Trixie

CHAPTER 6

TRIXIE

The moment Zahar disappeared through our front door, the air in the house turned thin. I couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t stand still. My skin felt too tight, every heartbeat reminding me how close he’d been—how hard he’d been—and how fast he’d run from me.

I needed more.

I couldn’t let him disappear again.

Not after dinner. Not after sitting next to him for hours, feeling the heat radiating off his body, the accidental brush of his arm against mine, the way his thigh pressed against my bare one under the table and stayed there. Not after watching him force every bite of food like it tasted like ash, his jaw tight, his eyes avoiding mine unless they slipped—dark, burning, guilty—and landed on my mouth, my chest, the hem of my dress riding up my thighs.

And then he’d just… left.

Muttered goodnight, grabbed his shirt like he couldn’t stand being around me anymore, and walked out fast, like the house was on fire.

I stood in the foyer long after the door closed, staring at nothing, my skin still buzzing from where he’d touched me earlier. My lips still remembered the scratch of his beard against my cheek when I’d cried into his neck. My body still remembered the hard ridge of him pressed between my legs when I’d wrapped myself around him.

I needed more.

That’s when I saw it—his black leather briefcase, sitting neatly by the console table where he’d dropped it the second I launched myself at him. Forgotten in all the chaos.

Perfect excuse.

“Dad!” I called, snatching it up and clutching it to my chest like it was the most important thing in the world. “Uncle Zahar forgot his briefcase. I’m running it over to him.”

Dad looked up from the couch, remote in hand, eyebrows raised. “It’s almost eleven, Trix. He’s probably passed out from jetlag. Just leave it for morning.”

“No, it looks important,” I insisted, already backing toward the door. My voice was too bright, too eager, but Dad didn’t notice. “Papers or whatever. It'll only take two minutes to return this to him. He's literally across the street.”

He sighed, waving me off. “Fine. But don’t go bothering the man if his lights are off. He looked wrecked.”

I flashed a smile I didn’t feel and bolted out the door before he could say anything else.

The night air hit me—cool, sharp, December-chilled—but it did nothing to calm the fire roaring under my skin.

My heels clicked against the pavement as I crossed the driveway, the wine-red satin dress clinging to my hips, swishing against my thighs with every step. The fabric felt too thin, too revealing, like it was made for this exact purpose: walking into his house in the dark, knowing what I wanted.

The gate code still worked—same as always. The front door was unlocked. He’d stormed in here so fast he hadn’t even locked it behind him.

I slipped inside quietly, closing the door with a soft click.

The mansion was mostly dark, just the faint glow of a single lamp spilling from the living room down the hall. Everything smelled like him already—sharp cedar, expensive leather, that deep, masculine note that made my stomach flip and my thighs press together.

I set the briefcase down silently by the entrance and crept forward, heart pounding so loud I was sure he’d hear it.

Then I heard him.

A low, ragged exhale. Almost a growl. Then a muttered curse in Russian—rough, frustrated.

I froze at the edge of the hallway, pressing my back to the wall, and peered around the corner.

My breath stopped completely.

Zahar.

My Zahar.

Sprawled on the big leather couch, shirt gone—tossed carelessly on the floor beside him. Suit pants shoved down just past his hips, open enough to free himself. One big, rough hand wrapped around his cock, stroking slow and deliberate, like he was angry at it. Like he was angry at himself.

He was… devastating.

Thicker than I’d ever imagined in my dirtiest dreams. Long. Heavy. Veined. The head flushed dark and slick, glistening every time his fist reached the top and his thumb swiped over it, spreading the wetness in a slow, torturous circle.

His abs flexed with every breath, shadows cutting sharp lines across his stomach. His head was tipped back against the couch, eyes squeezed shut, throat exposed, beard scraping against his collarbone as he swallowed hard.

I couldn’t move.

I couldn’t breathe.

I just watched, hidden in the shadows, my own body reacting instantly—heat flooding low in my belly, nipples tightening painfully against the satin of my dress, thighs pressing together to ease the sudden ache.

His hand moved slower now, almost punishing. Long, dragging pulls from base to tip, twisting slightly at the head before sliding back down. His hips shifted just a fraction, thrusting up into his own fist like he couldn’t help it. Another low groan rumbled out of him—deep, raw, like it was being ripped out against his will.

He dragged his free hand through his hair, tugging hard, forearm flexing. His breathing was uneven, chest rising and falling too fast.

Then—quiet, broken, like a confession he hated himself for:

“Trixie…”

My name.

My name on his lips while he touched himself like that. Everything inside me ignited. My knees went weak. My panties were suddenly soaked.

He said it again, softer, almost pleading.

“Trixie… printsessa…”

His hand sped up—just slightly. Hips rolling now, subtle but unmistakable. Another curse in Russian, harsher this time. His thighs tensed. His stomach tightened.

He was thinking about me.

He was hard because of me.

He was touching himself because he couldn’t not.

I couldn’t stay hidden anymore. I stepped into the light. His eyes snapped open. Pure shock. Then horror. Then something darker—panic, guilt, raw shame flashed in his eyes.

“Trixie... Dio Mio!”