“Whatever you want from me is yours,” I reply diplomatically, giving him a smile.
His expression shifts into one that frightens me; he looks like a wolf about to devour his prey — and I am the unfortunate little white rabbit. My heart starts to pound rapidly in my chest and I back up ever so slightly, the coolness of the windowpane raising goosebumps up my spine. Andrei steps forward, coming closer to me, effectively pinning me between his huge body and the NYC backdrop. I draw a sharp intake of breath when he pushes up against me, his thick frame oppressive and imposing.
“In that case, I will tell you what I want…” he growls, leaning down so that his rugged profile is only mere inches from my own face. My heart is racing so fast I worry it might explode. Tracing my jawline with one long finger, he whispers, “I want you.”
And with that, he swoops in to press his lips against mine, and my breath catches in my throat as my whole body stiffens. His hand comes around to cup the back of my head and his tongue pushes gently into my mouth, a sensation I have never even dreamed of before.
“Andrei,” I gasp when he releases me for a moment. My mind is racing and I can’t manage to pin a single coherent thought in place. I can feel some strange, foreign warmth spreading from the forbidden space between my legs. His hand drops down to grope my backside, hard. I let out a soft squeal, feeling my cheeks burn bright pink. What is he doing? How is he making me feel this way? This cannot be what God intends.
“Chyort, you are so beautiful,” he says, his voice gravelly and low.
“I — I don’t know wh-what to do,” I stammer softly, searching his handsome face for some kind of reasonable answer. I don’t understand what I should be doing with my hands, my lips. And should I really feel this good?
My entire body is surging with heat and — dare I admit it? — desire.
“Shh, malyshka, you don’t have to do anything. Let me take control.”
Before I can utter another syllable, his lips are on mine again, more forcefully this time. His hands rove up and down my body, squeezing my backside, my hips, and sliding up to cup my breasts. Part of me wants to revolt against this sinful assault and push his hands away, break away down to the street and run all the way home to my quiet town, back to my routine and my closed-off life. But the devil himself must have worked his way into my bones, because I find myself totally powerless, limp and pliable in the arms of this hulking, dangerous man.
And what’s more, I am even enjoying it.
When he dives forward to graze his teeth along my neck, I can’t suppress a surprised moan falling from my lips. I tremble at his touch, the drag of his teeth and suckling of his lips bordering on slightly painful to my tingling skin. But I don’t pull away, even when he brushes the hair off of my shoulder and slides the sleeve of my wedding dress down to reveal more of my collarbone. He plants a trail of hard, nipping kisses along my throat and chest, my breath quickening as his lips move downward toward my heaving breasts. I am not ample-bosomed by any means, as my frame is more slender and slight, but Andrei seems hungry for my flesh.
I want to whisper no, to protest this blatant sin, but I can’t find the words.
He hastily unlaces my wedding dress and pushes it down, the sudden onslaught of cool air on my exposed skin making me gasp. I am now clad only in a simple white lace bra and matching panties, and garters on my trembling thighs. Andrei lets out a raspy groan at the sight of me and I feel myself growing damp between my legs, to my dismay. I know, logically, that he has already seen me nearly naked before, in that horrible, dank basement. But this? This is completely different. It’s just the two of us, and I am not being paraded for sale.
I’ve already been bought.
I belong to this man completely and utterly, and my body is his possession.
So I don’t stop him when he unhooks my bra and tosses it aside, my nipples standing erect in the cool air. Andrei cups my breasts and drags his tongue across my right nipple, causing me to cry out with an unexpected jolt of pleasure. All of this is so foreign to me; I have never even touched my own body in this way before, as it is a terrible sin to do so.
But it feels more heavenly than sinful, the way his lips and fingertips caress and tease my breasts, nipping and fondling me until I cry out and clutch at his back, trying desperately to draw him ever closer to me. I’ve never felt like this before, and even though I know deep down that this is the devil’s work, I can’t help longing for more.
