8. Bianca

8

BIANCA

The clock on my bedside table informs me that it’s 1am, and I’m wide awake. I’ve been tossing and turning for hours, my mind racing as I stare at the ceiling.

I’ve been cooped up in this house for over two weeks, and I’m losing my mind, despite my very fancy new art studio, courtesy of my husband.

I cringe at the thought.

I know I shouldn’t have blown up at Alexei like I did when he showed me the space he had set up for me, but the rage that’s constantly bubbling just beneath the surface is starting to frighten me.

Everything is out of my control—from what I wear down to what I eat.

I went from living in a studio apartment in the center of New York, seeing my friends multiple times a week, going to museums and coffee shops, to being stuck in a house with one of the most dangerous men in New York.

Who also happens to be one of the most attractive men I’ve ever seen.

I thought I’d escaped a lifetime of control. My father was exactly the same—always wanting to know where I was at all times, who I hung out with. It’s a miracle I even had any friends before I turned eighteen and went away to college.

But it seems all I’ve done is swap one controlling man for another.

A shiver runs down my spine as Alexei fills my thoughts.

My fingers automatically move to my lips, the phantom feeling of him still lingering there even two weeks later. That’s how incredible of a kiss it was.

The way he kissed me was possessive, and I hate that I’ve thought about it every night since.

His rejection of my advances still stings, and it doesn’t help that he likes to bring it up at every given opportunity. I think the asshole actually enjoys the fact that he turned me down and took a knock to my ego. Though I know it’s probably for the best.

This marriage is purely for business, and I can’t afford to give my heart away to a man who will likely tear it into shreds.

Alexei Koslov doesn’t scream relationship material.

Ignoring the heat pooling low in my belly, I screw my eyes shut and try to think of anything other than Alexei. I won’t give him the satisfaction of fantasizing about him.

He doesn’t deserve my orgasm when he stole away my freedom.

So, I try to sleep.

When the clock turns two, I decide enough is enough. It’s clear I need to give my brain something else to think about.

Throwing back the covers, I slip on the pink silk robe that hangs on the back of my door and sneak out of my room. I hesitate in the hall, my eyes wandering to Alexei’s door.

There’s no light coming from the crack beneath, so I assume he’s asleep, though I know he likes to work late into the night.

There’s been a few times where I’ve heard him creep past at all hours of the morning, the sound of his footsteps making me hold my breath.

On a few occasions, I swear he paused outside of my room, and I silently wished he would open the door and slip into the bed beside me.

I dreamed he would climb on top of me, enveloping me in his strong arms as he sank his cock deep inside my throbbing heat.

My thighs automatically rub together, snapping me back to reality.

“Get a grip, Bianca,” I mutter under my breath as I turn my back on Alexei’s room and head down the stairs to my studio.

I quietly open the door and flick on the light, illuminating the space in a warm glow.

A few finished canvases already line the wall on the far left, though I’m still waiting for the oil paint to dry on a picture of the view from the window. I know Alexei picked this room specifically for my studio because of the view, and I’ve spent many afternoons this past week sitting on the balcony with a sketchbook on my lap taking in the vast expanse of greenery surrounding my new home—in particular, the cherry blossom tree.

It’s breathtaking, and I know it must mean something to Alexei.

There’s only one, and I caught him and one of his brothers sitting below it the other day .

Even if I stood all the way up here, the sadness on their faces was still so clear as they talked. Eventually, they disappeared inside the house, and I didn’t see Alexei again until breakfast the next morning, with him choosing to skip our evening meal.

I cross the room to take a seat at my easel where my current work in progress is waiting for me.

It’s a portrait that I started a few days ago, and it’s really starting to take shape.

Grabbing the tubes of paint I’ll need, I load up my palette before taking a seat on the wooden stool and getting to work.

I must not have been working for more than half an hour before the skin on the back of my neck prickles. I sigh and put down my paintbrush.

“What are you doing here?” I glance over my shoulder to where Alexei leans in the doorway.

He’s wearing his usual white shirt and black pants, despite the hour.

Perhaps I was wrong, and he wasn’t in his room at all.

“I saw the light was on.” He pushes off the doorframe.

I quickly turn back around to avoid his gaze, picking up my paintbrush and dipping it into the white acrylic.

“Did I wake you?”

“No. I’ve been in my study.”

“Do you ever sleep?”

“Do you?”

“I used to…” I mutter.

Alexei is quiet for a moment, so I continue to work quietly, adding some white detailing to my portrait.

“That’s really amazing. She’s beautiful.”

“Thank you. ”

“She looks like you.” My chest tightens as I add some white to the eyes.

“That’s my mother.” a lump forms in my throat. “Everyone always says that my father gave me his eyes, but the rest is all her. I had this picture of her beside my bed, and I wanted to recreate it. I never want to forget even if pictures are the only memories I have.” I don’t know why I say it, but the knot in my chest loosens just a touch as I talk.

