“Don’t be a bitter loser.”
“That wasn’t fair,” she fumes.
His grin grows. “Only play games you know you can win, Lili.”
Lili has always loved challenges. She finds she likes this challenge—likes him—more than she should.
Throughout dinner, she forces herself to keep her smile strong, responses clever, laugh sharp, and thighs open, daring him. It is excruciating: making conversation, interacting with the staff, keeping her heart rate level against the buzz of laughter, bright eyes, fresh plates, wine. All the while, the weight of his hand is warm on her thigh, fingers tracing patterns across her bare skin, pushing higher when their waiter returns to clear their plates.
“Lili?”
“What?” Blurring, she’s unclear on what the waiter must have asked, expectant look.
“Dessert, Lili,” Aleksandr repeats patiently. “Would you like dessert?”
“No—no dessert,” she grits out, as his hand moves higher again, unseen under the table. “No, I’m fine.”
As soon as they’re alone again—just a moment, still surrounded by so many people—she slumps back in her seat. It’s dim under the secretiveglow of candles, and she feels keyed to every flicker of his glance, each brush of his fingers, every calm inhale.
“Aleksandr,” she breathes.
“Yes?” He tilts his head, examining her. Feigning curiosity, but with a knowing gleam.
His calm infuriates her.
Grasping his wrist, Lili pushes his hand further up.
“Take me home,” she whispers, almost angry with arousal.“Now.”
It’s fast—a wave, the check, an authoritative scrawl of his signature. Standing up, the hem of her dress falls past her knees again. Aleksandr’s much larger hand takes hers, fingers slipping between her own, leading her out of the restaurant.
It starts to rain again as they wait for his car to come around. Lili musters a laugh, looking up at the dark sky, heavy clouds churning. Rain falls over her face, soft but she can feel her hair starting to unravel in its humidity.
“No break, huh?” she comments ruefully, glancing at Aleksandr.
It’s not entirely clear or kind, the way he’s looking at her: an intent, intense focus that doesn’t quite resolve. It resists interpretation as lust, and she can’t understand it through the haze of alcohol.
“What?” Lili says, curious. “What are you looking at?”
A sudden hint of tension tightens in his jaw. He glances down the street as the car arrives.
“Nothing.”
They’re in the car—Aleksandr waving his driver aside, holding the door open for her instead—before she can let that faint twist of unease curl into more.
With a gentle hum of acceleration, the Maybach pulls into traffic. Settling against the leather, Lili shifts closer towards Aleksandr. There’s a lull of alcohol in her, letting her head loll slightly. Smoothing her hand over the front of his shirt, she toys with the buttons.
It’s slow. A delicate, strange anticipation threads through Lili, as he glances down to her mouth. Tension gathers in her shoulders, a source she can’t quite place. Maybe she should ask him to drop her off at her place, she thinks. Maybe she should head home. Her lips part, hesitating, wondering—
Leaning down, Aleksandr kisses her, lips just barely brushing hers. There’s a quick flick in her periphery, as he draws the partition up, and then his hand is sliding up her leg, broad enough to cover her whole thigh. His fingers slip inside of her, and her gasp falls into his mouth. “Wait,” she whispers, “your driver—he can still hear—”
“Be quiet then,” Aleksandr says. “I’ve waited long enough.”
She’d never thought of restraint—discipline—as dangerous, but whatever restraint he’d exercised at the restaurant—absurd, annoying, antagonizing—tightens into something darker. It’s exacting, unfair: touching her like this. She’s wet and warm and aching, and he starts edging her into incoherence.
Every drag of his fingertips. Every brush of his knuckles. This lightness of his touch feels severe. With slow circles, he brews agitation inside her, like what she felt alone in his apartment, beaten under the heat of showers, caught in the hurricane.
But he doesn’t—he doesn’t let her have anything.
