I work her with slow, teasing strokes, circling but never landing where she needs it. Building the ache in increments until her breathing goes ragged and her hands abandon the sheets to find my shoulders.
“Pyotr, please?—”
“Please, what?”
“I need you inside me.” Her voice breaks on the last word. “Please.”
I position myself between her thighs and push inside her in one long, measured stroke. She arches her back off the mattress, and the moan that leaves her is deep enough to vibrate through both of us. Buried to the hilt, I hold still and let her adjust.
“Breathe with me,” I tell her.
She matches my breathing. Inhale together. Exhale together.
Then, I start to move.
Slowly at first. Long, dragging strokes that pull nearly all the way out before snapping deep again. She wraps her legs around me and digs her heels into the backs of my thighs. Every sound she makes is amplified by the blindfold, and every gasp is louder because she can’t see what’s coming next, only feel it arrive.
I change my angle and find the spot that makes her body lock up. She cries out, and I keep the same angle, depth, and rhythm. I take my time, because this isn’t about adrenaline or survival or proving we’re alive. This is about afterward. About the life that starts now.
“Stay with me, golubka.” I press my mouth to the hinge of her jaw. “Right here.”
Her inner walls tighten around me, and I reach between us to rub my thumb against her clit in steady circles. She bucks beneath me, and I pin her hip with my free hand and keep going.
“Let go,” I whisper against her throat. “I’ve got you.”
She shatters with her hands fisted in the pillow above her head, and my name tearing from her lips in a sound I’ll carry for the rest of my life. Every pulse and contraction pulls me over the edge with her. I groan into the curve of her neck and spill inside her, and for a long, suspended moment, the world narrows to the two of us tangled together on sheets we’ll have to wash before Kira arrives tomorrow.
I ease out of her and reach behind her head to untie the scarf. The knot gives easily. When I pull away the silk, she blinks against the light with wide pupils and swollen lips.
“Hi,” she whispers with a satisfied grin.
“Hi.”
I kiss her forehead, then each closed eyelid, then the tip of her nose, which makes her smile. I check her wrists even though they weren’t bound, because the habit is older than the reason. Then, I roll off the bed, walk to the kitchen, and return with a glass of water.
She drinks half of it and sets it on the nightstand. I pull my shirt over her head the way I always do, easing her arms through the sleeves. Then, I cover her with the blanket and walk my circuit.
Front door, locked. Deadbolt. Chain. The kitchen window is latched, and the bathroom window is, too. Kira’s bedroom window, the one that will have a sleeping five-year-old behind it by tomorrow afternoon, is secure.
I return to bed and slide in beside Daria. She tucks herself against my chest the way she does every night, and I wrap my arm around her waist.
Tomorrow, Mila will drive Kira up from Moscow, and this apartment will be loud with dinosaur facts and the mayhem only a child can generate.
And I’ll stand in the doorway of Kira’s room the way I’ve stood in a thousand doorways, watching for threats, checking locks, and making sure the perimeters hold. Except this time, I won’t be guarding a client. I’ll be guarding my family.
Epilogue
TWO MONTHS LATER
Kira has stolen Tony’s sunglasses and is wearing them upside-down while she explains to Alexei why a Tyrannosaurus could beat a lion in a fight.
The Kozlov estate is louder than I’ve ever heard it.
Sasha and Tony’s first anniversary party has taken over the grounds, with lanterns hanging from the garden trellises, and a string quartet playing Tchaikovsky near the fountain while forty-some guests mill between the terrace and the dining room.
Sasha chose the music, which doesn’t surprise me. A woman who authenticated art at Christie’s would, of course, have a curated soundtrack for her celebration.
I’m standing near the bar with a glass of champagne I’ve barely touched, watching Pyotr across the garden. He’s leaning against one of the stone pillars with Boris, and the two of them are deep in a conversation that involves very few words and a lot of mutual staring. A brief exchange, a nod from Pyotr, and then Boris claps him on the shoulder and walks toward the kitchen.
