It takes a few moments for Cheslav to fully register my words. But I can tell exactly when he does because he leans forward in his seat. And he looks very much like the dangerous Russian mafiosos he’s descended from as he says, “Do not fuck with me, krasotka. I have held myself back for weeks, but if you provoke me…”
I don’t let him finish. “Cheslav, I’m in love with you. That’s the truth. One I couldn’t deny no matter how much I tried to push it down. And I want to be with you. That’s the truth. Now you tell me the truth. Do you want the same thing?”
He abruptly stands up and reaches across the table to pull me to my feet.
“You know this is what I want,” he says, his voice fierce and strong. “But I cannot promise you what you want.”
The fierce expression softens. “There will be birthdays and anniversaries where I will want to give you special gifts. Many lies will be told to make sure you are 100 percent surprised. You cannot deny me that.”
I laugh. This fool…
Then I say, “Okay, I can live with that.”
“Okay?” he repeats. “You will come back to me and let me marry you and love you the way I want?”
“Yes, okay,” I agree with another laugh.
“Okay,” he says in a tone that sounds the exact same as a relieved sigh.
Then he scoops me up into his arms, and we seal the deal with a kiss as he carries me to his bedroom.
We both said “okay,” but as he lowers me to the bed, I have a good feeling that we’re going to be better than okay.
He may be a beast and a fool. But he’s mine. All mine.
And that means we’re going to be great.
Epilogue
Let me tell you, I’ve become a lot better at chess.
As romantic as my challenge was, Cheslav was appalled by how easy it was to beat me. Or as he put it, “What fun is there in crushing too ripe peach?”
His new favorite sex position is sitting with me reverse cowgirl in his lap, while he teaches me to “defend yourself against my inevitable victory.”
I can’t say I hate being his student. His long arms scrape against the sides of my sensitive breasts when he reaches forward to make his move. And he has a very generous habit of rubbing lazily at my clit with his left hand while he moves his pieces with his right.
I’ve learned to quickly assess the board so that I can get back to the fun rubbie rub sooner. But if I get too rushed and sloppy, he nips me on the shoulder and tells me, “You can do better than this, krasotka. I believe in you.”
It’s a very effective strategy. And by the end of July, I’m able to hold my own against him for almost twenty minutes.
Also, I know the better I play, the harder he’ll fuck me when he inevitably wins.
Which he does. After he knocks over my king, he sweeps the game off the coffee table. And my heart thrills as he leans me over the black slate surface and starts taking me from behind.
“I am so lucky to have you as an opponent,” he murmurs, resting a hand on my back.
“No, I’m lucky,” I insist on a pant. “So, so lucky!”
We have this argument often. And so far, no one has won.
But maybe that’s the point of good relationships. Neither of you ever stop thinking you’re the luckiest one.
And proving just how fortunate we are, my phone doesn’t start ringing until we’ve both come and are almost recovered from another chess lesson.
I stay sagged against the coffee table, perfectly happy to ignore it.
But Cheslav reaches around my slumped head to pick up the phone that just narrowly escaped his chess game sweep. “It’s Cyndarella,” he says.
“Cyndarella” is what he started calling Cynda after hearing how she left her shoe behind in her then lover’s apartment three years ago. And he insists on calling himself “your Russian beast,” when he refers to himself in the third person.
