Chapter 19

Lydia

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Cake. I need cake.

Deep, dark, rich, chocolatey cake with thick icing.

Or marble. Maybe lemon. I mean, beggars can’t be choosers.

I need to get away from myself. I need a distraction. And while a small part of me knows that nibbling myself into a diabetic coma may not be the most responsible thing to do… I need cake.

It’s the middle of the night, Viktor’s dead asleep, and even Nikita only opens one lazy eye to see what I was up to before she falls back asleep and starts snoring.

I walk down to the kitchen in Viktor’s tee. It billows around me because he’s the size of a lion. I have no idea where his mother must’ve gotten his shoes or clothes from when he was younger. Did she make them herself?

I’m bare under the tee, and it feels nice walking around the house barefoot like this.

The tee smells like him.

When I get to the kitchen, I open the fridge. I’ve opened it to cook for both of us a few times now, but I haven’t really taken the time to look look. Like, really get in there and see.

At first, when I open the door, I note my favorite beer, the craft kind you can only buy in Upstate New York because they hand make it in small batches and don’t widely distribute it.

Interesting. Did Viktor buy this for me? Or does he somehow miraculously like the same things I do?

I finger the cold bottle.

I still want cake, and while beer and cake together are a thing according to some people, I’m a bit of a purist.

I reach for the carton of milk and pause, my hand on the carton. “Huh,” I say out loud.

How does he know I only drink organic milk? While I’m hardly a natural foodie, I’ve only had organic milk since I was in high school and read an article that hinted at the correlation between a woman’s boob size and hormones in milk. While I have no idea if the claims were true, I did anything and everything I could to not let my boobs get any bigger, so I started drinking organic milk.

I frown, staring at the fridge. Well, he doesn’t know me that well. If he knew me that well, he’d know that when I drink milk without cake, I don’t drink it plain; I always—oh. Oh, interesting.

Well, everyone has chocolate syrup in their fridge.

Right?

I pour myself a glass and go to shut the door when something else catches my eye. There’s a tray of chocolate-dipped strawberries, garnished with an artsy little swizzle of white sprinkles. There’s also a package of handmade macarons, light and airy, their rainbow hues hinting at an array of flavors. Oh my God, temptation fell from heaven and is sitting right here in front of me.

When did he get these? We met with his family a week ago, and I admitted my love for cake. Though… something tells me none of that was news to Viktor.

I peek in the freezer out of curiosity and shake my head. I swallow. There are three different types of hand-packed ice creams from a local dairy, all in my favorite flavors—moose tracks, peanut butter swirl, and cookies and cream.

That can’t be a coincidence. It can’t.

I shut the freezer, my mouth watering. Now I’m legit starving.

So he has my favorite ice cream.

My favorite desserts.

Even the damn chocolate syrup and milk I drink.

Out of curiosity, I walk over to the pantry.

There’s no way?—

I yank open the door. It’s huge and well stocked, the kind of pantry that could make a woman who loves cooking lose her mind.

The first thing I note is the tubs of protein powders and shaker bottles in here, obviously because Viktor can’t magically grow to his size without some intentional decisions. Fair, fair.

But when I scan past the protein powders and shakes, I stifle a gasp. Gourmet, kettle-cooked chips. Sourdough pretzels. Jars of my favorite peach salsa and lime-flavored corn chips. A variety of flavored nuts. The honey-roasted peanut butter I slather on buttery crackers and Italian chocolate-hazelnut spread that I eat by the spoonful.

He has everything.

I shut the pantry and head back toward the fridge.

I’m eating the damn cake.

I open the door and remove the large white pastry box Polina brought over, along with a canister of whipped cream. I grab a spoon from the drawer and prop myself up on one of the stools.

Just one bite. I’ll just take one bite.

I will die of mortification if he comes in here and sees me. I don’t eat the shit out of dessert in front of anyone.

I take a dollop of the red velvet first and a generous taste of the cream cheese frosting. I squirt whipped cream on it, and boom, down the hatch.

I moan, savoring the taste of it. I’ve been so damn good on my diet, and I’ve missed this so much. I lick my lips and swallow before I reach for a taste of the marble cake.

I swirl a good-sized bite onto the spoon, top it, and eat it. Oh, yeah, that’s even better than the chocolate. This is perfection. If the best sex known to man were magically converted into a cake, it’s right here.

Next up, strawberry with vanilla bean icing. I stifle a snort to myself.

I don’t like vanilla, I said, right in front of his family and everything. God.

I take a bite of the spice cake with cream cheese icing and another of the red velvet. My belly is content. I swing my legs on the stool and swipe my finger right through the billows of whipped cream frosting on a strawberry shortcake layer cake.

“Did you save some for me?”

I drop the can of whipped cream to the floor with a bang.

Viktor stands in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe, bare-chested, but still wearing his jeans slung low about his waist.

“You can’t just sneak up on me. You scared the shit out of me!”

“You should pay more attention. I’m not exactly a small person who sneaks around the house. Seems you were too busy with the cake samples.”

My cheeks color, and I toss the spoon in the box as he walks up and stands behind me.

“Don’t be embarrassed.”

“I’m not.” My cheeks burn hotter.

“Liar.”

He walked in on me totally binging on cake straight out of the box, licking whipped cream from a spoon. Timur would berate me.

