Page 14

Chapter 14

No Rest for the Wicked

Dmitri

T he house is silent when I step inside at six a.m., my bag dropping with a dull thud in the foyer.

Three days.

Three fucking days of pacing hotel rooms, of running drills until my legs burned, of sleepless nights spent fisting my cock in the dark, her voice—her gasps—haunting my ears.

Three days of remembering how her breath hitched in the gym, how her body trembled from nothing more than my words, how she looked at me.

And still, it’s not enough.

It will never fucking be enough until I have her in my bed, my cock deep inside her, my name on her lips while she falls apart wrapped around me.

Music drifts from the kitchen. A slow, rhythmic beat. Something with bass, a steady, pulsing thrum that seeps into my bloodstream, setting my nerves on edge before I even see her.

Then, footsteps.

Soft. Barefoot.

I round the corner into the kitchen and?—

She’s there.

Back to me, standing on her toes, stretching for something on the top shelf, her entire body on display like some cruel test of my willpower.

She’s barely wearing anything.

Thin straps and scandal, that’s all her sports bra is. Fabric stretched tight over her tits, way too much skin on display. And her shorts—fuck.

Those. Fucking. Shorts.

Tiny, indecent, clinging to every dip and curve. The hem barely exists, riding up higher every time she shifts on her feet, giving me a perfect view of her toned thighs—thighs I desperately want to have wrapped around my waist.

My fingers flex at my sides, curling into fists, my body rebelling.

Then she hears me.

“Oh!” She spins, startled by the sound of my bag hitting the floor, and—fuck me sideways—the front view is worse.

Her chest rises and falls too quickly, her breath catching in surprise. The deep neckline of her bra dips dangerously low, sweat glistening on her skin, her cheeks still pink from exercise.

Her lips part. Her eyes drag over me.

First, the beard. Then my rumpled clothes and the exhaustion I’m sure is written all over me.

Then lower.

Her gaze catches on the cut of my stomach where my hoodie rides up, the way my sweatpants hang low on my hips. The second she realizes where she’s looking, she snaps back up, her blush spreading down her neck.

“I…uh…thought you weren’t back until later,” she stammers.

I don’t answer.

Instead, I let the silence stretch. Let my eyes devour her. Let her feel the weight of my attention.

She shifts uneasily, reaching for a folded T-shirt on the counter.

“Let me put on a shirt,” she blurts out, already lifting it.

“Don’t.”

It comes out as a snarl, and she freezes.

I step closer. Just enough that she has to tilt her head back to keep eye contact.

“I like you like this.”

Her fingers twitch on the fabric, hesitating. My gaze tracks the movement, watching the way her breathing shallows.

The counter is at her back. No escape. Not that she seems to want one.

“I just…” She wets her lips.

Fucking mistake. Now I can’t stop looking at her mouth.

“Thought maybe I should?—”

“Should what, solnyshko ?”

The endearment is rough and possessive, laced with a dark intent.

Her breath catches just like in the gym. Just like in every filthy dream I’ve had since. Her pulse flutters at the base of her throat.

Fast.

Unsteady.

For me.

“Be…professional?” she offers weakly. It’s supposed to be a joke, but her voice wobbles when I plant my hands on the counter, caging her in.

“Is that what you want?” I lean in. Not touching. But so close she can feel my heat, my breath stirring the loose strands of hair at her temple. “To be professional?”

She shifts, and the movement almost presses her chest against mine. The thin material of her sports bra does nothing to hide how her body responds.

“I—” She swallows hard, her fingers curling around the counter’s edge, bracing herself.

I let my eyes drag over her, slow and lingering. Her throat. Her collarbone. The soft swell of her breasts, the way they rise and fall too quickly.

When I meet her gaze again, her pupils are blown wide.

I could have her.

Right now.

One more inch, one more push?—

And fuck it.

I lean in, my eyes locked on hers. My thumb slides over her cheekbone, stroking her soft skin.

Her eyes pop.

I run my thumb lower, along her jaw, down to her chin. When her breath catches, I wait. Hold it there. Then murmur?—

“Ask for it.”

She knows what I want. Doesn’t pretend or hesitate.

“Kiss me.” She shudders, her eyes pleading.

Fucking hell.

I brush my lips against hers. Barely. Just a whisper of contact.

She exhales sharply, her breath hot against my skin, her lips parting, waiting for me, inviting me.

But I don’t take it. Not yet.

I let my lips ghost over hers, tracing the shape of her mouth, learning the feel of her, teasing the inevitable.

A throaty whimper escapes her, the sound sending a lightning strike straight through my body.

Her hands fist in my hoodie, desperate, and she tilts her head, trying to chase my lips, trying to close the last of the distance.

