If he was sitting on the bed, waiting, when I came out of the bathroom naked.
My eyes drift shut, my hands cupping my breasts, then sliding down my body as I picture him standing up and walking toward me… reaching out to touch me. My fingers slip between my thighs, where I’m slick and aching, and I imagine it’s his hand, his cruelly sensual mouth down there. My breath hitches as the ache transforms into a heated throb, my leg muscles quivering with rising tension, and with a sudden burst of sensation, I come, my toes curling on the wet tiles as I lean against the glass wall of the stall, gasping for air.
Stunned, I open my eyes and pull my hand away, my heart racing madly in my chest.
I can’t believe what’s just happened. I’ve never been able to orgasm this way before, with only my fingers. Normally, I need a minimum of fifteen minutes with my vibrator—or for a guy to go down on me for a half hour—and even then, it’s hit or miss, depending on how stressed or tired I am. Arousal is very much a mental thing for me, which is why I’ve never gone for casual hookups.
I have to know a man to get intimate with him.
I have to like and trust him.
Or at least that’s what I’d always thought. I have no idea if I like Nikolai, and I certainly don’t trust him.
So why does the mere thought of him bring me to the brink of orgasm?
Why am I drawn to a man who makes me feel like hunted prey?
* * *
The light falling on my face pulls me out of a sound sleep, and I groan, rolling over to escape it. But it’s everywhere, bright and warm, and it dawns on me that it must be morning, even if it doesn’t feel like it.
Forcing open my heavy eyelids, I sit up and rub my face. Though I went right back to sleep after my impromptu masturbation session, I still feel tired, as if I’ve gotten only a few hours of shut-eye instead of the nine or ten I must’ve actually snoozed for. I have no idea what time it is now, but I’m pretty sure I went to bed before ten.
Must be all those sleepless weeks catching up with me.
Swinging my legs to the floor, I take in the gorgeous view outside the window. Despite the bright sunlight, traces of fog envelop the distant mountain peaks, and the whole thing looks like something out of a postcard. I’m tempted to sit and enjoy it for a minute, but I make myself get up and head into the bathroom to wash up. It’s my first morning on the job, and I don’t want to make a bad impression by showing up late. Not that I know what “late” is—we didn’t discuss my work hours or Slava’s schedule yesterday.
I’m clean from my nighttime shower, so my morning routine takes mere minutes. The shirt and underwear I hand-washed are still a little damp, but I throw them on anyway and make a mental note to talk to Pavel or someone about the laundry situation as soon as possible. Also, about my hours.
I need to understand what Nikolai’s expectations are, so I can meet and exceed them.
My pulse begins to race at the thought of him, and I focus on gathering my hair into a bun to distract myself from the increasingly active butterflies in my stomach. I went to bed with my hair wet, so it’s got all sorts of weird kinks in it, and in any case, it’s more professional to keep my hair off my face.
Returning to the bedroom, I make the bed, pull on my sneakers, and square my shoulders.
I can do this.
I have to do this, no matter how my new boss makes me feel.
14
Chloe
I don’t see anyone in the dining or living room downstairs, so I walk around until I find the kitchen. Walking in, I see a curvy woman with bleached blond hair cut in a short, poufy bob. Dressed in a flowery pink-and-white dress, she’s bent over a sink, washing a plate, so I clear my throat to warn her of my presence.
“Hi,” I say with a smile when she turns around, drying her hands on a towel. “You must be Lyudmila.”
She stares at me, then bobs her head. “Lyudmila, yes. You Slava teacher?” Her Russian accent is even thicker than her husband’s, and her round, rosy-cheeked face reminds me of a painted matryoshka doll, one of those that have other dolls inside, like onion layers. I’m guessing she’s in her mid-to-late thirties, though her skin is so smooth she could easily pass for ten years younger.
“Yes, hi. I’m Chloe.” Approaching, I extend my hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”