Page 47 of Sold to the Russian
Chapter 16 - Maeve
A week had passed.
Seven days since he opened a studio for her simply because she’d mentioned her love for art in passing. Seven days since he did something she’d begged her father for, for as long as she could remember. Seven days since she accidentally kissed him out of nothing but sheer excitement. Seven days since he fucked her raw. Seven days since she started to question the extent of her feelings for him. Seven days since her loyalty to her father began to blur with one she suddenly owed to her husband.
Her husband.
Jesus Christ, she really was losing her mind.
Maeve had done nothing but bury her head in the studio, using her time away from him to cover every inch of her canvases with paint. She didn’t realize just how much she’d missed painting until she felt the wooden shaft of the paintbrush between her fingers, until she ripped a can of paint and the familiar smell hit her nose, until she listened to the strokes of her brush against the canvas like the scratching of nails on a chalkboard.
The moment she began, she barely stopped. She painted until her hands cramped and her thoughts dulled, only leaving when the hunger got too loud. Tonight was one of those nights. And it wasn’t until now, until she was sitting in front of the major canvas she’d been working on for seven consecutive days, that she realized what she’d been doing,whoshe’d been painting.
Because, staring back at her right now, was his portrait. A complete image of his face, a direct copy from her mind to the canvas. Her fingers traced the lines of his face, the shape ofhis nose, the depth of his blue gaze. He was stunning, even as a painting—one she’d done so meticulously and accurately.
Maeve’s gaze darted from her delicate work to the camera in the far corner of the studio, staring at the red light blinking steadily. He’d been a bit distant ever since they slept together, like he’d come to realize something she wasn’t aware of. He was less present than he usually was, busy with whatever it was that demanded his attention and leaving her to stew in the aftermath of what they’d done.
But she knew he was always watching through that lens at the corner of the room. She could almost feel his eyes on her every time she worked, could almost sense the eye contact every time she looked up at the camera.
When the hell had this stopped being manipulation on her part? The plan was to seduce him into letting her into his head, into luring him into her father’s game. He fucked her once, and everything else blurred into nothing.
It was all she could think about, all she could remember, even as she sat here, still staring at the camera. Her skin tingled with heat, a rush of desire flooding her cunt, liquid heat pooling between her thighs.
God, she wanted him. Wanted him so fucking badly, but she wouldn’t go to him. She needed him to come to her first, and what better way was there to do that than to put on a little show for him? Seduction or not, it would all work out the same in the end.
So she stood up from the bench, washed her hands, and sat on the floor. She kept her eyes on the camera as she rested her back against the bench before pulling her shorts down her hips. She was soaking wet, and she couldn’t remember the last time she wasn’t since he fucked her into oblivion.
Maeve bit her lip as she imagined her fingers as his, sliding between her folds, gathering slick as he spread her open, dragging up and down. Her eyes fluttered as she circled her clit with two of her fingers, spreading her thighs open so he could see all of her. So he could see her fingers plunging deep into herself, rocking her hips in response to her own wet thrusts.
It wasn’t enough. Her touch was never enough for her these days, but it was better than usual today, knowing fully well that he would see her touching herself like a crazed woman. It felt better knowing his eyes were on her, even though she was the only one in the room, and it fueled her desire, her need to thrust harder, her urge to slap her fingers against her cunt so he could watch her cum ooze out of her.
His name was on her lips by the time she finished, her skin slick with sweat, her breath uneven. The air was filthy, her scent mixing with the strong smell of paint. Her chest heaved as her eyes flicked to the red light in the corner, a wanton grin on her lips as she wiped herself with her fingers before shoving them deep in her mouth, sucking herself clean.
She closed her eyes and wished with all her might that it was him.
The grumble of her stomach eventually forced her out of the studio. Light from the kitchen spilled into the corridor as she padded away, the savory scent of fried rice and teriyaki chicken reminding her just how hungry she was. Quiet jazz played from the living room as well.
She turned the corner and found him stirring a skillet at the stove, his head bowed slightly in concentration. She liked how he seemed to find some kind of peace in cooking, especially when it was for her. She couldn’t cook for shit, but watchinghim like this, barefoot and completely domestic as he made her dinner, felt a little too natural, too normal, too tolerable.
He was wearing the same gray sweatpants he had been wearing before they had sex, and for a second, she wondered what he had done with her panties. A plain black shirt clung to his back, his hair a little messy, like he couldn’t care less about fixing it.
As if he could sense her presence, he turned around, and there was that maddening, electrifying eye contact again—the one that always made her heart beat two times faster. He looked sexier with the dark, noticeable stubble on his chin.
She waved an awkward hand, suddenly unsure of what to do. “Hey.”
He was looking at her the way he always looked at her, like he wasn’t sure if she was real or not. She wasn’t complaining, though—she liked it when he looked at her like he was seconds away from jumping her bones.
Since she found him cooking, there was little chance he’d seen the footage yet. But curiosity had her wondering if he had, if he had seen her hand slide between her thighs, her eyes locked shamelessly on the lens.
Amusement flickered through his eyes. “Hey?”
Maeve cleared her throat as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She’d never been this nervous around him, never been so awkward that she didn’t know what to do or say, never felt so intensely that she feared her heart would beat out of her chest.
“So—” she began, but was cut short when the chime of the doorbell echoed through the house.
Fedya’s stirring motion in the pan ceased. They shared a frown as he switched off the stove, wiping his hands on a towel.
The thought of someone else coming here was foreign to Maeve. She raised a brow, her eyes darting between him and the door.