“I’m not embarrassed,” I insist, shaking my head.

“Woman,” he says, his hands on either side of my hips. “I love everything you do. I’m not going to judge you. I came in here because I want to try the fucking cake. But if you want to get freaked out, I’m happy to give you a reason to blush.”

“Viktor.”

“Lydia,” he mimics as he leans over me, his back flat against my torso and his hands on either side of the counter. “Relax.”

He reaches into the box and takes out a spoon. “But I’m the one who feeds it to you.”

“Is everything about sex?” I tease, my heart beating faster. I swallow.

“Of course. If it wasn’t, how would humanity continue?”

I snort and shake my head. “I’m done anyway,” I tell him, eying the rest of the flavors with regret. I am definitely not done.

“Did you even try the lemon coconut or the German chocolate?”

I shake my head.

“Hands in your lap, please,” he orders. I obediently slide my hands into my lap as he lifts the spoon and scoops out a generous taste of lemon. “Open for me. The only rule is, I get to feed you, and then I get to do whatever the fuck I want to you.”

“Is that all?” I ask teasingly.

“I promise you’ll like it.”

I nod and lick my lips. My mouth waters. “Alright.”

He stands in front of me and places the spoon on the counter before he reaches in and lifts me bodily. I squeal as he slides me into the middle of the corner. The tee skates up my leg, baring myself to him.

“Fuck, woman,” he says, shaking his head before he kneels down in front of me.

In front of me.

He leans in and inhales my scent. My pussy clenches. I close my eyes when the feel of his hot mouth on my sex makes me squirm with need and desire for him.

The first touch of his tongue to my pussy makes me whimper. By the second and third, I’m drowning in sensation, and he’s suckling my throbbing clit. With a reluctant sigh, he gets to his feet.

“I could do that all fucking day.”

“Oh, really?” I tease, shaking my head. “I’ll remember that.”

“But first… cake.”

“You sound like a placard you’d find in a bakery.”

He shrugs a shoulder and puts my hands behind my back. “Keep them there.” The sound of his voice sends a shiver down my spine, and when he reaches for his belt, my pulse skyrockets.

“Viktor—”

“Shhh.”

He tugs the belt through the loops in one motion, leans back, and loops it around my hands. When he cinches it, his body’s pressed up against mine, and it’s instant fire. I swallow hard, trying to get a grip, when he adjusts me so I’m leaning back on the counter.

Leaning in, he lifts the whole piece of lemon cake in his hand and offers me a bite. “Where are your manners?” I ask teasingly.

“Ladies first,” he says as if that’s the only rule that matters.

I lick my tongue out and scoop the lemon icing into my mouth. “Mmm,” I moan. “Oh God, this is delicious.” I take a bite. The cake is light and fluffy, with a thick layer of lemon filling sandwiched between layers. I lick his fingers, and he growls before he takes the rest of the cake and eats it in one huge gulp. He leans in and captures my mouth with his, our kiss laced with icing and cake, sweet and indulgent.

I’m still licking my lips when he’s down between my legs, his mouth on my pussy. My clit throbs, and I stifle a scream as he licks and suckles and bites. My legs are over his shoulders, my knees pressed against the heat of his skin, when he leaves my pussy and goes back to the box.

“Viktor,” I whine. “Please.”

“Not yet,” he growls, reaching into the box for another slice of chocolate, this one layered with peanut butter frosting. “You’re hungry for cake,” he says with a smile. “I’m hungry for cake. Let them eat cake.”

This time, he paints my lips with the icing, like edible lip gloss. I’m grinning, covered in chocolate crumbs, as he places a piece in my mouth and kneels in front of me again. This time, I’m on the cusp of climax when I swallow the last bite of cake, and I nearly cry when he takes his mouth off me.

“Be a good girl,” he says, shaking his head at me. “I promise it will be worth it.”

He reaches for the pièce de résistance, a quadruple-layered concoction of deep, dark chocolate cake layered between thick layers of ganache. “Here. Eat this,” he says, feeding me a piece with his rough fingers. I lick and nibble his fingers as he feeds me. I love the way his eyes flare with arousal. Again, he places the cake in my mouth, this time a large portion that spills onto the tee. The icing tastes like melted truffles, and I am here for it. He kneels in front of me, wraps my legs around his head, and growls against my leg, “Come, Lydia. You eat your treat, and I’ll eat mine. Come, baby.”

My head falls back as he laps my pussy again and again; the tip of his tongue is perfect as I lick the crumbs from my lips, savor the rich taste of chocolate, and soar toward release on his tongue. Waves of pleasure drown me. My hips jerk toward him, milking every drop of pleasure, until I collapse on the counter, spent, my tied hands braced behind me.

My gaze is hazy, my body floating as he gets to his feet and drags a heavy hand across his mouth, his eyes boring into mine.

“Fucking delicious,” he says in a low growl of a whisper. “Do you want any more?”

“Oh my God, no,” I moan, completely sated. I watch him lazily, half drunk, half mesmerized, while he walks over to the cake, reaches in the box, and finishes every last crumb.

I watch in a daze as he cleans up the mess we made—tosses out the pastry box, puts the top on the whipped cream, and slides it into the fridge.

“How did you know?” I say sleepily. “All my favorites.”

He gives me a casual shrug. “I’ve been watching, baby. That’s all you need to know.”