“I did.”
“I take it from your shocked expression she informed you of what I get up to on this plane.”
I sink lower in my seat. “She did.”
Another page flip. “And? How does that make you feel?” He flicks his eyes up to mine. “Horrified? Or aroused?”
“Confused,” I admit.
“How so?”
“Why do you want me to be your wife? Why not choose one of the other women you’ve been with? Why not Elizabeth?”
“Because Elizabeth doesn’t know what I truly do. You do. You were born into it. And I love your innocence. I can meld you into the perfect wife. And when I fuck you, I’ll know my cock will be the first cock that’s ever been inside you. And the last.”
I gulp. The heat spreads from my face down my neck. And lower. “So, you want me because I’m a virgin?”
“Not just that. I want you because I truly think you’ll be perfect for me.”
I shift in my seat. How am I perfect for him? We don’t even know each other.
“Do you plan on using your plane to continue your activities after we’re married?”
“What activities?” He flips another page, his eyes back on his book. It disarms me. Everything he does disarms me.
“Orgies,” I whisper.
Mikhail chuckles darkly. “Only if you’re with me.”
“I don’t want to be in an orgy.”
“How do you know? You’ve never tried.”
“I …”
He finally sets his book down and turns the full force of his gaze onto me. “You won’t participate in any orgies.”
“I don’t …”
“I’m the only one who will ever touch you. Now, that doesn’t mean I won't want you to perform for other people. I want people to watch us as we fuck. But I’ll be the only one to touch you.”
I have a million more questions, but I keep quiet, which I think is for the best. I’m terrified that if I ask more questions, I’ll get answers I don’t like.
Or answers I will like.
We arrive in Russia in the late morning. The sun shines brightly, and the weather is warm. At least we’re here in the summertime. I can’t even imagine what Russian winters will be like.
As we get off the plane, a man greets us. He speaks to Mikhail in Russian. It hits me that I won't know a single word people are saying unless it’s English. As a Russian American, my father never thought it was important for me to know any language other than English. “New York is your home,” he said. “What other language do you need to know?”
But right now, knowing Russian would come in handy.
The man walks us over to a car and gets behind the wheel. He’s the driver. I can understand that, at least.
Mikhail and I get into the backseat. “Can you translate for me? In the future?”
“I can.” No more is said on the matter. At least Mikhail doesn’t object to translating, but that means I’ll be entirely dependent on him for conversation unless I meet other English speakers. We’re in Moscow. It’s a large city. There have to be some people who know English.
The driver takes us to a wedding dress shop in a town square with beautiful gardens. I never knew Russia could look so pretty.
“Come along,” Mikhail says, getting out of the car and giving me his hand. That’s one thing I’ve noticed—he likes to touch me, whether it’s holding my hand or touching my knee. He wants his hands on me, which I can’t help but find flattering.
And nerve wracking.
Mikhail enters the wedding boutique with confidence as I trail beside him. So, this is happening. Once he buys me a dress, we’ll go to a church and get married. Mikhail will become my husband.
A woman with black hair pulled into a tight bun and wearing a stylish black dress approaches us. She’s beautiful. I see how she looks Mikhail over, making me feel the same way I did back on the plane—confused and slightly jealous.
Mikhail speaks Russian to her, and the woman flicks her eyes to me and nods.
“I will find you the perfect dress,” she says in heavily accented English. So, Mikhail must have told her I’m an English speaker. Though I appreciate his help, it makes me feel like an invalid.
“Go with her,” Mikhail tells me, settling into one of the chairs.
I don’t want to be away from Mikhail. He’s the only person I know.
“I’m Sasha,” the woman tells me.
