23. Natalia

23

NATALIA

As it turns out, throwing a fistful of post-sex cash at a smug asshole and kicking him out the door is one hell of a turn-on.

I mean, I knew it would be for me .

I just didn't expect it to be a turn-on for him, too.

But as always, Andrey Kuznetsov takes me by surprise.

I expected to see little of him after that. I didn't, at first. I spent most of the day at work and then, when I was back home, Mila and I decided to have dinner by the pool. Afterward, still no sign of Andrey, Mila and I watched Pretty Woman —always a classic, though never quite so applicable to my life as this time around—and then said goodnight around ten.

I swapped my sweats for an oversized t-shirt and my favorite pair of granny panties. With the windows thrown open for some cross-ventilation, I was ready to nod off to sleep.

That's when I heard footsteps on my porch.

Eyes opened, I waited with bated breath. Then the lock turned in the door.

There's only one person who has a key to the pool house.

Andrey was framed by moonlight as he strode into my bedroom. He pulled his shirt over his head, and I caught the faint whisper of cigarette smoke that clung to his clothes.

Inconvenient though it was to accept, I was, God help me, excited.

"Been waiting for me, lastochka ?" he growled as he slipped into bed beside me. He coiled his body around mine, his heat making my head spin.

"I was already asleep."

"Liar." He pulled me against his chest. "But you weren't expecting me, that much I can tell for myself." I tried to squirm away from him, but he just gripped me tighter. "No need to be embarrassed, little bird. All the sexless underwear in the world wouldn't have kept me from your bed tonight."

Rebelling against every instinct of self-preservation I've ever had, I let him pull me back into the circle of his arms.

"You looking for more pocket money?" I couldn't help but taunt. "Because I'm fresh out."

To my surprise, he laughed. "Maybe I'll pay you tonight."

I pulled out of his arms and straddled him. My hands ran up and down his ridiculously sculpted chest, all the while trying desperately not to let his masculine perfection distract me.

"How about we call it even?" I suggested as his hardness ground against me from below. "You don't pay me; I don't pay you. No point in just passing the same handful of cash back and forth, right?"

"Sex without money changing hands?" he mused. "Sounds boring."

I slapped his chest and he grabbed me around the waist and threw me down on my back, then ravaged me until I saw stars.

As it turns out, I am indisputably a screamer. Apparently, it just took the right man to show me that.

I never in a million years would've considered Andrey Kuznetsov to be the "right man" for anything. But if we're talking hot, passionate, wild sex… If we're talking claw-marks-on-his-back, bruises-on-my-ass, mind-numbing, toe-curling, stomach-exploding sex…

He's sure as hell right for that. This last week is proof in the pudding.

He's visited me every night—usually around midnight, when the leaves of the trees turn an inky black to match the skies. I've started leaving the door open so he can just slip inside without bothering with the key.

And as for my granny panties—comfortable as they are, reliable as they've been—they are now relegated to the bottom drawer, along with all the other clothes I've abandoned without a second thought.

Who needs clothes where we're going, right? They'd just get in the way.

If I have one complaint about our nightly escapades, it's that they're limited to sleeping hours. I wake up each morning—my body raw, spent, freshly bruised, and comfortably achy—to an empty bed.

I feel it when he leaves me at night. The sudden absence of his weight and warmth makes my stomach twist with disappointment.

Just sex, I repeat to myself each time. It's just sex.

The thing is, if I've learned anything from Pretty Woman, it's that sex is never just sex. And human beings aren't capable of doing casual for very long without someone wanting more.

And let's face it: between Andrey and me, I'm fairly certain who that "someone" is going to be.

It's a thought that's been nagging at me for the last few days now. I've been swatting it away easily enough—until this morning.

I wake up to find his side of the bed empty again and a slight bump in my stomach that didn't exist before.

I try to work off the growing frustration by doing some yoga out on the porch. But all my inner serenity keeps getting knocked sideways by the same old internal arguments.

You're not his damn marionette—he can't just play with you and then toss you aside when he's done having his fun.

Except that you agreed to this.

Because you were horny. Not because you actually thought this through. Andrey isn't right for you anyway.

Then why do you get those fluttery little butterflies in your stomach every time you think of him?

I'm driving myself slowly insane. Since yoga is a bust, I decide to work off my excess energy in the pool.

I'm swimming useless laps, the voices in my head still going at it, when Mila shows up. She's wearing a halter midi-dress with cheeky cutouts in the hemline.

"Hey, Nat!"

The nickname triggers me. For one painfully lonely moment, I think of Katya. I wonder what she's doing right now. Is she missing me as much as I'm missing her?

"Hi, Mila," I sigh.

