Milaya devushka. ” My darling one.
The server arrives, arms loaded up with small plates that she passes out for us. “This is a sampler of our best dishes. I’ll allow you to work on this in private, but if you wish for anything further, just ring the bell.” She gestures to a velvet cord I hadn’t even noticed, attached to a brass bell over our dining nook’s entrance. Some straight-up Downton Abbey-level shit. My god, what is this strange world I’ve stumbled into?
Sergei scoops up a piece of bread laden with mushrooms, goat cheese, and a million different herbs, and brings it to my lips. “First taste is yours.”
I try to take a dainty bite, but I end up tearing off half the bread with it. Juicy bits of olive oil run down my chin. I laugh, nearly choking on the wonderful warm bite, and try to catch the food before it spills all over my nice dress.
“Here.” Sergei unfolds his napkin. “Let me help you with that.”
He dabs at my chin as I swallow down my food. His grinning mouth, pink and ripe, is mere inches from mine. Suddenly, I no longer taste the food. All I can remember is the taste of his mouth on mine—the feel of his powerful hips between my thighs—
Sergei wipes away the juice from my chin, then smirks. “Oops. Missed a spot.”
Then leans in and kisses the corner of my mouth.
I suck in my breath. My skin goes instantly cold as he backs away. All I want is to feel his warm flesh on mine, again and again.
“Tell me about your week,” Sergei says, as we sample the other dishes brought out. “You know how mine went. I’d just like to hear something good.”
I lace my hands together in my lap. “I don’t know about all that. My life is pretty boring. Just trying to survive my last few classes . . . looking for work for once I graduate.”
This is dangerous territory for me, talking about my career ambitions, and I know it. I glance toward my purse, and my phone at the top of my heap of crap within. I feel like my phone is radioactively bright and blinding, like it’s so obvious what I’m doing. A bead of sweat rolls down my bared back.
“And what sort of work might that be?” Sergei asks.
I swallow. It sounds so loud in my ears. “Well, I’m . . . starting to rethink my original plans.”
“Not much money in Russian literature?” he asks, watching me with a sparkle in his eyes.
I force myself to laugh nervously. “Yeah. You could say that.”
Sergei clasps his drink and rolls it around with his wrist, then takes a slow sip. Everything about his movements is so controlled and refined. Disciplined—that’s what it is. The discipline of an athlete who’s aware of everything around him as well as his own body. Am I really fooling him at all? Surely he can see right through me. Suddenly, I’ve lost my appetite.
“It’s good to be flexible,” Sergei says.
My temperature spikes, recalling the ever so flexible way he pinned me up against his dining room wall and fucked me raw. “You certainly don’t have any problems there.”
He laughs, close-lipped, and slips one arm around my shoulders. “It’s good not to plan your life in advance. Because it always, always changes. Know where you’re heading toward, but always be ready to react.”
“Ahh,” I say, “a hockey analogy.”
He laughs again and twists one finger in my hair. “Hey, I never said that I was a poet, I just appreciate the art.” His gaze drifts from my face, toward the Washington night scene before us. A red light flashes atop the Washington Monument; a ring of flags flutters in the spotlights at its base. “Take me coming to America, for instance. I just . . . I don’t know if it can last.”
I jerk toward him, undisguised shock on my face. “What? Why would you say that?” And is it because of his brother? I’m dying to ask. But I have to be patient. Unlike Frederica and Chief Ha, I don’t want to push too much.
“It’s just . . .” Sergei sighs and sets down his cocktail.
The server arrives, arms loaded up with small plates that she passes out for us. “This is a sampler of our best dishes. I’ll allow you to work on this in private, but if you wish for anything further, just ring the bell.” She gestures to a velvet cord I hadn’t even noticed, attached to a brass bell over our dining nook’s entrance. Some straight-up Downton Abbey-level shit. My god, what is this strange world I’ve stumbled into?
Sergei scoops up a piece of bread laden with mushrooms, goat cheese, and a million different herbs, and brings it to my lips. “First taste is yours.”
I try to take a dainty bite, but I end up tearing off half the bread with it. Juicy bits of olive oil run down my chin. I laugh, nearly choking on the wonderful warm bite, and try to catch the food before it spills all over my nice dress.
“Here.” Sergei unfolds his napkin. “Let me help you with that.”
He dabs at my chin as I swallow down my food. His grinning mouth, pink and ripe, is mere inches from mine. Suddenly, I no longer taste the food. All I can remember is the taste of his mouth on mine—the feel of his powerful hips between my thighs—
Sergei wipes away the juice from my chin, then smirks. “Oops. Missed a spot.”
Then leans in and kisses the corner of my mouth.
I suck in my breath. My skin goes instantly cold as he backs away. All I want is to feel his warm flesh on mine, again and again.
“Tell me about your week,” Sergei says, as we sample the other dishes brought out. “You know how mine went. I’d just like to hear something good.”
I lace my hands together in my lap. “I don’t know about all that. My life is pretty boring. Just trying to survive my last few classes . . . looking for work for once I graduate.”
This is dangerous territory for me, talking about my career ambitions, and I know it. I glance toward my purse, and my phone at the top of my heap of crap within. I feel like my phone is radioactively bright and blinding, like it’s so obvious what I’m doing. A bead of sweat rolls down my bared back.
“And what sort of work might that be?” Sergei asks.
I swallow. It sounds so loud in my ears. “Well, I’m . . . starting to rethink my original plans.”
“Not much money in Russian literature?” he asks, watching me with a sparkle in his eyes.
I force myself to laugh nervously. “Yeah. You could say that.”
Sergei clasps his drink and rolls it around with his wrist, then takes a slow sip. Everything about his movements is so controlled and refined. Disciplined—that’s what it is. The discipline of an athlete who’s aware of everything around him as well as his own body. Am I really fooling him at all? Surely he can see right through me. Suddenly, I’ve lost my appetite.
“It’s good to be flexible,” Sergei says.
My temperature spikes, recalling the ever so flexible way he pinned me up against his dining room wall and fucked me raw. “You certainly don’t have any problems there.”
He laughs, close-lipped, and slips one arm around my shoulders. “It’s good not to plan your life in advance. Because it always, always changes. Know where you’re heading toward, but always be ready to react.”
“Ahh,” I say, “a hockey analogy.”
He laughs again and twists one finger in my hair. “Hey, I never said that I was a poet, I just appreciate the art.” His gaze drifts from my face, toward the Washington night scene before us. A red light flashes atop the Washington Monument; a ring of flags flutters in the spotlights at its base. “Take me coming to America, for instance. I just . . . I don’t know if it can last.”
I jerk toward him, undisguised shock on my face. “What? Why would you say that?” And is it because of his brother? I’m dying to ask. But I have to be patient. Unlike Frederica and Chief Ha, I don’t want to push too much.
“It’s just . . .” Sergei sighs and sets down his cocktail.
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