Page 36

Chapter 36

The Afternoon After

Erin

D mitri moves around my tiny kitchen in nothing but boxer briefs and morning confidence. The contradiction of him slams into me all over again—on the ice, he’s a wrecking force, built to destroy. And yet here, he moves like he belongs, handling my chipped, mismatched mugs with a care that makes my throat tighten.

My body aches in the best ways, muscles I’d forgotten announcing their presence with every shift. We’ve barely left my bed since last night. Every time I try to bring up what the hell is happening between us—his love declaration, my love declaration—Dmitri finds a new way to derail me. With his hands, his mouth, his body pinning me down until words cease to exist.

His methods? Unparalleled. His timing? Abysmal.

“You should eat.” He sets a plate in front of me—eggs, toast, and perfectly fanned-out avocado slices, arranged with a precision that feels almost absurd coming from a man who handles a hockey stick like a weapon.

I pull his discarded shirt tighter around me, the scent of cedar, mint, and him wrapping around me like a second skin. “Thanks for the food, but I’d really prefer some answers.”

He hums, noncommittal, sliding into the chair across from me. His knee brushes against mine under the tiny table, and even that small contact sends a slow, curling heat through my body, like embers catching fire.

“Eat,” he repeats, pushing the plate closer.

I stab at an egg. “So, we’re just...not going to talk about this?” I wave my fork between us, yolk dripping dangerously. “About what happened? About what this is now?”

His impossibly dark eyes track the movement of my fork before flicking up to meet mine. “What do you want to talk about specifically?”

I let out an exasperated laugh. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe why you showed up at the team celebration looking like you were about to murder someone, dragged me home, fucked me into oblivion, then told me you love me?” My voice wobbles slightly on the last part, my cheeks heating at the memory. “Or maybe, just maybe, what we are to each other now? Or where we go from here?”

Dmitri leans forward, steals a bite of my toast with the kind of easy confidence that would normally make me throw something at his head. “Your eggs are getting cold.”

“Dmitri.” I drop my fork with a sharp clatter, making us both jump. “You can’t just fuck me into submission every time I try to figure this out.”

The corner of his mouth curves, slow and knowing. “Submission?”

I grab a piece of crust and hurl it at him, but the bastard catches it midair, smirking. “I’m serious!”

“Ah, always these labels, solnyshko .” He pushes to his feet, circling the table with that effortless grace that shouldn’t be possible for someone his size. Before I can protest, he lifts me from my chair, my legs automatically wrapping around his waist as his hands settle firmly under my thighs.

“What are you doing?” I protest weakly.

“What I’m doing,” he murmurs against my skin, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss just below my jaw, “is making up for lost time. With my girlfriend. ”

My breath stalls completely.

Girlfriend.

He feels the shift in my body, the way I freeze in his arms, and when he pulls back, his smirk is pure devastation. “Is that,” his lips brush mine, teasing, coaxing, “a label that will work for now, solnyshko ?”

I nod, my heart hammering like it’s trying to beat its way out of my ribs. But we’re right back to where we started.

I’m leaving in a week.

He lives in Tarrytown.

I’m in the West Village.

What’s the plan here?

Is he staying with me until I go, and then we just…part ways? Am I supposed to come back in August and play house with him and Ris on Fire Island? What are we going to tell Ris? What if we try long distance, and he meets some leggy, hockey-obsessed blonde who doesn’t overthink every second of her life? What if I’m just a conquest—some challenge he finally overcame? What if this whole girlfriend thing is just his way of making sure I don’t bolt before he’s had his fill?

My brain fires questions like a machine gun while my traitorous heart just beats his name on repeat.

But then he pins me to the bed, and every question, every doubt rumbles beneath the weight of him. His body cages me in, his mouth finds mine, and just like that, I’m lost—drowning in him, in this, in the unbearable, aching inevitability of us. My hands fist in his hair, my legs tighten around his waist, and whatever rational thought I had left dissolves as his teeth scrape my throat, his voice a low, wicked growl against my skin.

“You think too much, solnyshko ,” he murmurs, his hands dragging fire down my body. “Let me fix that.”

* * *

Hours later, I’m staring at the ceiling, trying to catch my breath while Dmitri traces lazy patterns on my hip. The afternoon sun has shifted, casting longer shadows across my rumpled sheets. My body is wrung out, deliciously sore, but my mind refuses to shut the hell up. So, I try again.

“You know that saying, ‘ You can have anything, just not everything’ ?” My voice is quiet, but I can already feel him tense beside me. “This thing between us…feels exactly like that.”

Dmitri turns to me so slowly it’s almost menacing.

His expression is somewhere between horrified and personally offended—like I just confessed to eating pizza with a fork.