She stops a few feet from the pool so she doesn't risk getting water on her shoes. I don't blame her; the pair she's wearing are six inches tall and look like they're made from the skin of some exotic animal.

Her smile flips into a concerned frown. "Why so blue?"

I'm sorely tempted to crack my head open and share some of the torrential thoughts that have taken up residence since Andrey started visiting me at night. But as sweet as Mila is, she's Andrey's sister-in-law. As nice as she's been, there's no telling where her loyalties truly lie.

And even if she was the damn Dalai Lama, would I want to admit what I've been up to once the sun goes down? The mistakes I've been making? The moans I've been burying into my pillows?

Answer: No, I do not.

I miss Kat. She would understand. But I shove that thought right down in the trash can of my heart.

"Nothing," I mumble, unable to pull myself out of my funk even for Mila's benefit. "Just having a blah day, I guess."

"How about we kick those blues in the ass by throwing some money at the problem?" She claps her hands. "There isn't a single blah day I've ever had that couldn't be cured with a little good ol' fashioned retail therapy."

Considering the jewels glittering on Mila's wrists, I'd say she's already indulged in her fair share of retail therapy.

Then again, the woman is married to Viktor Kuznetsov—retail therapy is probably barely scratching the surface of her issues.

"Okay," I relent. "Let's set Andrey's credit card on fire."

In twenty minutes, I'm clambering into the back of a shiny gray Rolls Royce with a fresh blow-dry and a very excited Mila—although her excitement has more to do with the fact that Leonty and Leif are my designated bodyguards for this little outing.

"Lucky you," she whispers to me as she straps herself in. "My bodyguards look like the ‘Before' versions in those makeover shows."

I guffaw as she gives Leonty a smile that has "bad intentions" stamped all over it.

I wonder what Viktor would have to say about it. Then again, I don't really care. The Kuznetsov men are not worth a single inch of my mental real estate today.

An hour later, Mila and I are circling the mannequins in a nauseatingly high-end boutique store.

"What about this, Nat?" she suggests, fingering a gorgeous, midnight blue sheath dress. "It would look amazing on you."

"I thought so, too, until I saw the price tag." Sidling a little closer so the hawkish saleslady hovering in the background doesn't hear me, I whisper, "It's two thousand dollars!"

"Exactly! It's a freaking steal at this price."

It's a shame Mila and Katya have the whole Viktor thing in common; they'd probably get along great otherwise. The irony that I took a break from my friendship with Kat and ended up with another friend just like her isn't lost on me.

"Mila, I'm not spending two thousand dollars on a single dress. I barely have two thousand dollars to my name."

"Babes, not sure if you've fully grasped this yet, but Andrey is richer than God."

"Not the point. It's his money, not mine."

The defiant flash in her eyes is a far cry from the innocent baby blues I thought she possessed on her wedding day. "That is precisely the point. Where's the fun in having a rich man if you can't buy yourself pretty things with his money?" She turns and says to the saleswoman, "My friend will be trying this on."

"No, I won't. Mila. Mila!" She waves away my objections and drags me to the dressing room. I'm still protesting. "There's no point in me trying on the dress. I'm never gonna buy it."

Mila rolls her eyes. "Didn't Andrey give you a credit card?"

"He told you about that?"

She shrugs. "No, but I assumed. I got my own shiny black credit card when I married Viktor. It's part of the package. If you're gonna be with a Kuznetsov, you've gotta look the part."

"Okay, I feel the need to clear something up." I glance sideways at the saleswoman, who's followed us into the dressing room with the blue dress draped over a golden hanger and dollar signs flashing in her eyeballs. "I am not ‘with' a Kuznetsov. Andrey and I are not together."

Mila dismisses the saleswoman with a somehow polite flick of her wrist and turns to me with those deceptively sharp eyes of hers. "So, he just sneaks into the pool house at night for a chat, does he? A little light conversation before bed? Couple hands of Go Fish, maybe?"

I'm so caught off-guard that I don't have the presence of mind to bluff my way through an answer. My jaw drops and I start blushing like an idiot. "Uh…"

Mila laughs. "That's what I thought."

I collapse on the white sofa in the dressing room and bury my face in my hands. "It's just sex, okay? There's nothing else going on."

One of her perfectly plucked eyebrows arches. "But you wish there was more going on?"

The blunt question sends a paralyzing wave of uncertainty surging straight through me. Because the natural next question I have to ask myself is…

Do I?

"No, I mean, maybe… urgh… I don't know!" I melt deeper into the couch. "I don't know what I want."

Mila sits down beside me and gives me a sympathetic pat on the knee. "It's okay. You've got time to figure it out."

