Fifty Shades of Lust {Steamiest Short Stories}

CHAPTER 1

TRIXIE

I woke up with butterflies I pretended I didn’t have.

For the past two weeks, ever since Dad mentioned Zahar’s phone call, my heart had been beating like it remembered something my mind had tried to forget. Or maybe I never forgot at all.

Five years was a long time, yet somehow every part of me still reacted to his name like I was sixteen again, peeking out my window just to see him walk down his balcony steps, pretending I wasn’t staying up, waiting for him to come back home.

And now—today—he was back.

Well, arriving later today.

“Trixie,” Dad called from downstairs, snapping me out of my half-dazed morning excitement. “Don’t forget to stop by Zahar’s house and make sure the staff didn’t miss anything.”

My breath caught.

Zahar’s house.

The mansion directly across from ours. The place I used to stare at more than my school books. The place I had imagined myself walking into, confessing stupid, too-big feelings to a man who should have never looked twice at me.

Not that he ever did. He was Dad’s age, Dad’s best friend, Dad’s business partner. Always patient with me, always gentle and respectful... but never inappropriate.

Never mine.

Even when I tried to pretend he was.

I slid out of bed, pulled my hair into a loose ponytail, and forced my feet to work. It felt like every step was carrying me closer to something I wasn’t sure I was ready for.

Because Zahar Litvin wasn’t just anyone.

He was the man who once made me consider skipping my own sixteen-birthday party just so I could hide from the way he looked at me that night. Or the way I had hoped—prayed—he’d look at me.

Then he vanished.

No explanation. No final dinner with Dad. No awkward goodbye to me. One night he was here; the next morning his doors were shut and his car was gone. I waited. I checked the mailbox every day for a letter that never came. I stood outside his house, feeling stupid for even hoping he’d ever come back.

And now Dad was telling me to go inside.

Walk into his house.

His space.

His bedroom.

Like it was nothing.

I threw on a tank top and shorts and headed out. The sun was warm, caressing my skin gently, and the familiar gates of Zahar’s mansion loomed across the street.

My stomach tightened. The security code still worked—Dad must’ve reset it for the cleaners this morning—so the iron gates rolled open with a soft hum.

My heart didn’t hum. It roared.

The house was as enormous and intimidating as always, with dark tinted windows and that heavy black-steel door that looked like it belonged to a billionaire who never took risks but somehow always attracted danger anyway.

That had always been Zahar’s aura—controlled strength, like he could break someone in half but chose not to.

The key worked on the first try.

The moment I stepped inside, a soft floral cleaning scent hit me. Everything sparkled. The marble floors gleamed like they were brand new. The chandeliers shone brighter. The furniture looked untouched.

Yet the house felt lived in.

Like it was waiting for him.

I walked slowly, my footsteps echoing through the long hallway. I traced my fingertips over the walls, remembering how I once imagined him pinning me against one. Pressing his body to mine. Whispering my name in that deep, Russian accented voice.

Jesus. I needed to get a grip.

I checked the kitchen first. Everything was perfect—the staff really didn’t miss a thing. Bedroom hallway next. My heart thumped harder with every closed door I passed.

Then… his room.

Zahar’s bedroom was always off-limits—even when I was younger, Dad never let me roam around here. “A man’s room is private,” he used to say. Which was precisely why I imagined it so much. Forbidden things were always more interesting.

I hesitated only one second before turning the handle.

The smell hit me first.

Not cleaning products.

Him.

Or maybe it was just my imagination, but the faint, masculine scent—deep, woodsy, expensive, sharp like winter air—rushed straight into my lungs and settled low between my legs.

His room was larger than mine, even larger than my father’s. A king-sized bed sat in the middle, dressed in fresh white sheets. Huge windows looked out over the estate, sunlight pouring in.

I walked to the bed slowly, almost reverently.

He would sleep here tonight.

After five years.

Five years of not knowing where he went, or if he ever thought about us.

If he ever thought about me.

What would he look like now? Older? Rougher? Would his beard be thicker? Would his eyes still have that dangerously calm look that made me feel like he was reading every thought I tried to hide?

My breath came out shaky.

Before I could overthink, I sat on his bed.

Soft.

Too soft.

Then I lay down fully, sinking into the mattress like it was pulling me in. I shouldn’t have. I knew I shouldn’t have. But my body refused to obey my brain. I curled onto my side, then onto my back, staring at the ceiling.

“God, Zahar…” I whispered to an empty room.

Something warm unfurled inside me. Something bold. Something stupid.

My thighs pressed together.

I wasn’t supposed to do this. I wasn’t supposed to think of him like this anymore. I was twenty one—not sixteen, not starry-eyed, not hopelessly naïve.

Except… I was hopeless. Still.

I closed my eyes and let memories blur into fantasies. Zahar in his crisp shirts, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms flexing as he poured himself vodka.

Zahar leaning over our dining table discussing business with Dad, voice deep and smooth. Zahar glancing at me sometimes—just a glance, nothing more—but long enough for me to wonder if he ever imagined what my mouth might look like wrapped around his fingers.

My breath hitched.

My hand slid down my stomach before I could stop it. I wasn’t even touching anything yet, but my skin felt hot, too tight. My shorts suddenly felt too restricting. I parted my legs slightly, hesitant but craving. My fingers brushed the inside of my thigh and a shiver shot straight up my spine.