“What?”

I squirm under his stare. “You must have heard it before. ‘ You can have anything, just not everything’. ” I wave my hands vaguely, like gesturing will somehow help my case. “It’s, like, a philosophy. Or…something people say. It definitely sounded smarter when Oprah said it.”

He blinks.

Then blinks again.

Then drags a hand down his face, like I’ve physically hurt him.

“Wait.” He sits up fully, crossing his arms over his massive chest. “I thought you were Irish.”

I frown. “I am. What does that have to do with anything?”

“Then why do you sound like someone’s Italian grandmother guilting the family over Sunday dinner?” His accent morphs into something truly heinous as he waves his arms around in full nonna mode. “You can’t-a have everything, Erin! Life’s not-a buffet at Olive Garden!”

I stare at him, deadpan. “What the fuck are you doing right now?”

He grins. “Just making sure I understand the logic. No second helpings. No unlimited breadsticks. Oprah said so.”

I groan, flopping onto my back and dragging the blanket over my head. “I hate you.”

“Liar.” His hands are suddenly on my waist, sliding me back toward him. “You love me. And you love it when I’m right.”

I shove at his chest, scowling. “I do love you. But you’re not right.”

“Mm.” He pins me under him easily, lips ghosting over my jaw. “Let’s review. You can’t have music and me?”

I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again. “Not at the same time?”

Dmitri snorts . “That makes zero fucking sense.”

“It does if you think about it!”

He lifts a brow. “No. It really doesn’t.”

“Well, I’ll be traveling! And you travel! And what about Ris?”

“What about her?”

I huff, grasping at the last fragile shreds of my argument. “She’s getting attached! What if I go on tour and she misses me?”

Dmitri gives me a long, unimpressed look.

“Are you trying to protect her…or yourself?”

My mouth opens. But nothing comes out.

I sputter, heat crawling up my neck. “I— What— That’s— No, that’s not?—”

His smirk turns lethal.

“Thought so.” His grin is insufferable. “You’re scared to leave because you like it with us.”

“I do not.”

“You do too.”

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?” He grins—lazy, wolfish, and devastating. “Speaking the truth?”

“You are so irritating.”

“And you,” he murmurs, sliding his hands lower, making coherent thought really fucking difficult, “are so full of shit.” His fingers press into my hips, his voice dipping low. “You can be a rock star cellist. Perform anywhere. Tour the world…” His breath skims my jaw. “And still come home to me. To us.”

My heart stutters. My stomach tightens.

“Dmitri…”

His forehead rests against mine, his next words a quiet, low rumble. “I just want you to come home to me, solnyshko .”

“You make it sound so simple,” I mutter, watching the way the muscles flex in his forearms as he braces himself over me.

“It is simple.” He presses a soft kiss to my forehead. “You play in Dubrovnik. Tour Europe. Do what you love.” His lips trail lower, brushing the curve of my throat. “Then you come home.”

“Just like that?” I manage.

He nods. “Why not?”

“Because it’s not that easy?—”

“It is that easy.” His grip tightens around my waist, undoing me. “You think too much.”

I huff. “Someone has to.”

“Not right now.”

And before I can argue, he moves, hauling me onto him, my legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. His cock is there, waiting. He palms it and slides it easily into my opening, slick and ready for him.

“Dmitri!” I squeak, gripping his shoulders, but I revel in the feel of him. “You cannot just throw me around like some damn caveman!”

“Sure, I can.” He palms my ass and lands a sharp slap, making me yelp. “See ? Very effective.”

“You absolute— Stop that!” But my hips do their own thing, swirling on the delicious feel of him filling me up.

Then he’s sitting, pushing his T-shirt—my borrowed armor—up over my head, baring me to the cool air, to his gaze, hot and heavy and devouring, thrusting into me, his hands guiding my hips the way he wants me. His hand finds my breast, his thumbs brushing over my nipple before he leans in, his mouth sealing around it, sucking.

My hips move faster, seeking friction, seeking him.

“Why would I stop?” His voice is rich with amusement, with triumph. “When you’re finally not overthinking?”

I growl, smacking his chest. “I hate you.”

He chuckles against my skin, completely unaffected. “Liar.”

My hips move harder, faster, my body making the choice my mind refuses to.

He groans, deep and knowing, his grip tightening as he tilts his head up, lips brushing mine, a smug grin curling against my mouth.

“That’s my girl.”

* * *

“We can’t stay in bed forever,” I sigh, even as my body betrays me, arching into his touch.

“Why not?” His stubble rasps against my shoulder as he presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss there.

“Because eventually, we’ll need food. Showers. You need to see your daughter. And I need to pack.” The last word tastes bitter in my mouth.