"Do I, though?" I look down at my belly, which is no longer as flat as it used to be. "Because from where I'm sitting, I have a few months at best before I have to get my act together."

"I'm sure this is all very confusing for you. And the hormones can't be helping?—"

"I lied," I interrupt. "I lied earlier when I said I didn't know what I want. I do know what I want. I've known since I was five years old and I watched my parents dancing in the living room when I was supposed to be sleeping."

Mila smiles. "Did they do that often?"

I nod. "Most nights. Sometimes, I used to stay awake just so I could watch them. They looked at each other like they were the only two people in the world."

"I imagine that's exactly what it's like," Mila murmurs. "When you're in love."

Sighing, I pull at my locket. "I know this is an odd question, considering you're married, but… have you ever been in love?"

Mila laughs, but it's sad. "I thought I was in love once. I was sixteen and he worked for my father. It was very clandestine, real hush-hush. First time I ever fancied myself a rebel."

Judging from the bite in her tone, her clandestine romance didn't have a happy ending.

"My dad found out, of course. Turns out we weren't as subtle as we thought we were. My father paid him off and he decided that five thousand dollars was worth more than I was. He took the money—and all the promises he made me—and ran. Never saw him again."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. It was the hard knock I needed to clear my head of all those romantic notions I had. I learned to be practical, independent. I learned to take care of myself." She turns to face me. "You've got to rely on yourself, Nat. There's no point in putting your faith in men. More often than not, they turn out to be disappointing."

I nod as though I understand what she's telling me. And I do—to a point.

It's just that my own experience has taught me differently. It's a hard thing to unlearn hope when you've grown to rely on it.

"My father wasn't, though," I hear myself rasping. "He was an amazing husband. He would have died for my mother. He—" I just stop short of saying, He did die for my mother. Instead, I finish, "—would have done anything for her."

Mila presses her lips into a tight line. "Must have been a nice childhood."

Sure. What I had of it, at least.

"They were great parents." I take care not to let my voice falter. I have no desire to trudge into my parents' tragic demise today. It's neither the time nor the place for that kind of mood killer. "They used to squeeze me between them at the piano. They stole kisses over my head while I practiced."

Still, to this day, it's one of my brightest and most vivid memories of them. I can smell the wood of the piano, my mother's perfume, my father's cologne. All of it in one perfect mélange.

"You play the piano?"

"I used to."

I haven't played since I was a teenager. And that was only because Aunt Annie used to insist I play every time we got within a stone's throw of one. Once I was out of her house, though, there was no one pushing me to play.

Sometimes, it's easier to forget than it is to move on. The difference between the two is enormous.

I sigh, relapsing back into my forlorn mood from this morning.

"So that's it then? You want what your parents had?"

I wince. "Is that asking too much?"

The look on her face is an unequivocal yes. But she takes pity on me and shrugs one shoulder. "You want real love. That's no crime."

"I'm not gonna get that with Andrey," I say softly.

"Who knows? Maybe, for right now, you should concentrate on what you can get from him."

Glancing at the blue dress in the corner, I frown. "Expensive dresses I don't need?"

"More like getting your rocks off!" She shoots me a wink. "He's good in bed, isn't he?"

"Err…"

"Okay, let's cut the bullshit, woman to woman—do you want to keep sleeping with him?"

I blush scarlet but nod.

Mila doesn't look surprised in the least. "Great. Then keep sleeping with him. The man got you pregnant; the least he can do is be on call for nightly orgasms."

I snort, but my amusement is short-lived. Almost as though she can read my mind, Mila adds, "You're worried about developing feelings for him, aren't you?"

I really need to work on my poker face. "I'm living in his house and carrying his baby," I point out. "Sleeping with him on top of all that feels a little bit like asking for trouble."

Mila gives me a wink that reminds me a hell of a lot of Kat. "What's life without a little trouble, huh?"

"Oh, boy. You might be a bad influence, Mila."

"I'll take that as a compliment." Then she bounces onto the balls of her feet. "Mind if I give you some advice?"

"Go right ahead."

"As long as you're risking the chance of catching feelings , why not make it as difficult for him as you can?"

I look at her, perplexed. "I'm not following."

In answer, she twirls towards the door and gestures for the nearby saleswoman. "Forget the dresses, Rosetta. We're looking for lingerie—the sexier, the better."

Just like that, my heart dives off the high board and plummets into the swimming pool of my stomach. "I'm not sure about this, Mila."

"Good thing I am, then." She fixes me with a stern look. "You're hot, Natalia. You need to use what the Good Lord gave you. If Andrey is determined to give you up in the end, make it the hardest decision he'll ever have to make."

I have to be honest: as strategies go, it's not bad.

In fact, it might just be brilliant.