“Please Dmitri. I need to know,” she whimpers.

But I keep it slow. Exquisite.

Because I saw the fear in her before.

Because I know she’s not just scared of me.

She’s scared of how badly she wants this.

So I make her feel it—every lingering second, every inch of space between us, until she’s ready and begging.

I skim my tongue along the seam of her lips, coaxing her open, and fuck?—

I got her.

She collapses against me with a broken gasp, letting me deepen the kiss, letting me taste her, own her. She’s soft in my arms, her breath mixing with mine, and fuck, fuck, fuck, she tastes so sweet.

Just as I knew she would.

Her body arches into me, her chest pressing against mine, her thighs brushing my legs, and I need more.

My hand slides lower, trailing fire down her spine, tracing the waistband of her shorts, slipping beneath, feeling warm, bare skin?—

But she gasps.

Not in pleasure. But panic.

Her fingers tighten in my hoodie, her body tensing against mine, and I pull back.

She blinks up at me, lips swollen, breathless, something flickering in her eyes—uncertainty, maybe. A shadow of hesitation.

“Dmitri—”

I brush my knuckles over her cheek, steadying her. Steadying myself. “Don’t worry, solnyshko .” My thumb drags lightly over her lips, lingering. “We’ll do this on your terms.”

Her chest rises and falls, sharp and uneven. “I—I want you. Please?—”

I smirk, pressing a final, featherlight kiss to the corner of her mouth.

“No rush,” I murmur. “Not with you.”

Her pupils flare, a storm brewing in that green. Because we both know when I finally stop holding back, there won’t be any turning back.

She swallows hard, her breath shaky, unsteady.

Then grasping for control—for something, anything to ground herself—her voice comes, soft and fragile. “How was Vancouver?”

I exhale sharply. She needs a distraction. A second to breathe. To regroup.

Fine. I’ll give her that.

For now.

I move to the coffee maker, but not without brushing against her as I pass. Just enough to make her gasp .

“Cold. Wet.” A slow pause, letting the next words settle between us. “I’m starving . ”

Her fingers tighten against the counter. Like she needs something to hold on to.

She’s still rattled. Still burning.

Still mine for the taking.

“The food wasn’t good?” Her voice is light, but too thin and unsteady .

I don’t answer right away. I take my time, pouring the coffee, letting the silence stretch until she starts to fidget . Finally, I lift the mug to my lips. Take a slow sip.

“No.”

She inhales, sharp and uneven. “Why not?”

I turn. Pin her with a look that destroys whatever fragile distance she’s trying to keep.

“Because what I wanted wasn’t on the menu.”

Her breath shudders out of her, her blush deepening, spilling lower, disappearing beneath the thin straps of her sports bra.

My mind fucking runs wild imagining how much farther that pink flush goes. How it would look spread everywhere.

She shifts, her body screaming retreat, but I don’t let her get far.

I follow.

One hand braces on the counter beside her hip, trapping her. She’s so close.

And I want her.

My voice is a low rasp, rough with everything I’ve been holding back.

“Erin…you better be ready by tonight.”

Her breath hitches, lips parting, and for a second, I think she’s about to beg for it.

But then she sways, her fingers twitching on the counter, her voice barely a whisper.

“I—I have a?—”

“Papa!”

The word shatters the moment, cutting through the heat like a blade.

Thundering footsteps on the stairs.

Erin jolts, her hand flying to her flushed face like she’s been caught committing a crime.

She snatches her shirt from the counter, yanking it over her head, barely managing to right herself before?—

A blur of motion.

A tiny force of nature launching at me.

“You’re home!” Ris wraps around my legs, clutching me tight.

I steady her automatically, my arms moving on instinct, but fuck if it doesn’t take everything in me to drag my focus away from Erin.

Away from how she’s still breathing too fast.

Away from how that oversized shirt—hanging loose, exposing one bare shoulder—somehow makes her look even more tempting.

I force my mind back under control.

“Early surprise, Amnushka.” I swing her up, pressing a kiss to her wild curls, trying to ground myself in the familiar. “Did you behave for Erin?”

“Yes! She helped me practice, and I can play a whole scale now, and—” She wiggles until I set her down. “Come watch!”

She grabs Erin’s hand and tugs her toward the music room.

Mine. The thought is immediate, unbidden.

Erin follows, but at the doorway, she hesitates. Glances back.

Our eyes lock.

And there it is.

The fire. The heat she’s scared of but refuses to extinguish.

It ignites something reckless in me, something that wants to pin her right there, let her feel what she does to me. What she’s been doing to me since I saw her at the Philharmonic a few weeks ago.