“You never met her.” It’s not a question.

I shake my head, swallowing down the lump in my throat.

“She died giving birth to me.” My voice noticeably cracks as I speak the words out loud, but I don’t want to stop. “So no, I never met her.”

“And your dad didn’t remarry?” Alexei moves to stand beside me, and the heat radiating from his body surrounds me as he towers over me.

I almost lean into him, craving some connection as I think about the greatest loss in my life.

“She was the love of his life.” I close my eyes for a second. “And I took her away from him.”

The words spill from my mouth before I have a chance to stop them.

“Bianca…”

“It’s okay.” I shake my head. “I know my father loves me. But I know I also make him feel sad because every time he looks at me, he sees her.”

“You are not responsible.”

“It’s hard not to feel like it.”

“You are not responsible. What you are is extremely talented.”

A warm hand is on my shoulder, squeezing it softly, and my eyes flutter closed at the touch, at the warmth of his fingers seeping through the thin material of my robe.

I try not to squirm in my seat, suddenly all too aware of the fact that I’m wearing nothing beneath my robe.

“Thank you.” My cheeks heat up at the compliment.

So much for trying to empty my mind of thoughts of Alexei when all he’s doing is filling it back up.

“You should not waste a talent like this.”

“Good thing I have an extremely rich husband who can finance my hobby.” It’s a weak attempt to lighten the mood.

I’m glad Alexei knows about my mother. I know it’s important to talk about her to try and keep her memory alive, and I hope eventually I’ll be able to think of her without any trace of guilt.

But I’m not there yet.

“It’s a good investment,” Alexei chuckles. “So, do you prefer to paint portraits?”

I bite the inside of my cheek as I glance over at the wall to where my other paintings are drying, lingering particularly on the painting of the cherry blossom tree.

“I like a mixture. Though I do enjoy portraits. I like bringing someone to life, to focus on all the details that make them unique.” I cringe at my own babbling.

Why am I so nervous?

Because Alexei is still yet to remove his hand from my shoulder, and my skin is starting to burn from the heat of his touch.

I shift on my stool, aware of the heat building between my thighs. I’m glad he can’t see my face, at the heat that is creeping up my neck.

“I’ve never had someone paint my portrait.” He removes his hand from my shoulder and strolls over to the cream loveseat. He turns, eyeing me with amusement as he tucks his hands into his pockets.

My breath catches as I imagine him posing while I paint him, lounging on the loveseat, his powerful thighs spread as he runs his hands through his dark hair…

“I could always paint you…nude.” I bite the inside of my cheeks. Alexei’s eyes widen just a fraction at my words, and I think I might actually have taken him by surprise. “Unless, of course, you’re too embarrassed…”

Alexei lets out a low, breathy chuckle.

The sound makes me shiver as I let myself imagine painting him in the nude.

But then he’s reaching for the buttons on his shirt, his eyes locked on my lips as he slowly undresses himself.

“I told you before, ptichka .” A smirk tugs at his full lips. “I’d be more than happy to be your muse.”

He shrugs out of his white shirt, revealing the most deliciously broad, tanned chest and chiseled abdomen that I’ve ever seen. He even has those V lines that disappear down into the waistband of his pants that makes me involuntarily lick my lips.

As if he followed my gaze, he reaches for his belt and begins unbuckling his pants.

I swear I don’t breathe the entire time he undresses, and the asshole seems to know it from the smirk on his face.

“Do you like what you see?” He steps out of his pants.

My eyes fall to his cock, and a strangled sound escapes my lips as I take in his enormous length.

He chuckles. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Heat instantly pools in my belly as I think of what it would be like to climb on top of him and sink down on his cock, taking him deeper than I ever thought possible.

“I need some more paint,” I choke, getting to my feet .

I can feel his eyes on me as I grab a fresh palette and canvas and load it up with nude tones, my mouth filling with saliva as I think of the colors of his skin, his hair.

Goosebumps break out over my skin, and my nipples pebble against the soft silk of my robe, desperate for some friction.

Why the hell did I suggest painting Alexei nude? Am I trying to torture myself?

At least it gives me something else to think about at night other than our one drunken kiss…

“Are you comfortable?” I ask as I choose a few brushes.

“Oh, I’m very comfortable.” I glance at him and see his signature smirk tugging at his full lips.

Alexei is draped across the loveseat, his body nothing but rippling muscle, and it takes everything in me not to stare.

I can’t give him the satisfaction.

So instead, I take a seat at my easel and swap out the portrait of my mother for a fresh canvas.

“This might take a while,” I warn him, turning my focus back to the blank canvas.

“I have incredible stamina, solnyshka , don’t you worry.”

Oh, my god.