I look up at him, sticking my tongue out. "Happy?"
His eyes scan over my body, and when his eyes lock on my exposed neck he unwinds the charcoal scarf from around his neck, and drapes the scarf over my shoulders.
"Aleksandr," I huff, as his fingers work to wrap the huge scarf around my throat. "This is too much."
"You have a lot to say other than thank you," he sighs, adjusting the scarf until it's neatly knotted around my neck and tucked into my jacket.
I roll my eyes and he tugs the scarf tighter—just a little too tight. Not enough to hurt, not really, but enough to make me suck in a sharp breath and stare at him like he's lost his mind… or like he suddenly found the part of mine I've tried very hard to bury.
My stomach somersaults so hard I feel the floor sway under me, and the way my clit jumps makes me want to cross my thighs and wish for Joe the vibrator.
His eyes are steady, unreadable. Except for the corner of his mouth—that smirks.
He leans in the tiniest bit, his voice reduced to a low rasp with just a dash of teasing. "Now… thank me."
I blink, lips parting—honestly, he might as well have asked me to recite the Constitution. My brain is mush, and my heart is sprinting like it just heard gunfire.
"Th—thank you," I manage, voice softer than it should be, like the words don't quite belong to me.
I swallow hard and sway slightly on my feet, because this isn't the first time Aleksandr has teased me like this. It's not the first time he's taken some quiet, almost smug satisfaction in watching me flustered and thrown off balance—submissive in a way I don't even fully understand, except that it only ever happens with him.
Sometimes I think I'm a game to Aleksandr. A cheeky little mouse he can toy with whenever he's bored or in the mood to watch me squirm. And I hate that—God, I hate that about our dynamic. The way he can pull me in and keep me at arm's length all at once.
But the truth is… I also crave it.
These little teases, these rare, electric moments—because this is probably the closest I'll ever get to him. The closest I'll everbe allowed. And no matter how much I want more, this—this tension, thisalmost—is all I'm going to get.
His smirk deepens, as if he's pocketing the moment for later. "Was that so hard?"
I scoff under my breath, fingers flying to the knot at my throat as I loosen it just enough to breathe without confessing my sins.
Aleksandr glances casually toward the glass conference room, where yelling has resumed in two different languages and one slammed espresso cup.
"I'll take the dumplings. And get the beef chow fun too," he says, like none of that just happened, like I'm not standing here warm and flustered and unraveling like a badly wrapped Christmas gift. "You can steal some. If you ask."
The corner of my mouth lifts before I can stop it, and he presses the button for the elevator to open again. He steps aside, hand brushing lightly against mine as I pass into the elevator just as it dings open.
"Be careful," he says, not looking at me now. "And don't be too long, there is a blizzard warning."
I turn, scarf tucked tight, hat pulled low, and step into the elevator with my pussy fluttering in a way it absolutely should not be in public.
2
LILY
About forty-five minutes later,I'm done withThe Ballad of Black Tom, and Miss Ming is handing me three large bags of takeout, standing in her worn house slippers with absolute exhaustion stamped across her face. Her hair is up in a lopsided bun held together with a pen, and her pajama pants are printed with tiny dumplings that seem far too cheerful for the mood she's in.
"Again, Miss Ming," I say with a grin, grabbing the last bag and balancing the other two along my forearms like a half-functional circus act. "The Petrov family thanks you for your continued loyalty."
"Tell Miss Petrov I want double this time, Lily," she grumbles, wiping sweat from her brow with the sleeve of her faded floral pajama top. "And not a cent less!"
"You got it," I say through a strained smile, pushing the door open with my hip, bags wobbling precariously on my arms as I step into the crisp, unforgiving cold of a New York winter night.
It's just after ten. Midtown isn't dead, but it's doing a halfway decent impression. A couple of taxis slither past, headlights dragging long, distorted shadows across the slush-slicked pavement.
A cyclist—bundled in so many layers he looks like a sentient pile of laundry—wobbles as he nearly skids into traffic, lets out a creative string of curses, then pedals on like nothing happened.
The neon Taco Bell signs buzzes and flickers overhead, casting a weird pink halo across the sidewalk—a kind of intimacy only a city like New York can pull off in winter.
