Page 22 of Crimson Sin
My reflection stares back at me from the window glass, ghostly and uncertain. The woman looking back appears composed, her crimson dress still elegant despite the evening's events. But I can see the truth in my eyes. The confusion, desire, and fear of what's happening between Daniil and me.
I step back from the window, the silk dress rustling softly with each movement. The sound seems unnaturally loud in the quiet room. My fingers rise to touch my lips, still warm and swollen from Daniil's kisses. The sensation sends another rush of heatthrough my body, a reminder of how completely he'd unraveled me in the garden.
I shouldn't be thinking about it, not like this. Not with this heat curling in my stomach and spreading through my limbs. This is supposed to be pretend. A performance designed to convince his family and secure both our futures. Nothing more than an elaborate charade with clearly defined boundaries.
But there was nothing performative about the way his mouth moved over mine. Nothing scripted in the way he pressed me into the garden arch, his body firm and hungry, his hands reverent but desperate. The memory makes my knees weak.
I move deeper into the room, my footsteps muffled by the Persian rug. Everything here exudes luxury and comfort, with thread counts that I can only imagine. Yet despite the opulence, the space feels empty and lonely, even with all its beauty.
I sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress giving beneath me like a sigh. The silk bedding is cool against my palms as I steady myself. My mind keeps replaying the evening. Viktor's probing questions, the dangerous undercurrents of conversation, the way Daniil's jaw had tightened when his cousin pushed too far. But mostly the kiss. Both kisses, actually.
My hand drifts to my waist, where he gripped me. Not hard or possessive in a controlling way. Just with purpose as though grounding himself. Or maybe grounding me. The thought sends a warm ache between my legs.
I try to make sense of what happened, to categorize it as part of our arrangement. But the rational explanations feel hollow. There had been real hunger in his eyes when he looked at me in the garden. Real desperation in the way his hands tangled in myhair. Real need in the sound he made when I responded to his touch.
Standing slowly, I walk to the full-length mirror positioned near the closet. The woman looking back appears foreign to me. This isn't who I am. I'm careful. Methodical even. I plan my moves and consider the consequences. I don't lose myself in passionate encounters with dangerous men, no matter how compelling they might be. Yet here I stand, thoroughly undone by a few kisses from my temporary husband.
I pull the gown over my head and let it fall in a whispering puddle on the floor. I stand there for a moment in just my undergarments, feeling exposed and vulnerable in ways that have nothing to do with clothing.
The cool air raises goosebumps along my arms. I fold the dress neatly and place it on the nearby chaise, but my hands linger longer than necessary, my fingers trembling as if unsure what to do now. The fabric is impossibly soft, still infused with his cologne from when he held me close.
Moving to the adjoining bathroom, I steal another glance at myself in the vanity mirror. My makeup is smudged, evidence of our passionate encounter. I should clean it off, wash away the physical reminders of what happened. Instead, I find myself tracing the path his lips took along my jaw, remembering the heat of his mouth against my skin.
I return to the bedroom and slide under the covers, hoping that sleep will quiet the storm in my head. But the sheets are cool against my fevered skin, offering no relief from the fire burning inside me. I roll onto my side, then my back. My body won't settle. Not when every nerve feels electrified from his touch. Every time I close my eyes, I see his face in the moonlight,shadowed and uncertain, trying to fight something he's already surrendered to.
The mattress is too large, too empty. I'm acutely aware of the space beside me where he might have been if things were different. If this marriage were real, and we'd met under different circumstances. The thoughts are dangerous territory I shouldn't explore, but my mind wanders there anyway.
What would it be like to wake up next to him? To see that carefully crafted mask slip away in sleep? To watch him vulnerable and unguarded in the morning light? The questions multiply, each one more forbidden than the last.
I don't want this. Yet I do. God knows, I do. The contradiction tears at me. I came into this arrangement with clear boundaries and realistic expectations. It was supposed to be business. A mutually beneficial transaction that would solve both our problems without emotional complications. But somewhere between the museum and tonight, those boundaries have started to blur. What began as a performance has taken on a life of its own, developing depths and dimensions I never anticipated.