“Ohh, Andrei,” I breathe, my eyes rolling back in my head. He grunts his appreciation, his mouth trailing down my taut stomach in a ticklish path of kisses. When he reaches my panties, I hold my breath unintentionally, waiting to see what he does next.
I glance down at him to see his dark eyes fixed on my face, as though expecting some kind of signal. I know I should tell him to stop. But I can’t bring myself to do that.
“Please… more,” I manage to squeak out.
That is all he needs to hear before tearing my panties down my legs and spreading my thighs apart. I am panting with need when he does the unthinkable: he presses his tongue against my warm, wet folds, sending a shockwave of pleasure through my body. My hips jut forward instinctively, my body shuddering as he relentlessly sucks and licks between my legs.
A half-strangled cry bursts from my throat as I feel the tension mounting deep inside me. Tears moisten my eyes and my hands grapple to brace myself against the window. Somewhere, distantly, in the back of my mind, a voice is screaming at me that my naked body is pressed up against a window for all the residents of New York City to see, reminding me that I should feel ashamed of the position I’m currently in. But that voice is drowned out by the overwhelming, pounding rhythm of my heartbeat and the involuntary rolling of my hips against Andrei’s glorious, warm mouth.
Until I suddenly remember that this, all of this, is a horrible sin. My ingrained shame comes barreling out of the darkness to hit me so hard I see stars, my body drawing back instinctively. I can’t allow myself to enjoy something like this! It’s obscene! It’s unholy!
I open my mouth to beg Andrei to stop, but before I get the chance, he senses me pulling away and wraps his arms around my legs to drag me back, a little too forcefully. He groans into my pulsing, slick flower with a wild hunger, plunging his tongue inside me and suckling that tight, mind-numbing little bud of nerves until I feel myself getting closer and closer to…
“Ohh! Andrei!” I cry out as a powerful wave of ecstasy rushes through me, radiating ripples of pleasure outward from between my legs. I shudder and my knees buckle, my body going limp from the overwhelming sensation, but Andrei grabs me and holds me up in place, refusing to release me. His mouth devours me ravenously, mercilessly, licking up the flow of honey with abandon. The overstimulation is enough to make me feel dizzy, like I might faint any moment. It feels so good, even though his relentless manipulations linger on the verge of painful.
To my surprise, another climax crashes through me and this time I can’t stop myself from squealing and collapsing into Andrei’s waiting arms, utterly exhausted. He carries me easily, as though I’m nothing but a bouquet of flowers in his arms. Through my spinning, hazy vision I can see us walking through a door into the bedroom. Andrei cradles me gently onto the bed, my tired limbs sinking thankfully into the plush sheets.
The last thing I remember is the feeling of his lips gently kissing my forehead and his soft, low growl: “Welcome home.”
Andrei
I smooth her hair as I watch her start to drift off to sleep, and I lie there beside her for a while, watching her practically glow. I watch her chest rise and fall, and within a few minutes, the rhythm becomes slow, steady, and peaceful, the bliss of her first time written on her smiling face as she snuggles into the blankets.
Quietly, I roll out of bed and make my way out of the bedroom, careful not to wake Cassie as I creep to the walk-in closet adjacent to the master bedroom. As satisfying as this night has been, it is not yet over with.
&n
bsp; I have a job tonight, and specifically, a ballet to attend.
I have my suit for tonight pressed and hanging in plain sight in the closet, along with a pair of shoes and white gloves. All nice, but not too nice — certainly nothing I’d wear out to a public appearance, but tonight is a special circumstance. I slip the whole outfit on in a matter of seconds, quiet as a shadow. I’ve become skilled at changing my clothes quickly and quietly. Jeans and a leather jacket might be my usual duds, but they won’t get me into a high-class performance in Manhattan.
Before I leave, I stick my head into the room to look at Cassie one more time. She’s laying on her side now, curling up around one of the pillows on the bed, a smile still written across her face. I see my shadow cast over her from the faint light behind me, and before long, I close the door and step away.
