I gasp when I walk into the bedroom and see the dress.
Back at the house, Voronov accompanied me to my room and told me he’ll return to take me for dinner in an hour, and that I should be ready.
“There is something waiting for you,” he assured me when I caught his arm and asked what I should wear. And he’s right.
The fabric is silk, with a pattern of leaves and roses, and it fits perfectly when I try it on, hitting the ideal length to flatter my legs.
The other thing he’s right about is anticipation. By the time he knocks, my belly is full of butterflies, even though we’ve spent the whole day together. I’m glad we waited.
I find Voronov looking at the spot to the side of the door where he kissed me this morning, and I blush at the recollection of how shameless I was. Am.
He has showered and is wearing a clean suit with a black bow tie. He’s casually holding an enormous bouquet.
“For you.” He offers me the roses in brown paper and wrapped with a ribbon. There’s a small greetings card tucked into the blooms, and my heart stutters.
“Thanks,” I say shyly. No one has brought me flowers before. The scent of the flowers meets my nose as I take them from him, and already this is a million times better than my date with Howard. Even accounting for the fact I can’t remember half of it.
I open the card, and find in bold black handwriting, “For the only first date that matters. D.”
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“You look beautiful,” Voronov says in that rumbly voice.
“So do you.” And that’s probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever said, because he barks a laugh and offers his arm. But it’s true. He’s tall, dark, and handsome, but with a rugged, older edge from his short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and close-cut beard.
He leads me outside into the still, warm night air and for a second, I’m confused. Then I see the table underneath an oak tree. Its branches are draped with string lights, and there are candles everywhere. It’s magical.
“Did you do this?” I ask.
“In a manner of speaking.” He tips his head and pulls out a chair for me. “When you mentioned you’d like a date, I made arrangements.”
I feel like a princess as he slides the seat in for me. I mean… It’s not as though I can’t do it myself. But his care and attention are special.
There’s a serving table off to the side, in the dark, and my date or captor or stalker or whatever he is, disappears into the black for a second before reemerging with two bowls.
“Italian?” I query, looking at the spaghetti with sauce as he sets it in front of me. “I thought as your captive I’d get your native meals?”
His lips twitch with amusement as he sits. “It’s your favourite, isn’t it?”
I groan. “Yes. But not since…”
“You’re having a do-over,” he replies firmly. “That means salvaging everything, including your favourite food. We can move you onto delicious Russian cuisine in due course.”
I sneak a look at him. Does that mean we’re doing this again? I want that more than it’s comfortable to admit.
I shouldn’t. He is imprisoning me. Like the fantasies on my CatchMeKissMe account, these feelings are wrong.
“I guess we’ll have the chance since you’re keeping me here. Jailor.” It’s a bait, I think. I’m being bratty, trying to get a rise out of him.
“Da,” he acknowledges wryly. “Do not imagine other Bratva bosses would give you Italian food, zayka. We are proud people. Here.” He passes me a bowl of parmesan and, thinking of Howard, I take a little.
“Is that all the cheese you want?” Voronov demands as I put it down.
Our gazes meet. His ice-blue eyes are tinted green by the yellow light of the candles.
“I shouldn’t…” I don’t know why I don’t deny it. Just say I’ve got enough.
“But cheese is delicious.” He picks the bowl up and scoops the spoon in. “The whole point of Italian food, no?”
“It’s not good to eat lots on a date,” I protest weakly.
He snorts and scatters more cheese onto my spaghetti.
“Yes, but…”
A muscle ticks in his jaw, and this time he doesn’t sprinkle the cheese. He dumps it on, daring me to object.
“That’s plenty,” I say quickly.
He tips on more. My meal is covered in white.
“Really…”
He takes a large spoonful, but instead of tipping the spoon, he goes to tip the whole bowl of cheese and I put out my hand, grasping his wrist to stop him.
“Zayka,” he says seriously, and I wonder what that name means. But I also need to save my dinner.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
And that’s the magic word. He straightens the pot and places it back on the table.
“No holding back. Understand?”
“Yes.” Maybe he’s right about the cheese. But the chase? All those things I want in theory, but have never been brave or bold enough to do.