The ache inside me deepens, low and insistent. It's been so long since I've felt genuine desire and wanted someone with this kind of intensity. Years of academic focus and career building have left little room for romance. My last relationship ended over a year ago, a casualty of my dedication to my work and his inability to understand my passion for art history.
I press my thighs together, willing the feeling to fade. It doesn't. If anything, the pressure only intensifies the throbbing need that's taken up residence between my legs. My body remembers his touch, craves more of it with an urgency that's both thrillingand terrifying. Instead of fighting it anymore, I let the memory take hold of me.
His mouth on mine, demanding and desperate. The way he tasted smoky with whiskey, laced with danger. The rasp of his voice when he whispered my name like a confession torn from his throat. The way he surrounded me, controlling me with nothing but presence and heat, setting every nerve alight.
My hand slides beneath the blanket, a soft tremor running through me as my fingers drift down the curve of my stomach. My eyes flutter shut, and I let the memory take hold, let it guide me. I imagine his hands instead of mine, large and sure, with calluses that whisper of a past he doesn't discuss. His touch wouldn’t hesitate. He’d know exactly where to press, how to coax my breath into stuttering. He’d murmur against my skin, his voice low and gravel-edged, telling me to let go. That I’m safe. That I’m his.
The fantasy unfurls, slow and vivid, as my fingers dip lower. In my mind, we’re back in the garden. Moonlight kisses the stone around us, and this time, he doesn’t stop. He lifts me onto the ledge with effortless strength, his palms hot as they slide beneath the fabric of my dress. He stares at me with those storm-colored eyes, his voice a promise as he tells me exactly what he wants, to taste, to claim, and ruin every man who’s ever come before him.
A shaky breath leaves my lips as my fingertip grazes my clit, already aching and sensitive beneath the pad of my touch. I circle it slowly, imagining Daniil’s mouth there instead. His tongue teasing, relentless, coaxing me toward the edge with every stroke. My breath quickens as my thighs fall open. I slide a finger inside myself, and a soft moan escapes. It feels too good. Too real.
My other hand moves to my breast, my palm curling around it as I tease the peak between my fingers. I move in rhythm, my fingers thrusting in and out of my pussy, my hips lifting in time with the memory of his kiss and the way he’d devoured me. The way he groaned into my mouth like he needed me to breathe. Like my lips were the only thing keeping him sane.
I can almost feel his weight above me, his body braced over mine, his mouth trailing fire across my collarbone. Almost hear him groan my name as he discovers how much I want him. The image is so vivid and real that, for a moment, I forget I'm alone. I bite my bottom lip, stifling a gasp as the pressure builds. The sensation spirals tighter, more intense with each passing second.
My breath hitches as I work my fingers faster, wet and slick and aching for more. The tension winds tighter, a coil ready to snap. I tug at my nipple harder, chasing that flash of pain that sharpens the pleasure between my thighs. I imagine the stretch of Daniil’s cock, the pressure of his body pinning me down, the way his voice would break as he lost himself inside me.
A groan breaks from my throat as I thrust harder, the bed creaking beneath me, my hips chasing the friction. My orgasm hits me hard, white-hot and blinding, my body trembling as waves of heat rush through me and dissolve into the sheets. The release is intense but fleeting, leaving only silence and the aching hollowness where he should be.
I lie there, breath shallow, one hand still resting against my belly as the other slips free. Sweat clings to my skin, and reality crashes back with uncomfortable clarity. It wasn’t real. Just my hand and my imagination. Just my body reacting to a man who plays his part too well.
But I’m not foolish enough to fall for my own reassurances. There was something raw in his eyes when he looked at me tonight. Something wounded and wild that he tries so hard to hide beneath that controlled exterior. And for those precious moments in the garden, it felt like I wasn't the only one losing my grip on the performance.
The vulnerability in his voice when he admitted he hadn't planned to kiss me. The way his hands shook slightly when he stepped back. The conflict was written across his face as he walked away from my door. These weren't the actions of a man merely playing a role.
I roll onto my side, pulling my knees up and tugging the blanket tighter around me. The position offers some comfort, but it doesn’t quiet the questions racing through my mind. This arrangement was supposed to have clean lines and clear expectations. He gets his inheritance. I get funding for my exhibit. No emotional entanglements. No complications.
