Don't Remember Saying "I Do"

𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝟭 - 𝗣𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝟴

...

She didn't remember deciding on the hotel. She didn't remember the elevator ride, the hallway, the door clicking shut. She only remembered the sudden quiet, the hush of a luxury suite, and his hands on her waist, and his mouth on her throat.

The room was dark, lit only by the Seoul skyline bleeding through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The city sprawled beneath them, a galaxy of neon and movement, but Soo-jin saw none of it. She only saw him. Maksim's suit jacket was gone—discarded somewhere between the door and the bed. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, revealing a chest that was broader than she'd expected, pale skin stretched over lean muscle. There was a scar on his ribs, old and silver, and she wanted to ask about it. But then his mouth was on hers again, and the question dissolved.

He kissed like he did everything else—with precision, with intent. No wasted movement. His hands mapped her body like he was memorizing terrain. The curve of her waist. The dip of her spine. The place behind her knee that made her gasp when his fingers brushed it.

"You are shaking," he observed, pulling back just enough to look at her, his breath warm against her lips.

"I'm nervous." She hated admitting it. "I don't... I don't do this."

"I know." His thumb traced her bottom lip, a gentle, grounding pressure. "We do not have to do anything you do not want, Shin Soo-jin."

The way he said her name—full, proper, reverent—made her knees weak. "I want to," she said. "I just... I need you to know. This isn't... I'm not usually..."

"You are not usually the woman who goes home with strange Russian men she met in a club." His voice was gentle, patient. "I understand. I am not usually the man who follows a woman to a wedding chapel on a whim."

"You did that."

"I did." He smiled, and it was soft, real, transforming his sharp features into something almost tender. "You are a very convincing drunk."

She laughed, the tension breaking. "You're ridiculous."

"I am many things." He kissed her forehead, his lips lingering. "Ridiculous is new."

Then he kissed her again, and the laughter faded into something else. Something deeper. His mouth moved from her lips to her jaw, tracing a slow, burning path down the column of her throat. She felt his breath, warm and uneven, against her pulse point. Her hands came up to his shoulders, feeling the heat of him through the fine cotton of his shirt, the hard muscle beneath.

He was patient. That surprised her. For a man who radiated cold control, he was achingly gentle. He asked permission with every touch, every button undone, every inch of skin revealed. His fingers found the zipper of her dress, and he paused, his eyes finding hers in the dim light.

"Yes," she whispered before he could ask.

The dress slid from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. She stood before him in the city glow, her skin painted in shades of neon and shadow. He looked at her—truly looked—and the reverence in his gaze made her feel like something precious. Something worth keeping.

"You have too many buttons," she murmured, her fingers fumbling with the remaining buttons of his shirt. "Why do you have so many buttons?"

He laughed, low and surprised. "I did not anticipate needing to remove them quickly."

"This is a design flaw. I'm a designer. I know."

"Then, next time, I will wear a shirt with fewer buttons."

"Next time?"

His hands settled on her hips, pulling her closer. "I am optimistic."

She finally freed the last button and pushed the shirt from his shoulders. It fell away, and she could see all of him now—the broad planes of his chest, the smattering of dark hair, the silver scar on his ribs, and a small dark tattoo on his shoulder blade. She reached out, tracing the Cyrillic letters with her fingertip.

"Is that... is that a tattoo?"

"Yes."

"What does it say?"

"It says, 'Do not ask about the tattoo.'"

"Liar." She whispered that made him smile.

He caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. "It says 'survive.'"

"Oh." She looked up at him. "A reminder."

"Once. Not anymore."

She wanted to ask more, but his mouth found hers again, and the questions dissolved into sensation. He laid her back against the cool sheets, the city lights painting shadows across his face, and she reached up to touch his jaw. He leaned into her palm, eyes closing for just a moment.

"You are beautiful," he said. Not to her. About her. It was a fact, not a compliment.

"You're not so bad yourself, Russia."

He laughed again, that rare, precious sound, and kissed her.

...

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏 - 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟖

𝗧𝗢 𝗕𝗘 𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗧𝗜𝗡𝗨𝗘𝗗!