On my way out, I grab a small briefcase containing my only two tools for the evening: a thin metal wire and a valuable bottle of Pétrus wine, straight from Bordeaux.
A few moments later, I’m out the back door and pulling out of the driveway, silent as night. My car makes its way through the inky-black streets of NYC towards Manhattan.
Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have agreed to take any work on my wedding night, impromptu as this one was, but the hit that I’m to execute tonight is something of a personal matter.
Back when I was growing up, the city streets in Yakutsk offered very little comfort to homeless teenagers in the dead of winter. Not long before I found myself in the care of the Bratva, I found myself facing certain death under just those circumstances. More than a few boys had frozen to death out there, and that night, I was sure I was going to be one of them.
A kindly woman took pity on me. Her name was Mariya, and she had a child daughter named Sonya. Mariya gave me food and shelter for the night, and the next day, she sent me to find a man who she said would take care of me, give me a future — that man turned out to be a friend of the Bratva, and my career began there.
But I did not forget Mariya and her little Sonya. I stayed in touch, and she would write me endless letters about her beloved daughter. Sonya was a talented dancer; even though Mariya was a food peddler with little money when I met her, she prospered and saved enough to move to Moscow, eventually putting her daughter into ballet.
Sonya must have been rather talented indeed, because I learned that before long, she was discovered by one Jean Bouchard, a world-famous ballet coach on tour there. He offered to take little Sonya, then nine years old, under his wing, dancing across Europe and America to live out her dreams.
This offer was a dream come true for the both of them, and they readily accepted. For a long time, until very recently, all I knew of Sonya was that she was sending money back home, and that she seemed very happy.
Then I received a more urgent, discrete message from Mariya.
It had been two years since she had heard from her daughter. Two years of silence after regular contact. The money was still coming, but never a word. She started asking questions, probing friends of friends for information about her daughter, now seventeen years old.
It reached her through the grapevine that Sonya’s dream had become a nightmare.
Ever since taking her from home, Jean had been monstrous to her. The training regimen for a ballerina already pushes the boundaries of what is healthy for the human body, but Jean pushed Sonya many times harder. Jean controlled everything Sonya did; what she ate, when and how she slept, how she breathed, carried herself in public, spoke. She had no friends — she knew only her training.
As Sonya got older, it only got worse. Jean had hospital bills quietly covered up, hiding traces of his prized dancer’s malnutrition. When she was fifteen, he’s started her on drugs to keep her lively and active for her non-stop training and increasingly prestigious performances.
I did some research of my own on Jean, and this all seemed to be in the routine for him. More than one of his previous protégés had ended their careers broken, sick, or worse, and there were rumors that Jean could get too personal for comfort with his trainees.
Mariya was heartbroken to learn all this, but her sorrow was only matched by her fury. When she reached out to me, she sent me every last kopeck of the money Sonya had been sending her. It was all of her savings. She wanted Jean to pay for this.
In truth, the money was but a fraction of what such a high-profile target was worth, but to this woman, I owed my life.
And I would pay her with someone else’s.
I pull up at the Metropolitan Opera House as droves of people in expensive attire were filing in, laughing and chattering to each other. I make my way around all of them, heading for one of the employee entrances. I won’t be questioned thoroughly until I hit a checkpoint — I’m dressed in the exact outfit as the serving staff.
Before getting out of my car, I tuck the wire into my coat pocket and take out the bottle of wine. I had to have it in place just before the start of the performance.
As I approach the entrance, a guard nods to me as I flash my fake ID badge. Workers come in and out constantly, so it’s rare that a security guard at a place like this can spot a new face with any certainty. If anything, I’m just another late server.
I keep the bottle of wine low at my side, not conspicuously being hidden, but not in plain sight either.
The crowd is bustling by the time I make it to the hallways. I know the staff routes well enough by now — I’ve had plenty of time to research this place. Ordinarily, I would be loath to perform a hit at such a public venue as this, but Mariya was very clear in her instructions; Jean has been pushing Sonya to the brink of death for tonight’s performance, and she wants to return the favor. She wants him to know why this is happening.
