I should make an effort to forget about her. Delete the files or consign them to some forgotten place in my computer, not seek her out, and let the obsession fade. Surely it would, with a little time—there’s never been any woman who could hold my attention for long.
If I’m going to focus on any woman, it should be the one I plan to marry. My life will be easier if I do.
The car is waiting downstairs at the curb at six-thirty, a sleek black town car with bulletproof glass. My driver opens the door for me without a word and then slips back into the driver’s seat, heading out into traffic without question. He’s already been briefed on where we’re going.
Svetlana keeps an apartment of her own, paid for by her father, a presumably lovely place from her descriptions with views of the harbor, though I haven’t seen it. I text her a few minutes before we arrive, and she steps out from the glass doors of the lobby as the driver pulls up to the curb, as effortlessly stunning as always.
She’s in red tonight: a long evening dress that molds to her slender figure and has a slit up one leg, made of some silky material with a faint shimmer to it. She has a white fur stole wrapped around her shoulders as a concession to the cold, and her golden-blonde hair is done in old-Hollywood style waves. Her lips are painted a red that perfectly matches her dress, and I consider for a moment as I come around to open the door for her whether or not I should make a stronger effort tonight to get her on her knees. I wouldn’t mind seeing the crimson of her lipstick staining my cock—I can imagine looping a finger through the diamond necklace around her throat and pulling her mouth down onto it.
Except… when the image flashes into my head, it’s not Svetlana I picture, as I expected to. It’s Mara, her mouth painted crimson, diamonds glimmering around her neck as I drag her mouth down onto my aching erection.
Fuck. One brief fantasy, and I’m hard again, my erection straining against the fly of my trousers. I angle myself away as Svetlana leans in to kiss me on the cheek and slides into the car, and as I pass around behind it to rejoin her on the other side, I reach down to adjust myself. The last thing I want right now is for her to notice and take it as something meant for her.
Yesterday, I would have enjoyed the opportunity to see if I could get her into bed. Tonight, all I want is a different woman than the one sitting next to me.
“Ilya.” Her voice is cultured and precise, her Russian accent still present, but not overpowering. “You look handsome.”
“And you’re stunning,” I answer, smiling tersely. It’s true, at least—she’s beyond beautiful tonight, as she is every night. But I have no interest this evening.
She settles against the leather seat, crossing her legs in a way that makes the dress slide up her thigh. I have no doubt that it’s calculated. She’s an expert in manipulating desire, even mine, but it does nothing for me in this moment. I’m already hard, but there’s no eager twitch at the sight of her pale, perfect leg revealed in a slow fall of silk. Instead, my mind flashes back to Mara, to the smooth skin of her narrow thighs below the hem of her sundress.
"I'm glad you could make it tonight," she says, offering a smile in return. "I know you've been busy."
"I’m never not busy.”
"Of course." She touches my arm, her fingers light against my jacket sleeve. "But you have to make time for the important things, yes? Being seen. Making connections. This gala—there will be people there who matter. To you and to my father.”
She's right. The gala is important, a fundraiser for the library, which is really an opportunity for me to direct some of my money in a way that will scrub it clean, while providing the additional opportunity to network with others who might have an interest in business. And appearing with Svetlana again, another in a string of appearances that have rumors circulating about our relationship, will move us along the path to an engagement. It’s what her father wants, what she wants, and, technically, what I want.
Nother, specifically, but everything that comes with her. And it could be far worse. It will be no hardship to marry her, take her to bed, and have her give me heirs. In fact, before my sudden infatuation with Mara Winslow, I was eager to start the process and get Svetlana Morozova pregnant with my child sooner rather than later. Not because I’m itching for heirs, but because the idea of filling such a gorgeous woman with my cum was enough to arouse me to the point of distraction.
It’s as if all that has vanished. As if any desire I had for Svetlana has been hollowed out and replaced with a burning, hungry need for the woman I saw this morning that defies all logic.
The Boston Library is lit up tonight, glowing against the city backdrop as we arrive. There are lines of cars waiting, all filled with businessmen, billionaires, mafia and their associates, all looking to rub elbows and wash their money clean. It’s a game, all of us pretending we’re something we’re not, that we’re legitimate when underneath we’re all monsters dripping blood.
Some of them like to pretend they're not. I’ve never desired to be anything other than what I am.
We pull up to the entrance where photographers are waiting, cameras flashing as couples emerge from cars and limousines. Svetlana takes my arm, her smile bright and perfect, and we walk the gauntlet together. I've done this a hundred times. I know how to stand, how to smile, how to look like I belong in this world of art and culture and old money. The cameras flash, and I don't blink or flinch, just keep moving forward with Svetlana on my arm.
We’re taken up to the event space, which has been transformed for this. There are flowers everywhere, white with dipped gold edging, the tables set with crystal and china, and a string quartet playing classical pieces in the corner. Some guests have already arrived, and there’s people slowly filling the spacein tuxedos and gowns, staff circulating with trays of champagne and appetizers. The sound of chatter and polite laughter fills the space, and I look around, taking in who is already here and who is arriving behind us.
I recognize plenty of faces: businessmen I’ve done deals with and am dealing with currently, politicians I’ve paid off, society wives, and socialites I’ve fucked. I see Ronan O’Malley off to one side with his wife, Leila, and I notice that Elio isn’t present. He’s elected to stay home with Annie, then, watching over her while she’s dealing with her pregnancy complications.
Not the wisest business decision, but who am I to say what someone will do when they’re in love? I certainly never have been.
Svetlana guides me through the crowd, stopping to talk to people she knows, introducing me to people she thinks I should know that I haven’t already met. I smile and shake hands and say the right things, playing the part perfectly, for them and for her.
But my mind is elsewhere.
I keep thinking about Mara, picturing the way she'd looked in that photo I took, slightly blurred and still beautiful. About her in black evening dresses, dripping in jewels, and how perfect she’d look on my arm tonight. About what I’d do to her during dinner, how I’d find a way to get her alone, how it would be impossible to spend a single evening waiting until we were home to have some part of myself inside of her.
How desperately I want her.
"Ilya?" Svetlana's voice pulls me back, low and meant only for me. "Are you listening?"
"Of course," I lie.
“We were just talking about a donation that the Vasilevs made to the library. It was quite generous. First edition Dostoevsky.”
