Torrid (Sordid 2)

Suspicion clouded his eyes. “It doesn’t sound like you’re having regrets, given how much you ‘like him sticking his dick in you.’”

I sighed. “It’s the same every time with him. Vasilije’s boring,” I lied. “He’s a boring . . . boy.”

As I hoped, implying Goran was a superior man caught his interest. “Is that so?”

It was easy to stay silent. I didn’t have a clue what to say, and he’d told me he liked quiet women.

He searched the crowd and his expression turned down in disappointment. “I don’t have time to give you a proper tour right now.” He made the simple word sound dirty. “I can’t leave my guests.”

“Maybe some other time,” I forced out. Hopefully my tight voice came off to him as eager, rather than anxious.

He blinked his dark eyes slowly. “Tomorrow.”

I hesitated. “Christmas day? I’m not sure I can—”

“I’ll send Filip over to pick you up after dinner.” His grin was terrifying. “If Vasilije has an issue with it, I’ll explain it to him.” He probably viewed this as the ultimate power trip, taking Vasilije’s favorite toy away on Christmas. “I have a big house,” he continued. “It may take a while, but I think you’ll . . . enjoy it.”

I bit down on the inside of my cheek to distract myself from throwing up in my mouth. His gaze moved over my head, and he motioned to someone behind me, and then his attention returned, settling on my blood red lipstick.

“I’m sorry, I need to talk to someone, if you’ll excuse me.” As he stepped to the side, he set his hand on my arm, and I tried not to bolt from his touch. “But I’m looking forward to tomorrow, Natasha.”

“Oksana,” I whispered back, but he was already moving through the crowd and out of earshot.

We had to stay through dinner, and as I sat at one of the long tables and listened to Goran give his speech about family and loyalty, my insides churned. Not because my family had been enemies with the Markovics for years, but the hypocrisy of Goran’s words. Luka’s face was a cool, emotionless mask, but in his eyes I could see him struggle to contain his anger.

Vasilije was the opposite. He smiled at all the right parts, flashing his dimples and laughing at jokes, putting everyone at ease. It seemed like he was in a great mood. And maybe he was. Now he had a firm date of when he was going to take his uncle down.

?

Christmas morning was . . . weirdly wonderful.

We slept in, and when we went downstairs in our pajamas, we discovered Luka and Addison hovering around the coffee pot, not dressed for the day either. Vasilije cooked breakfast for everyone. We ate and had conversation like we were two normal couples celebrating Christmas together. The strangest part was how it didn’t feel strange.

After breakfast, we gathered around the tree Vasilije and I had decorated a few days ago with ornaments from the basement he’d been reluctant to go in. He’d admitted to me later that night, after having smoked some weed, he was glad I’d gotten the tree. Some of the ornaments were from his childhood and it was good to see them again.

It made him feel less like an orphan.

There were only a handful of presents between the four of us, and since I had more than one, Vasilije demanded I go first. I tore the fancy silver and gold paper, recognizing the Faire Avenue branding, and laughed as I opened the box and peered inside.

“What is it?” Addison asked.

I held up the red, gauzy lingerie for her to see.

“Oh,” she said, like the word had been punched from her lungs. Her cheeks tinted, but I smiled. She thought I should be embarrassed, but I didn’t feel shame, and she must not have realized how Vasilije and I had heard them having sex the other night.

This lingerie set was elegant and sophisticated. “Did Daphne help you?”

“She did.” His dark eyes were full of lust and a promise I couldn’t wait for him to fulfill. “Open the other one.”

He sounded impatient as he tossed the small, letter-sized box at me. This one looked like it’d been wrapped by a man and not a clerk at a department store. I peeled back the paper and lifted the lid.

Now it was my turn to gasp. I had to read the tickets to the Chicago Lyric Opera more than once. “Salome?” I whispered. “You got me tickets to see Salome?”

“I got us tickets, yeah.” He tried to play it cool. “They should be good seats, because they were fucking expensive.”

“What is that?” Luka asked.

“An opera,” I said, pulling out the two sheets of folded paper and handling them like they were printed on gold. Vasilije had gotten us box seats, and the idea of sitting beside him while we watched one of Strauss’s masterpieces made my insides flutter.