“Coming, Papa?” Ris’s voice snaps me back, but Erin is still watching me, a knowing gleam in her eyes.

I drag in a slow, steadying breath. “One minute, Amnushka.”

Erin’s lips curve. A barely there smile, but devastating nonetheless. Just enough to tell me she knows exactly what I need a minute to recover from.

“Take your time,” she calls over her shoulder. “We’ll be here. Practicing.”

The way she says it— practicing —drips with undertones. I plant my hands on the counter, gripping hard enough that the granite creaks beneath my fingers.

I force myself to move, trailing them down the hall toward the music room. Not because I’ve regained control, but because I need to see.

When I step inside, Ris is perched on a chair, her cello positioned exactly as Erin taught her. She sits with fierce concentration, tiny fingers stretching carefully over the strings, bow poised, ready to play.

“Watch this, Papa!” Ris beams, lifting her wrist before returning to position. Something sparkles in the light. “Erin gave me a special musician bracelet for good luck!”

I glance down. The bracelet catches the glow from the overhead lights—delicate silver, with tiny charms and music notes dangling from it.

A trinket. Simple. Inexpensive. But it might as well be the world, the way my daughter looks at it.

“It’s my cello charm,” Ris explains importantly. “Musicians have special charms.”

“For her first real lesson,” Erin murmurs, watching her with quiet warmth. “I thought she deserved something to mark the occasion.”

Something tightens in my chest at the gesture, this small kindness that means everything to my daughter.

Ris straightens, gripping her bow. “Now watch!”

And then—sound.

The scale wobbles, her small bow arm trembling slightly, but it’s there. Forming. Taking shape beneath her fingers.

I should be watching her. I should be swelling with pride at my daughter’s hard work.

But I can’t stop watching Erin.

She stands behind Ris, adjusting her grip with gentle, practiced hands. Every movement is intimate, precise, the kind of touch I crave with desperate, aching need.

Her oversized T-shirt slips off one shoulder, revealing smooth, golden skin.

And I am undone.

Jaw clenched, I inhale slowly, measuring each excruciating breath. Counting the seconds of restraint.

Not yet. Not yet.

“Papa, did you see?” Ris shakes the bracelet, like it’s responsible for her success.

I drag my focus back to her, forcing out words. “Beautiful, Amnushka. You’ve been practicing hard.”

“Every day,” Erin confirms. There’s pride in her voice. Warm and deep.

And fuck, it wrecks me.

“You look exhausted.” Erin’s voice is softer now, her gaze flicking over my face. Assessing. “You should try to sleep before tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“My performance at Le Poisson Rouge. Six o’clock.” She toys with the hem of her shirt— that damn shirt —as she continues. “I need to leave by four to get ready. Bach’s Cello Suite No. 3 in C; and then Shostakovich Sonata.”

A small hesitation. Then, carefully, like she’s testing the waters, “It’s…kind of a big deal. Liam’s coming.”

She’s not asking if I’ll be there.

She’s reminding me that I won’t be.

That I’ll be here. Alone. With Ris.

That she won’t be around to help.

“Papa, can we go?” Ris bounces in her seat, excitement crackling off her in waves. “Please?”

Shit.

“Amnushka—”

“Please?” She deploys puppy eyes, her most dangerous weapon. “Sophie’s going, and Liam, and?—”

“It’s late for you,” I start, but even as the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve already lost.

“But there’s no school tomorrow! I can sleep in! And I want to see Erin play! Like, really play—not just practice!”

Her lower lip wobbles.

Fuck me, I’m weak.

“And I need a dress!” Ris barrels on, eyes gleaming with sudden inspiration. “A red one! The same color as Erin’s!”

Erin blinks. “How do you?—”

“You told me yesterday.” Ris grins, triumphant. “You said you’re wearing red! So I have to match! Can we find one, Papa? Please?”

Now she’s double-teaming me—weaponizing the puppy eyes and using Erin as ammunition.

I exhale sharply, dragging a hand down my face.

One moment, I’m sleep-deprived, horny, and barely functional. The next, I’m somehow agreeing to a last-minute mission to find a six-year-old a red dress.

“I have my pre-show routine anyway,” Erin chimes in smoothly, her tone too innocent to be trusted. “Lots of scales, meditation, that whole thing. Sophie offered to pick up Ris and watch her if you want to sleep. I can practice outside by the pool; it’s warm enough. I hope it won’t disturb you.” A pause. Then, quieter, “Or I could go back to my place in the city to give you some peace?”

Don’t.

The word slams through me, visceral and immediate.

“The music won’t bother me one bit.” The words come out a strained rasp.

