๐๐ป๐ฑ ๐ผ๐ณ ๐๐ต๐ฎ๐ฝ๐๐ฒ๐ฟ ๐ญ .
755 Words
...
What followed was a slow, deliberate unravelling. He took his time, learning her body with the same focused intensity he seemed to bring to everything. His mouth traced paths of fire down her neck, across her collarbone, lower. His hands were everywhereโgentle, then firm, then gentle againโreading her reactions, adjusting, giving her exactly what she needed before she knew she needed it.
She discovered things about him, too. The way his breath hitched when she touched the scar on his ribs. The soft, guttural sound he made low in his throat when she kissed the hollow of his neck. The Russian words slipped from him when his control frayedโrough, unfamiliar syllables that she didn't understand but felt deep in her core.
"You're staring," she said at one point, catching his gaze in the dim light.
"You are worth staring at."
"That's so cheesy." She commented that made him chuckle softly.
"I am Russian. We do not do cheese. We do sincerity."
"That's the cheesiest thing you've said all night."
He smiled with amusement and gently brushed a strand of hair away from her forehead.
"Then stop making me sincere."
She laughed, and he silenced her with a kiss, swallowing the sound. When he finally moved over her, when there was no more space between them, she gasped and held onto himโher fingers digging into his shoulders, her legs wrapping around his waist. He moved with the same controlled precision, but there was a hunger beneath it, a barely restrained intensity that made her feel utterly, devastatingly wanted.
His forehead pressed to hers, their breath mingling. "Maksim," she whispered.
"Yes, Soju?"
"If I forget this tomorrow, I'm going to be really, really annoyed."
His rhythm slowed, his eyes finding hers in the dark. "Then I will remind you."
"Promise?"
He kissed her, deep and slow. "Promise."
The city glowed beyond the window, indifferent to the two strangers tangled together in the dark. Time lost meaning. There was only sensationโthe slide of skin, the catch of breath, the quiet sounds that filled the space between heartbeats. He whispered things in Russian against her skin, words she couldn't translate but felt anyway, their meaning carried in the tenderness of his voice. She clung to him, her anchor in the storm of sensation, and when the wave finally crested and broke, she cried out his nameโnot Russia, not Maks, but Maksim, full and proper, like a vow.
After, they lay tangled in the sheets, the city humming below them. His fingers traced lazy patterns on her bare shoulder, and she could feel his heartbeat slowing beneath her cheek. Neither spoke. There was nothing to say and everything.
She didn't remember falling asleep. She only remembered warmth, and the scent of winter, and the distant, fading thought that she had never felt so safe with anyone in her life.
...
๐ง๐๐ ๐ก๐๐ซ๐ง ๐๐๐ฌ
She woke to light. Harsh, unforgiving, stabbing through her curtains like an accusation.
Her head was a cathedral of pain. Her mouth tasted like regret and soju and... mint? Why mint? She was in her own apartment. Small mercy. She didn't remember the taxi ride. She didn't remember climbing the stairs, fumbling with her keys, collapsing into bed. But she was alone. She turned her head slowly, carefully, expecting... she didn't know what. A note? A body? Perhaps anything that could be a sign that last night had been real? Nothing. Just her empty, messy room.
'Was it a dream?'
She lifted her hand to rub her eyes and froze.
A ring. A diamond ring. On that finger. It caught the morning light, glittering like a taunt. Simple. Elegant. Expensive. Nothing she would have bought for herself.
'What theโ'
She sat up too fast. The room spun. She grabbed her head, groaning, and waited for the world to settle. On her nightstand, half-crumpled, next to an empty glass of water she definitely didn't remember pouring... a piece of paper. She grabbed it. The hangul and English blurred together, her vision swimming.
Certificate of Marriage.
Shin Soo-jin.
Maksim Morozov.
She stared at the names. Her name. His name. Together. On a legal document.
"Who..." Her voice was a croak, barely audible. "Who the f**k is Maksim Morozov?"
And somewhere across Seoul, in a penthouse she couldn't imagine, a man with frost-colored eyes was waking up to confetti and asking the exact same question about her.
....
๐๐๐ ๐๐
๐๐๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ .
- Writer
