater, letting it fall to the floor like a pile of spring leaves. I roll up the sleeves of the dress shirt higher and pretend my knee socks are leg warmers. My toes protest at the lack of pointe shoes, but I make do, careful to adjust my movements. I find a routine repeating the dance again and again until I’m satisfied the choreography is just right. It’s private and special, not something I’d ever share, but still beautiful. I raise my arms up for a port de bras and turn and turn and turn preparing for one last grand jete. I slow into my grand finale, until I’m still with my head bowed. Slow clapping fills the room, and I jerk upright to meet Sasha’s hungry gaze.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sasha
There’s never been anything more beautiful than Natalya when she dances. It’s fucking breathtaking.“It’s rude to sneak up on somebody.” She unfolds her perfect body and fists her hips, although there’s no real heat in her words.
“Except I didn’t sneak.” I prowl forward to close the distance between us. “I called your name several times. You just didn’t hear me.”
She lifts one foot slightly and her weight shifts as though she wants to take a step back—away from me—but then she sets it down and remains rooted in her spot. One side of my mouth curls. I love that Natalya makes a show of not being intimidated by me. Perhaps soon, it won’t be a false bravado. Instead, she’ll know I would never hurt her.
I come to a stop mere inches from her. My nostrils flare at the scent of her sweat mixed with her arousal. The outline of her nipples is clearly visible through my shirt she’s wearing. A sort of caveman pride runs through me that my woman is wearing my clothes. Strands of hair stick to her wet forehead. I reach up and brush them off then trail my finger down her cheek. Her skin is so soft.
“You were incredible.” I’m still in awe of her grace and power.
Color rises in her face. “Thank you. It’s been so long, I was afraid I’d forgotten how.”
“Nyet. You’re a natural and that kind of talent never leaves a person.”
Natalya smiles softly. “It did feel really good to be dancing again. Reminded me of how much I missed it.”
I want to make her smile like that always. But for me alone. Her mouth slowly unfurls. The gray of her eyes shifts to more green, something that has happened every time she’s been aroused. More of her musky scent fills my nose. A new tension grows between us. I grip her hips. There’s no tell-tale line of fabric beneath the shirt. It’s smooth and flat.
“Have you been naked under this shirt this whole time?” My voice is gruff.
Cheeks that just returned to their natural color brighten again. “Considering you tore the only pair of underwear I had, I didn’t really have a choice.”
I gather up the tail of the shirt and slide my hand under it until there’s only soft skin. My grip tightens and I reach around to palm the globe of her ass. It fits perfectly within my hold. Natalya’s breath stutters, but she doesn’t push me away. Not that she could. Still, I want her begging me to take her sweet cunt. To fill her up with my cock. I dip my finger between her ass cheeks, circling the outer edge of her puckered hole. She clenches as if that would keep me out.
“Easy, solnishko. It’s just a little touch, nothing more,” I soothe her. “Open for me, my little sun.”
I don’t push her, merely wait, until my patience is rewarded. Ever so slowly, she relaxes, and her legs part enough that I can slip my hand further between them. Not wanting to make her too skittish, I move my finger away from her tempting asshole and meet the wet heat spilling from her. Natalya may not realize it yet, but she liked the feel of my finger teasing that forbidden place. It’s most definitely something we’ll explore. But first, I want a taste of her juicy cunt.
I’ll be the first person who gets to experience her virgin tightness. I could spill from that alone. Control, Sasha.
