She pushes her plate away with a satisfied little moan. “I guess I was hungrier than I thought. Thank you, that was delicious.”
I add it to the dishwasher. As much as I would like to stay here with my solnishko and go back to bed to tease another orgasm or three out of her, I have work that needs to get done. “I have to leave for a little while.”
Natalya jerks. “Leave?”
“Yes. I have some things I need to take care of. I’ll be back in a few hours.” I stare hard at her. “The elevator only works with a special keycard, so you won’t be tempted to disappear while I’m away. Not that there’s anywhere you could hide that I wouldn’t find you.”
“Threatening me doesn’t instill any confidence that you won’t hurt me me if it comes down to it.”
It’s obvious I need to make things more clear. Once again, I close the distance between us. I fist Natalya’s hair, tug her head back, then slam my mouth down on hers thrusting my tongue deep inside. My other hand palms her breast, squeezing and kneading the tender flesh. She clutches my shoulder and digs her nails in as she moans. I pinch her nipple as I release her mouth, and she shudders. The green in her eyes has darkened and they’re glazed with arousal.
“You can’t hide from me because you’re mine. I didn’t say anything about hurting you.” I loosen my hold on her hair and take a step back. “You’re going to have to learn to trust me.”
Leaving her slightly dazed, I walk to the elevator. It opens, and once I’m inside, I turn. Natalya comes into the room. I don’t take my eyes off her until the door closes, cutting off my view.
A part of me understands her fear. Especially after Aleksei’s little visit. I’m just pissed that it’s me she’s scared of.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Natalya
The elevator door closes with a soft click, Sasha disappearing behind it and leaving me alone. Does this make me the princess trapped in a tower? A chill racks my body. A rather drafty tower, it would appear. Where’s the thermostat in this place? I’m going to freeze to death in this bougie meatlocker of a penthouse. It’s funny how there isn’t a chill when Sasha is near, even though I’ve been mostly naked since I got here. He says he’ll be back in a few hours, but I don’t want to be a popsicle by the time he returns.
I head into the bedroom and pull open the closet door. There has to be something warmer in here I can wear. I flick the first switch. Instead of an overhead light coming in, there’s a strange clicking sound and then a door at the back pops open. A reddish light comes from behind it. Is this some portal to the upside down or have I been watching too much Netflix with Luka and Lydia? My phone buzzes from the bedroom and I back out of the closet to grab it off the nightstand. It’s an unfamiliar number.
“Hello?”
“Stay out of the closet, solnishko,” Sasha grumbles over the purr of his vehicle.
“How did you know I was in there?” I glance back toward it and then around the room, but don’t spot any cameras.
“It’s set to alarm me if the gun safe has been triggered. Planning something?”
“Hardly,” I scoff, annoyed at the humor in his voice. “It’s ridiculously cold in your apartment.”
I rub my chest trying to warm up but it doesn’t work. Sasha grunts.
“Don’t do that or I’m coming home.”
“Do what?” I ask.
He definitely has cameras here somewhere.“I’ll set the temperature higher and lock the safe remotely. Be a good girl, will you?” he says.
“Of course,” I mumble but he’s already hung up.
I put my phone back on the nightstand and then go to the closet again. This time, I flick the second switch to illuminate the large area with shelves and drawers perfectly placed. The door at the end of the closet is shut.
His clothes are organized in a horrifyingly precise manner from light to dark, mostly dark given his outfits of choice. He even sports an impressive collection of shoes including running sneakers, boots and fancy Italian leather loafers. He probably has more shoes than I do. I grin because the mostly stoic and closet hornball enforcer has a clothing fetish; one might even call him a clotheshorse if feeling bold.
A small island counter steals my attention next. Overhead lighting shines down on a glass top that protects a collection of designer watches. They have to cost a lot of money and some of them look more worn than others. I pull out the drawer and pick up the fanciest of the bunch, the back is engraved with the name Patek Phillipe. It’s heavy as I slip it over my wrist without having to open the locking mechanism. The pearl face glows in green, blue, and violet luminescence. I slip it off and put it back with the other ten. I turn nearly all of them over. Each one is labeled with names like Cartier, Vacheron, Girard-Perregaux, and Rolex. There’s an empty space for a twelfth one which he must be wearing today. I doubt it’s a Swatch.
The three I didn’t touch have cracked faces and two of them have a dead battery. Why doesn’t he fix them? Are these trophies from his “job”? Thank god my dad doesn’t wear one. Shaking off my suspicions I resume snooping.
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?