There is a picture of her with a man her age from university. I have to assume it was more than a friendship, and I use that thought to practice self-control, because it infuriates me in a way nothing else does, and sometimes I snap—I stop hearing the music. It all goes dark.
Practice. Practice.
Self-control is not about quitting. It’s about knowing when to quit. And I’m not good at that when it comes to emotions.
What do I do with all this rage?Maybeth sings.
I don’t look into her work because I’m not ready. It has already taken me months to get this far because I hit a snag with her old fling and couldn’t quite move past that.
I leave when she is changing because I respect her privacy. She’s mine, but that’s a gift, and I want her to have something to give me willingly, or it doesn’t count.
It will still happen, but it won’t count.
I learn about champagne in case she likes it.
I learn about perfume.
Dresses. Fabrics. Silhouettes.
Designers. Shoes. I learn about purses, but she always carries just the one, and it’s practical and fits things she needs, so it isn’t a statement and I don’t need to get her a new one.
She can’t afford most of these things yet, so when the time comes, I’ll pick out the ones I think will suit her so she doesn’t get overwhelmed.
I learn that gentlemen don’t swear in front of ladies. I don’t keep the company of ladies, so I don’t get to practice that much.
Katya wears a short dresson New Year’s Eve, shorter than I’ve ever seen her wear before.
Her legs are stunning. Long. The way the muscles shift when she moves drives me crazy, and I’m not crazy. I’ll let her know how much I like it eventually, and that’s all she’ll wear for me because my Kotik will wish to make me happy.
The thought makes me so hard that I’m in pain by the time I get to the car. I don’t want to touch myself, because it’s hers and she isn’t here, but I can’t help it. I cum to her once, twice, and another time when I get home.
My head gets a little staticky when I think about it, so I have to remember self-control.
I can’t test if I can stand her touching me. I tried.
One of Sergei’s girls didn’t ask questions. I didn’t need to take her out to dinner or give her flowers. She went down on her knees right at the start, and it repulsed me. I didn’t even ask this girl to get on her knees; I only told her she could kiss me.
But it turned out I wasn’t ready for that because the moment she got too close, I hit her.
I didn’t hit hard, I think. But she bled, and she cried. I saw the bruise on her for weeks. I couldn’t help it, and I felt bad. Made Misha pay her more than she makes in six months, outside of Sergei’s tax. But I know I can’t test myself that way again, and it scares me because I can’t hit my Kotik—never my Kotik. I have to figure out something else.
I’m a patient man, but all I can hear is her. It makes me feel crazy, and I’m not crazy, so I start listening to music. Loud. Everything I can get my hands on. Chloé Dae sings the kind of songs that make me think of Katya, so I listen to her often.
I imagine dancing to her music with my Kotik, so I learn to dance.
I’ve been learning a lot. She’s already making me a betterman, because we are so good together. The record doesn’t skip as often, but it does skip.
I’m afraid Elena will take Katya to the wrong party with the wrong people, and I can’t handle that. No one big-time hangs around her, and that’s good, but she’s restless and she’ll want the better deal soon. So, I have my guys approach her. Pay for things. Sway her away from the Chechens. Keep her occupied.
I forbid them from fucking Elena, that’s too close, and if she brings Katya around, I won’t be ready.
They aren’t allowed to flirt with my Kotik. She looks down about that, rejected, and it hurts me, but there is nothing I can do. It can’t be me yet, and I can’t take the risk of seeing that.
It’s our anniversary.
She doesn’t know it, but it doesn’t matter because we’re going to celebrate. I can’t give her flowers. I can’t take her out to dinner. So I have to think on that. I still drink champagne to celebrate.
She submitted a short story to a Moscow magazine, so I made some calls. She gets published, and she’s so happy. She frames the page and hangs it on her wall.