Dmitri stiffens almost imperceptibly. Something flickers in his eyes. But before I can make sense of it, it’s gone.

“Maybe we should go out for a bit,” he declares suddenly. “Get some air.”

I blink, thrown by the abrupt change in subject. “Now you want us to go...outside?”

It’s a deflection. And yet, the question that’s been clawing at me for weeks bubbles up before I can stop it.

“Dmitri…” I hesitate, heat crawling up my neck, my pulse thundering in my ears. “Were there other women? After Elena?”

The words are out. Hanging between us like a live wire. My stomach plummets.

“Jesus,” I whisper, dragging my hands down my face. “I’m sorry. That was so intrusive. Forget I asked. Sophie just said something, and I?—”

His entire body stills. Like I’ve struck him.

“Why do you ask this?” His voice is quiet, but there’s something lethal beneath it. Something that makes my breath catch. “Does it matter to you?”

My cheeks burn. “No. Yes. I don’t know.” I flop onto my back, covering my face with my hands, desperate to escape the humiliation curling in my gut. “I just—I’m trying to understand where I fit in your life.”

Silence.

Then his fingers wrap around my wrist. Gentle. Firm.

“Look at me, solnyshko .”

I swallow hard and let him pull my hands away.

“There has been no one,” he says simply. “Not since Elena. Not until you.”

My heart stops.

I stare at him, my pulse hammering in my throat. “Three years,” he continues, and there’s a hint of a smirk in the corner of his mouth. But his eyes, they’re bare. Unshielded. “Does that scare you? That I waited so long, then chose you?”

My chest tightens. My fingers curl into the sheets. “More than scares me. It terrifies me.”

He shifts, rolling over me, his weight pressing me into the mattress, his forearms braced on either side of my head.

“You are sunshine after the storm,” he murmurs, his lips ghosting over mine. “You make me laugh when I forget how.” His thumb traces my lower lip. “I love you, Erin.” His voice is steady. Unshakable. “I knew the second I saw you at the Philharmonic.”

A choked sound escapes me. I press my hands to his face, dragging his mouth back to mine. “I love you too, Dmitri.”

His lips crush against mine. His hands tangle in my hair, his body anchoring me to the bed, stealing my breath, consuming me completely.

Maybe we could stay here forever.

* * *

Later, we’re walking through the West Village, his hand engulfing mine, thumb tracing idle circles against my palm. We must look like any other couple, soaking in the late afternoon sun.

But we’re not just any couple.

We’re a countdown.

And I still don’t know what happens when the clock runs out.

“I love this neighborhood,” I say, forcing lightness into my voice. “It took me a while to get this place.”

Dmitri glances down at me. “You deserve better. Bigger.”

I arch a brow. “On a musician’s salary? Not in Manhattan.”

His brow furrows slightly. “Money isn’t?—”

“Don’t.” I stop walking, tugging his hand to make him face me. “Don’t offer to solve my housing situation with your hockey millions.” My voice is firm, leaving no room for argument. “That’s not what I want from you.”

His jaw flexes, but there’s a teasing smirk lurking at the edges of his mouth. “No? Then what do you want from me?” His voice drops, rich with suggestion. “My body at your disposal? I’d be happy to oblige, solnyshko . Any time, day or night. Just come sit in my lap, and we’re on.”

It’s a deflection. A deliberate one. An easy joke to twist the moment into something light.

Not this time.

I straighten, my grip tightening around his. “Honestly? Clarity.” My voice doesn’t waver. “Last night was…overwhelming. In the best way,” I add quickly, catching the way his expression darkens. “But I need to know where we go from here.”

For a fraction of a second, I think he’s going to give me a real answer. His eyes soften. He draws in a breath, like he’s about to say something that actually matters.

Then his gaze flicks past me, and just like that, the moment is gone.

“Wait here,” he says, dropping my hand and striding toward the curb.

“Are you serious right now?” I call after him, frustration flaring. “That’s it? Just wait here?”

But he’s already hailing a cab, that maddeningly effortless hand raise of his summoning a yellow taxi in record time. Before I can argue, he’s pulling open the door and looking at me expectantly.

“Get in.”

I plant my feet. Cross my arms. “Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.” The gleam in his eyes is both maddening and irresistible.

“You know, most women hate surprises from emotionally evasive men.”

His laugh is low and indulgent. “You’re not most women. You’re my solnyshko .”

Damn him for being impossible. And damn me for going along with it anyway. With a dramatic sigh that I only partially mean, I slide into the cab. “This better be good, Sokolov. And I don’t care how big and scary you are. I mean it. And it better involve actual conversation at some point.”

He chuckles as he slides in next to me, his thigh pressing against mine in the backseat. Then he leans forward and gives the driver an address I don’t catch.