Yet even as I try to stay focused on my objective, as I see the droves of beautiful, wealthy people milling about busily, many of them glowing with laughter and anticipation for the show, I can’t help but think back to the way Cassie looked on my bed, pristine in the dim light.
As I gently push past a number of other servers on my way to the private boxes, the strangest thoughts plague my mind. I feel like I’d enjoy taking Cassie to a place like this — not a hit, but to a classy show, a taste of the New York culture she’s been deprived of all her life.
I have to push the thoughts away as I approach my target’s location.
Jean Bouchard enjoys watching the fruits of his work as much as he enjoys tormenting his dancers. Rather than spending the performance behind the stage, he prefers to watch from one of the most expensive boxes in the theater. As I approached the box, I flashed my ID card once again for the guard posted at the door, who nods at me after seeing me hold up my bottle of wine significantly.
“Best hurry, you won’t be able to get in after curtain,” the guard warns, and I bob my head in acknowledgement, preferring not to speak if I can avoid it.
I step in and see Jean chatting with a couple of wealthy-looking women seated on either side of him. Jean is a thin man of towering height, with a shaven face and bald head that accentuates his already intense black eyebrows. An alien-looking figure, to be sure, but there’s an eerie cruelty to his smile as he fakes a laugh at someone’s joke that reminds me what kind of man I’m dealing with.
“Monsieur Bouchard,” I politely interrupt them, and the world-famous coach arches an eyebrow and gives me a vaguely annoyed look. I hold up the wine and address him in his native French, with an accent I’ve rehearsed a thousand times. “Complements of the theater, a bottle of Pétrus, for your enjoyment. We’re honored to have you this evening.”
At the sound of his language, his expression eases a bit, and he manages something like a sincere smile as he replies in kind. “I see. Return my compliments. You are dismissed.” He waves me off without a tip, and I bow my head politely, retreating out the door.
All I need do now is wait.
I step out the doors and make my way to the vicinity of the closest bathroom. The Bordeaux wine is authentic, and it’s a favori
te of Jean’s, but I treated it with a potent, tasteless diuretic before resealing and delivering it. In a place like this, at a performance, I have very slim chances of getting Jean alone. During a performance like this, however, it’s more unlikely that the guests will be taking frequent bathroom breaks, so the restrooms should be relatively empty.
And as much as Jean will want to watch his star pupil on stage, he won’t have much choice but to answer the call of nature.
Within a few minutes, the music starts, and as I stand by one of the doorways to the regular rows, I can see the performers begin the show.
It’s Swan Lake. I chuckle to myself. A fine Russian ballet was appropriate for a job like this. As the ballet gets underway, my eyes are torn between watching for my target and watching the stage.
Before long, I see Sonya, bounding across the stage with the grace of a deer. It’s remarkable to see how she’s grown — she was a tiny child when I saw her last. Then again, I was but a teenager at the time.
Her movements are effortless, as if the music is at her command rather than the other way around. Through it all, I can see something missing from her expression. There’s a tinge of emotionlessness in her eyes, a lack of the fire I saw in her when she was younger.
As I watch her carry out a flawless performance in sadness, my mind wanders again back to Cassie, thinking about her background. Cassie has all the grace in the world, all the beauty of an angel, and all the innocence of a lamb, but how many times did I see her looking to be on the verge of tears at her own wedding? How much did her parents put her through before she ended up on that auction stage?
Cassie tasted so sweet, and I know the lust within me craves, demands to have my face between her thighs again and again. I wanted to ruin that perfect angel, but I can’t shake the thought of how much of her personhood was taken from her to make her what she is, just like Sonya.
Footsteps down the hall snap me out of my trance, and I realize, embarrassed, that I’d let nearly an hour pass watching the show. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Jean’s form disappearing into the bathroom.
Sights on the SEAL: A Secret Baby Romance Page 21