"What the hell?" I decide on the spot. "Bring on the edible thongs."

Mila beams like she couldn't be prouder of me. "That's what I'm talking about!"

Two hours later, Mila and I duck back into the Rolls' spacious backseat with at least a dozen bags between us. To be fair, most of them belong to Mila. But I've managed to come away with two of my own.

Yes, I used the black credit card.

And yes, I felt guilty as hell doing it.

But apparently, master plans don't come cheap.

The real kicker: by the time we get back to the pool house, I realize that, quite apart from feeling better, I've actually had fun.

So much so that I end up inviting Mila to stay for dinner. Somewhere between that invitation and putting my bags away, I discover that Mila has expanded the invitation to include Leonty.

"Bodyguards have to eat, too," she tells me with a wink. "Men like that have appetites."

"Mhmm." I wag my eyebrows at her. "I notice you didn't invite Leif to join us for dinner."

"He disappeared before I could," she insists innocently, spinning around on her bar stool so she can watch Leonty pace across the porch, talking to someone on the phone.

We end up ordering Chinese and congregating around the coffee table.

Leonty is just as charming as he looks. Although he certainly doesn't have to try too hard where Mila is concerned. She laughs at all his jokes, even the subpar ones. And when I grab everyone's plates and slip off to the kitchen, neither one seems to notice I'm gone.

I wash up quietly, observing them the whole time. There's undeniable chemistry in their banter, an easy back-and-forth that leaves me feeling hollow.

Will I ever get to experience that with somebody?

Taken by a sudden urgency, I leave the dishes half-done in the sink, grab my perfumed shopping bags, and slip into the bathroom.

I have five new pieces of lingerie.

I pull out the most conservative of the lot and hold it up to the mirror. It's a lace nightie that falls around my upper thighs. The cups cover my nipples, but the rest of it is delicate lace. The only coverage it offers comes in the form of a matching pale pink thong with tiny bows on the straps.

I've just stripped down to nothing when I hear Mila and Leonty's laughter wafting towards me through the crack in the bottom of the door.

It makes me feel lonelier than ever.

Aw, hell—if I'm gonna do the thing, I might as well do it right.

Armed with a new and almost certainly short-lived sense of boldness, I swap the pink gown for the most daring of my new purchases—a crotchless, cupless, black lace teddy, complete with a built-in thong. Mila bullied me into buying it with a snippy, "Don't be a fucking wuss, Nat. You might as well wear these things while you have the body for them."

With my heart hammering madly in my chest, I put on the black teddy—which takes a surprising amount of time, considering there's so little to work with—and stand breathless in front of the mirror.

My jaw drops.

It's giving fallen angel turned dominatrix.

I turn this way and that, like I'm flickering back and forth between two different versions of myself.

There's the old me who thinks all of this is ridiculous and dangerous and very much a bad idea.

And then there's the new me, who looks damn good in this shit and thinks bad ideas sound like exactly what ought to be on the menu.

New me takes charge.

Shaking off my nerves, I grab my phone, open my pitifully blank text thread with Andrey, and open the camera. I angle the screen down just enough so that my face is cut off.

And just like that, the show begins.

I take a few pictures, making sure Andrey can appreciate all the features (or lack thereof) of the teddy. Every curve is on display. Damn near every inch of skin.

I scan through the barrage of photos, pick the two that make me the least nauseous, and load them into the message.

My finger trembles over the Send button, suddenly wracked with fear.

Once I send the pictures, that's it, there'll be no bringing them back.

Don't do it. It's too desperate, too pathetic, too much.

You're being a wuss.

No, you're being sensible.

Chicken.

"Fuck," I mutter to myself.

Then, as if by its own accord, my finger pulls the trigger.

With a little shoop noise , both pictures are sucked into the ether and transported to Andrey.

Goosebumps pimple my skin as I try frantically to reverse course and delete the pictures before he's seen them. But just as my finger hovers over the first picture, Delivered changes to Read.

No going back now, is there?

I close the thread and put my phone face-down on the bathroom counter. Stripping off the black teddy proves to be an easier task than getting it on.

Once I'm back in respectable clothes, I join Mila and Leonty in the living room. Neither one seems to have even registered my absence.

I slip into an armchair just behind Leonty and wonder if, at this very moment, my phone is lighting up with texts from Andrey.

I purposefully avoid the bathroom for the next few hours. We play Uno, though "we" continues to be kind of a superfluous word, because neither of my two game-mates seem to be aware of my continued existence.

Only after Leonty and Mila have left the pool house do I allow myself to slink back into the bathroom to retrieve my phone.

I see a text notification on my lockscreen.

I take a deep breath and open it.

ANDREY: I won't be coming over tonight.