“I-I wouldn’t say?—”
“And now that I’ve caught you,” I cut her off, leaning closer until my breath skims her lips, “you expect me to tell you to run again, don’t you?”
The words hang between us, heavy, intimate. Her lips part, trembling, and then she gives the smallest nod. The sound she makes when she breathes out—soft, sharp, almost a moan—shoots straight through me.
Every inch of her presses against me as if she’s forgotten how to hold herself upright. I slide my thigh between her legs and feel the surrender ripple through her body as she melts against me.
“You’re not going anywhere, Lily,” I whisper, one hand abandoning the counter to cup her waist. I pull her forward, up, forcing her to ride the firm line of my thigh until her hips are flush with mine. “You are mine.”
“Temporarily yours,” she gasps, breath hitching, eyes closing as if that can protect her from how much she’s giving away. But her body betrays her as she grinds against me without hesitation, every small sound escaping her lips like fuel. “Y-you know… so you don’t go to jail.”
“Lily,” I click my tongue, dragging her higher up my thigh, my cock pressing hard against her stomach now, the heat of it making her eyes fly open. “Does this feel temporary? Does this feel like brotherly love? Do I look like I don’t want you?”
She lets out a shaky, uneven breath, and for a second the world narrows to just this—the press of her body, the wild drum of my pulse, the molten gold of her eyes.
“You… you want me? Then why? What? I don’t?—”
“I want you, Moya,” I growl, the words roughened with hunger, and she shivers against me like each syllable burns its way through her skin.
The tension between us is a live wire pulled too tight, one breath away from breaking. Her lips part, soft and uncertain, and for a moment I can feel her surrender hanging in the space between us—so close I can taste it.
“Mmmhmm,” a throat clears behind us, but I don’t move.
Neither does she. My forehead stays pressed to hers, our breaths tangling in the small, stolen space we’ve made. Her eyes are wide, pupils blown, and I hold her there, refusing to let the interruption pull me away.
“Aleksandr,” Gwen’s voice comes, sharp and dry. “Lily needs to get her wedding dress fitted.”
For a moment, I still don’t look away from her. My thumb brushes the edge of her jaw, slow and unyielding, tightening my grip in the back of her head and coaxing one last shiver from her before I finally, reluctantly, let go.
“I will see you at our wedding, Moya.” I murmur, low enough for only her to hear. Then I step back, leaving her pressed to thecounter, and walk away without giving her—or anyone else—the satisfaction of looking back.
7
LILY
“So your officialwedding date is December 24th,” Nadia says, looking at a yellow memo pad with notes that she plans on burning at the end of the day.
“A Christmas wedding,” I whisper, staring at the way this traditional dress transforms on my body under the tailor’s hands.
The bodice hugs me like a second skin—ivory satin overlaid with intricate lace and delicate beadwork that catches the light every time I breathe. The tailor works with nimble precision, tugging the back tighter so the corset curves to my shape, pulling in my already small waist until it feels impossibly small.
My breasts—never anything extraordinary—suddenly look fuller, lifted high by the structured boning. It makes me stand taller, forces my shoulders back as if the gown knows exactly how it wants me to be seen.
The skirt cascades from the fitted bodice in soft, weightless folds of silk, and with a quiet swish of fabric the slit is adjusted, opening just enough to reveal the length of my leg with everyshift of my hips. When I glance down, the creamy fabric pools on the floor around my feet like melted candle wax.
“According to the pictures we will get tomorrow, the ceremony was at St. Ignatius,” Nadia continues, ticking each item off her list without looking up. “An intimate reception full of cocktails and Christmas cheer at the Plaza. Guest list capped at fifty. Flowers: dusty blue and white roses, along with lilac. The colors of the wedding were along that theme but with hints of gold.”
“Right, and because people care about details,” Gwen chimes in from the corner, bouncing Toni on her knee, “the cake was a vanilla cake with buttercream, and there is a slice in the freezer that you two are saving for your one-year anniversary.”
“That’s so romantic,” I murmur, staring down at the diamond-studded choker at my throat. Even that feels like it’s choking me, like the whole room is aware of me and this ridiculous dress.
“Nik and I did it,” Gwen says, laughing softly, “but Guinness chocolate cake is not good a year later. He woke the baker up at the crack of dawn and made him remake the cake because I was postpartum and cried when the cake tasted bad.”
“So no getting pregnant before the one-year anniversary,” I nod quickly, smoothing a hand over the intricate embellishments on my bodice. My fingertips linger there longer than they should, partly to distract myself from the heat climbing my neck. “Got it.”
“No getting pregnant at all,” Nadia corrects sharply, making eye contact with me through the mirror.
“I—I mean it’s just a wedding for show,” I blurt out before I can think better of it, the words tripping over themselves like they’re trying to escape. “There won’t be any… baby-making.”