I’m not so sure.
I finish my food without thinking, despite far more cheese than was necessary. Delicious. The whole thing is too easy, and our plates are empty from the main course for a long time as we talk about everything and nothing.
“Dessert,” he says eventually, and chastises me when I try to stand to help clear away. “The magic has to remain magic,” he says, and reappears with a layered cake. “Medovik.”
“Did you make it?” I ask as he serves me a generous slice.
“No.” He gives me a rueful smile. “It takes a long time. My chef, Agata, made it for us.”
I examine the cake from several angles while Voronov tucks into his with greedy mouthfuls. It looks rather fussy, pale, and unremarkable.
But when I try some, bring a small bit to my lips, it’s perfection. Ridiculously sweet with so many ingredients I struggle to name them all. Sponge and honey and crushed nuts and, I think it’s cream? Or condensed milk. Delicious.
“It’s good?” Voronov asks, smiling at me with the knowing expression of a man who was correct and knew he would be.
Arrogant. His gaze flicks down to my lips and a wicked thought occurs to me. I put down my fork, and before I can think better of it, plunge my fingers into the sponge. It’s soft and sticky and creamy and cool.
I lift my fingers to my lips and suck the sweetness from them.
“Really?” he groans. “You’re going to do that?”
“Yep.”
I push my fingers in again, deeper, and his eyes go black. One by one, being as lewd as I can be, I lick my fingers. I cram them into my mouth. I’m obvious. I’m obscene. Between my legs is as soft and slick as that honey cake.
Voronov watches, his fork discarded, his hands on the table, nails digging into the cloth as though he’s holding himself back.
His nostrils flair.
“Zayka…” He makes a sound like a wounded animal.
That name again.
“Zayka. I need to Google that.” I finish licking the honey from my fingers, but they’re still shiny and wet.
“If it’ll stop you torturing me…” He passes me a napkin, then slides his phone from his pocket, unlocks it, and offers it to me as I dry my hands and gape.
It’s his turn to shock me, it seems. Just giving me his phone is an incredible level of trust. I could check his messages, delete all his contacts, or call the police and ask them to pick me up and save me.
I don’t do any of those things. After all, my own phone is in my bag in the house. Forgotten. I haven’t felt the need to be on social media when I’ve been with him, and however much I say he’s keeping me here, I haven’t made even a token effort to escape.
I feel safe with him, despite everything.
“Translate ‘zayka’ from Russian to English,” I ask the digital assistant.
“Unknown,” replies the robotic voice.
I scowl and Voronov laughs, breaking through the tension I created.
“Your Russian needs some work.” Holding out his hand for the phone, I pass it over and he speaks in Russian into it, including the word that he calls me. Zayka.
“The big bad wolf chases the little rabbit,” the voice says.
I blink in disbelief. “Little rabbit.”
“Yes.” He regards me levelly. “Or bunny.”
A small, soft furred, nervous creature. Known for breeding. And he’s a wolf, with a bunny in his jaws. My wolf.
“Is that how you think of me?” My tummy flutters again.
“You like to run, no?” He leans back into his chair, so relaxed, phone discarded on the table.
I take the phone, and tell the assistant to translate to Russian. “The bunny leads the wolf into a trap.”
He grins. “Clever little rabbit.”
I can’t help but return his smile. This is a game I’d play all day, as the stilted voice repeats the phrase in Russian. A shiver goes down my spine. This is what I wanted from a date. It’s the two of us together, flirting in the weirdest way, and discovering each other.
Voronov beckons me, and I pass the phone.
The sound of his native language when he speaks it is entrancing in the smooth black night, the sky above us full of stars that twinkle in the distance and the glow of the string lights in the tree.
“The wolf loves to eat the bunny,” the translation says.
“We already had dinner!”
He bares his teeth and runs his tongue over his lip in a blatantly carnal and erotic movement.
Revenge for my teasing him with the cake.
The twist of need makes me shift in my chair, trying to put pressure on my clit. My knees press together, and a little shudder goes through me at the tiny sensation. It’s not enough.
Heat fizzes between us.
It’s undeniable.
“I’d still eat,” he says softly.
