Nikolai
“Did she eat?”I ask Mrs. Kuznetsova when I go to the kitchen for a glass of water.
She closes the dishwasher and wipes her hands on a towel.
“She tried.” She gives me a small smile. “A few bites of everything, but she said she wasn’t very hungry. She looked tired. I think she was just tired.”
I nod. It wasn’t outright defiance, her not eating. Of course, I can’t be certain, but I have a feeling about this girl. She took the lesson I gave her to heart and wouldn’t risk another ass tanning just to keep from eating dinner.
It’s late, close to ten o’clock. She’s been on her own for a while now. It’s time to see what she’s up to.
There are voices on the other side of my bedroom door when I approach. I pause as I open the door, realizing it’s just her. She’s on the phone.
“All right.” She’s standing at the windows, holding the thick curtains to the side while peering out at the white lights of the city below. I softly close the door, but she must hear me. Her back tenses.
She’s still wearing the black dress I’d left out for her when she arrived. The thin straps over her shoulders do little to hide her from me. Her hair is still loose down around her shoulders, but she’s swept it to her left shoulder, exposing her neck. She’s toned. Not so much like a woman who gets up and spends three hours in the gym every morning, but one that’s no stranger to hard work.
“Of course, I understand, it’s all right. Just let me know.” Her tone has changed; it’s more terse now that she knows I’m in the room.
I stand against the dresser, watching her. If she moves her gaze up the window, she will see me more clearly in the reflection. But I think she’s purposely ignoring my stare.
Another moment later, she hangs up her call, but doesn’t turn around.
“You didn’t leave any clothing on the bed,” she says finally, still not facing me. “I didn’t know how long you’d be.”
“Is that your excuse for not changing?” She’s been alone in this room for over an hour, maybe two—a fair man wouldn’t hold it against her for not walking around a strange place naked. But I’m not a fair man.
She shoots me a look over her shoulder. “It’s not an excuse. There’s no robe or anything and I wasn’t going to walk around wearing a sheet like some sorority girl waiting for you to finally come claim your…” Her words fade, and she looks back at the window.
Leaning back against the dresser, I hook one foot over the other and cross my arms over my chest. “Come here.”
Her shoulders drop, but she doesn’t protest anymore. She turns around and shuffles, barefoot, I notice, across the lush carpeting until she’s standing in front of me. Not near me. I can’t reach out and touch her, but she’s at least on the same side of the room as me.
“I’m here now.” I gesture with my chin toward her clothing.
There’s a little bob of her throat when she swallows. Is she trying not to smart off to me, or is she trying not to lose what little of her dinner she ate?
Mrs. Kuznetsova was right. She does look tired. Like she hasn’t slept well in ages.
Her fingers lightly touch the thin straps of the dress, pushing them over her shoulders. I keep my attention focused on her eyes. Some women find their confidence when they begin to unwrap their bodies. They know with the right movements they can drive a man to his knees with desire. Others sink into themselves, afraid they don’t have enough under the expensive dress to impress.
This woman’s features don’t shift an inch as she pushes the dress down. The flimsy material slides over her breasts, then over her hips and pools at her feet. But still, my focus is those green eyes of hers. Stoic.
She lifts her chin, as though daring me to make a comment. Her fingers wiggle at her sides. All of these things I notice, but I’m still diving deeper into those eyes. She moves her gaze from mine to my chin, then to my chest, then quickly snaps back up to my eyes. I wonder what thoughts are flying through her mind at this moment. How many mantras has she repeated in that head of hers?
“Are you close with your brother?” I ask, working the button on my cuff open.
“You want to talk about my brother?”
“It’s why you’re here, right?” I pull my shirt out from my trousers and work the row of buttons, starting at my neck. “Are you?”
Her gaze flickers to my hands as my shirt opens before her.
“We used to be.”
“That’s not what I asked.” There’s a lot to unpack here, I think.
“We aren’t as close as we used to be.” It’s the same answer, and not more information.