“Seriously?” I elbow him. “Secret destinations now?”

The smirk he gives me should be illegal. “Trust me.”

And the most infuriating thing? Despite everything—his stubborn silence, his masterful distractions, his complete unwillingness to define whatever is happening between us—I do.

I absolutely do.

The cab bumps and swerves through midtown traffic, heading uptown on Park Avenue. Dmitri’s thigh is pressed against mine, a solid wall of heat that I’m simultaneously annoyed by and addicted to. The cab’s AC fights a losing battle against the June humidity, and I can feel wisps of hair sticking to the back of my neck.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” I ask for the third time.

Dmitri just gives me that infuriating half smile. “Patience.”

“I’ve been patient all day! And every time I start an actual conversations, you distract me.” I nudge him with my elbow.

His smirk deepens. “You weren’t complaining about those diversions an hour ago.”

Heat crawls up my neck. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?” His hand lands on my knee, his thumb making maddening little circles against my skin.

“The point is—” I lose my train of thought as his fingers inch higher. I bat his hand away. “Stop that. The point is, you can’t just flip my world upside down and then refuse to talk about it.”

The cab turns left onto 85th Street, and I catch a glimpse of the verdant tunnel of Central Park at the end of the block. But we’re not heading that way. Instead, we pull up in front of a stately prewar building on the corner of Fifth Avenue.

My stomach does a weird little flip. This is definitely not a hockey rink or a restaurant or any of the places I’d guessed we might be going.

Dmitri pays the driver, then offers me his hand. I take it, stepping onto the sidewalk lined with manicured trees and the kind of quiet that only extreme wealth can buy. The air smells different up here—less like hot garbage and food carts, more like old money and meticulously maintained gardens.

“Dmitri, what is this?” I whisper as he leads me toward the building’s entrance.

No answer. Of course.

The doorman—an actual doorman, in a perfectly pressed uniform with actual white gloves—greets us with a nod of quiet deference. “Good afternoon, Mr. Sokolov.”

Dmitri shakes his hand. “Call me Dmitri, please.” Then, with a glance in my direction, he adds, “This is Erin. My girlfriend.”

The doorman just smiles and ushers us in. No questions. No explanation of why we’re here or why Dmitri Sokolov has a standing greeting in a building that screams generational wealth.

The lobby looks like something out of a Gatsby fever dream—polished marble floors, a massive crystal chandelier, cream-colored walls with gilded accents. Even the air feels expensive. My ballet flats make no sound on the plush carpet as Dmitri leads me toward the elevator bank.

I yank on his hand. “Seriously, what the hell is going on? Why are we at some fancy Upper East Side building where the doorman knows your name?”

Still nothing. Just a smirk as he presses the call button.

The elevator arrives—walnut-paneled with brass fixtures, because of course it is. Dmitri places a hand on the small of my back, guiding me inside like this is completely normal.

“Eighth floor,” he says, finally breaking his silence and pushing the button.

Which, for the record, is not the explanation I’m looking for.

I open my mouth to demand actual answers, but then he pulls something out of his pocket. A black silk scarf.

He snaps it between his hands.

“Turn around.”

I blink. “What?”

His gaze is steady, penetrating, leaving no room for argument. “You heard me. Turn around.”

I hate how much it both upsets and arouses me. The way his voice scrapes over my skin like gravel and heat all at once.

But I turn. Slowly.

“Are we doing bondage now?” I murmur.

I hear him chuckle as he wraps the silk over my eyes, tying it in place. A hot kiss lands just below my ear, his breath warm against my skin.

“Is that something that interests you?” His voice is thick with amusement—and something darker. “Because with you, solnyshko , I’m game for anything.”

His hands slide down my body, tracing the peaks of my nipples through my dress. A sharp pinch makes me gasp.

“I’ll be sure to reward you for your obedience later.”

I let out a slow, shaky breath. “You know, most kidnappers don’t take their victims to luxury buildings with doormen.”

That gets a low laugh. “Is that what’s happening? I’m kidnapping you?”

“Well, you did just blindfold me and refuse to tell me what’s going on.”

His hands settle on my hips, fingers pressing in. “Kidnapping usually implies unwillingness.” He slides his hand under my dress, finding my panties, pushing them aside, and sliding a finger inside of me. “But your sweet cunt is telling me another story entirely.” He chuckles and takes his hand out, adjusting my dress back into place.

I swallow hard. I should be arguing. Instead, my pulse is hammering like a drum, my legs shaky.

The elevator glides to a stop. Dmitri steps out, tugging me with him into a hallway. He leads me to the left, and I hear keys rattling.

“Come,” he says, taking my hand.