I picture her outside in the golden morning light, fingers moving deftly over the strings of her cello. Her body shifting, tilting, lost in the music. Her skin glowing. Her hair tumbling down her back.

I swallow hard. Fucking hell.

“Please, Papa?” Ris presses. “I’ll be so good. I’ll go to bed right after, I promise!”

I look at my pleading daughter, then at Erin.

She’s hiding a smile.

But her eyes are dancing with the knowledge that I will give in.

“I would love for you to come,” she says softly. “Both of you. If you’re not too tired. It starts at six.”

Too tired?

No, solnyshko.

I’ll be wide fucking awake .

“Please?” Ris wraps around my legs, relentless. “Pretty please with sugar?—”

“Okay.” The word escapes before I can stop it. Rough. Begrudging. Inevitable. “Okay, we’ll go.”

Ris squeals, throwing her arms around me. Erin’s smile widens, just enough to send heat licking up my spine. And I realize I’ve just signed up for hours of watching her perform. Hours of seeing her completely in her element. Hours of not touching. Hours of fighting the urge to drag her into some dark backstage corner and ruin her for anyone else.

“I’ll take Ris to school,” Erin says, all smooth and composed while I’m standing here fucking wrecked . “You go sleep now.”

“Okay. I’ll pick Ris up at three. Then we all go together?” I focus on logistics, not on the way the sunlight catches the copper strands in Erin’s hair. Not on the way her lips curve, still swollen from my kiss. “We can arrive early, let Ris see the venue?”

“That would be perfect.” Her smile is soft and genuine. “And honestly? Having a driver will help. Pre-show jitters make me a menace behind the wheel.”

“It’s settled then.” I press a kiss to Ris’s curls, my brain still short circuiting. “Be good for Erin, Amnushka. Let Papa rest.”

“I’ll keep it quiet when I come back,” Erin promises.

But there’s a wicked gleam in her eye that makes my mind go to a very dirty place. Making me wonder if she’s quiet in bed. If she gasps, moans, whimpers. If she begs. If she screams. If she shatters apart with soft, breathless cries or desperate, broken pleas. If she arches into it, offers herself up, surrenders completely.

Because I already know—she does all of those things.

I turn before I do something very fucking stupid in front of my daughter.

Like pin Erin against the wall and find out right fucking now.

* * *

Upstairs I strip as I walk, shedding my shirt, my shorts, stepping into the shower. The steam wraps around me, but it’s Erin’s lips I feel on me. It’s not hard to picture her perched in my lap, dress bunched around her hips, thighs clenching around me as I drive into her.

The way her breath would hitch.

The way her nails would dig into my skin.

The way she’d bite her lip, trying to keep quiet—until I make it impossible.

I fist my aching length, my hand working fervently, each stroke bringing me closer, closer, until?—

Fuck.

Release slams through me, white-hot and violent, spilling against the shower wall. But even as I stand there, water gradually turning icy against my skin, there’s no relief. The chill bites into me, but it’s nothing compared to the torment inside.

My self-care routine has lost its power. It doesn’t help. Nothing fucking helps. Not when I can still see those shorts. Not when I can still feel how she trembled when I leaned in.

I need sleep. Desperately. I collapse onto my bed, not bothering with a shirt, the sheets cool against my skin. But my mind won’t shut the fuck up.

I want to watch her play.

I want to watch her exercise.

I want to watch her unravel beneath me, hear her scream my name.

I want to possess her completely.

I must drift off, because the next thing I know…

Music.

Floating through my window. Bach. I roll over, and?—

Fuck.

I’m on my feet before I realize I’ve moved, drawn to the window like she’s calling me personally. She’s outside by the pool, sheet music scattered around her chair, bathed in golden morning light. Her bow moves in long, fluid strokes, her eyes closed, completely lost in the music. And the look on her face?—

Pure. Unfiltered. Rapture.

She’s changed—a sundress now, something soft and flowing, slipping over her body like a second skin. Her hair spills over her shoulders, loose and wild. She sways with the music, and the fabric dances around her thighs. Her bare feet tap against the grass, keeping time, and somehow that’s more erotic than those tiny fucking shorts.

This is her domain. Where she’s completely free. Completely herself. And I have to fight the vicious need to go down there.

To watch up close as the music takes her.

To trace the curve of her neck as she leans into a phrase.

To feel the vibrations of the cello under my hands.

But she needs this time to prepare, to center herself. She throws her head back on a particularly passionate section, and my fingers tighten around the window frame.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

A few more hours.

A few more hours of this torture.

Then tonight—watching her perform, watching others watch her, knowing none of them will ever have what’s mine.

I press my forehead to the glass, exhaling slowly, gripping the last frayed edges of my control. Because after tonight?—

She will be mine.