She was tired and could do with a shower. But this bedroom only had one door, and it led to the corridor, not an in-suite bathroom. Thinking Plan B would have to do, she untied her hair and removed the black leggings and corset that reeked of the stale smell she had picked up in the tunnels. She’d been up for nearly twenty-four hours, and she looked at the bed longingly. As she glanced at it, she found two light-blue orbs following her every move.
For the first time, Viktor Petrov was looking at her with growing interest. While in Stockholm, Sofiya had tried more than once to arouse him. She’d used all the tools of the trade on her target, such as high-end fabrics and suggestive perfumes, but never once had he spared her an interested glance. Tonight, though, it seemed the young woman in a pair of simple black cotton bra and panties, with her messy hair undone, had caught his interest. Sofiya was tired, covered in grime and dust, and had never felt less sexy and appealing in her life, but Petrov seemed enraptured. He reached out a hand to her, and she moved forward to take it. Sofiya expected it to be cold, but it was the opposite. She held on to him, and he tugged until she was right in front of him.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “For helping me.”
She nodded, stepping closer until their knees touched. When he made no move to escape their proximity, she parted her legs to sit astride his. Petrov tensed with anticipation, and she straddled him fully. Their eyes met, and each one held the other’s gaze.
When the diplomat brought both of his hands up to encircle the young woman’s shoulders, Sofiya quivered beneath his warm touch. In response, she thrust her hips forward—an open invitation for more. Petrov responded in kind, his hands sliding down to unclasp her bra.
It fell to the floor without a sound, and she expected him to look down to discover what its absence revealed. The man’s icy-blue gaze never wavered from her face, and she moved forward to kiss him. Their mouths found each other, and so began a slow celebratory ballet.
Perhaps it was residual adrenaline coursing through her veins, perhaps it was the freedom she knew was within her grasp, but as she captured Petrov’s lips in hers, Sofiya felt more alive than ever. The man’s lips parted underneath hers, and she was afforded her first taste of that elusive man she’d pursued for so long. It was nothing like what she’d imagined, for never had she thought that he could feel so warm, so human.
In the distance, Sofiya could still hear the echoes of music and their guests partying and dancing below. But in the privacy of what was to be their nuptial room, their lips and tongues did a dance of their own. Clothes fell to the floor in messy lumps as bedsheets were pushed aside, and passion surged.
In a display of grace and agility, Sofiya settled herself in the middle of the large bed, naked and inviting. She lay on her back, with her head and shoulders resting on the fluffy pillows. The position made her breasts thrust upwards, an indication that she was ready and eager for more. Petrov showed all the signs of being in a similar state, but still, he took an instant to admire his partner before moving forward. His gaze was like a caress on her skin and, when he joined her on the bed, his hands replaced his eyes.
Their movements were neither rushed nor forceful. Each took their time exploring the other, leaving trails of caresses and kisses along the way. Their hands stroked and cupped at everything they could reach, never seeming to have enough.
Sofiya was the first to orgasm, under Petrov’s gentle and deft fingers. Without rushing it, he’d let his partner’s pleasure build up until she climaxed. And when the pleasure weave overtook her, he pressed his lips to hers, sipping up all her cries and moans as she rode it out. As soon as she was recovered, Sofiya returned the favour until it was time for her mouth to swallow the evidence of the man’s ecstasy.
Outside, light-pink hues tinged the night sky as the first tell-tales of the morning appeared, but neither Sofiya nor Petrov noticed them. Nothing mattered to the couple, but the small space in which they existed as one. They held onto each other with all the strength they had as Petrov moved in and out of her, sharing the common fear that the other would disappear if either one let go. Covered in sweat, aching for that sweet release, they came one more time with their lips sealed together.
In that instant, they had thoughts for nothing more than the moment they shared: a memory that existed outside of time and that belonged to them only. There would be ample opportunity, later, to consider their actions of the night and the repercussions they were sure to have on the European continent and history at large. But for now, passion devoured them alive, and that was enough.
Later that day, Mr and Mrs Petrov enjoyed their first afternoon as husband and wife by taking a walk in the summer breeze that fluttered through Moscow. Hand-in-hand like all newlyweds, they walked around the red square and then followed the Moskova River until they reached Gorki Park. Near the pond, they stopped at a restaurant and had a late lunch on its terrace.
Sofiya pondered what her life would be like now as she dug into her bowl of Shchi. The chef had added sauerkraut and pickle to the cabbage and potato soup, and it was particularly sour and just how she liked it best.
This would probably be her last Shchi for a long time, she realised, and the good moment she was enjoying turned bittersweet. Like many things, the ingredients to make Shchi could be found anywhere, but she knew the result would always taste better in the land of her birth.
Shchi wouldn’t be the only thing she’d soon come to miss, she knew, but she’d made her choice, and there was no way back now. It was her belief that the tapestry of a person’s life was woven with a single thread. How its colour changed was defined by the multitude of choices a person made every day. Left or right, sugar or salt—and the tapestry grew to paint a straightforward picture. The motive was easy to guess at, except when large forks occurred, and the design was irrevocably altered as a result.
She knew the day her parents agreed to let her join the ranks of the FCD stood out in her design. That ill-fated decision had shaped everything that followed, a crimson stain that bled into every aspect of her life from that point forward. She had been fifteen when it happened, and it took nineteen years and one more life-altering choice for the pattern to change again.
On their way out of the park, Sofiya stifled a yawn. The night had been short, and as fatigue crept in, the newlyweds chose to take a cab back to their hotel.
Petrov hailed a beat-up maize yellow Lada, and they sat at the back. Glad to be seated, Sofiya lost herself in the passing by scenery as they followed the Moskova River once more.
When she felt the car slow down, she looked up and saw that the Kremlin was still half a mile away. Directing her gaze ahead, she saw that they were coming upon an intersection, and the light had just turned red. Crawling its way to the white line, the driver slowed and only returned pressure to the gas pedal when the light turned green.
They’d almost reached the middle of the intersection when something caught Sofiya’s attention, and she turned to the left to look out of the window. She felt her eyes widen and her mouth open in surprise at what she discovered. A scream built up in her throat, clawing its way up her oesophagus, but it never got a chance to make it past her lips—the lorry hit them first.
The world tilted sideways, and both left-side windows exploded in a shower of cutting shards while the metallic body of the old Lada yawned in protest. The car tilted over, and Sofiya was jerked to the side. Suddenly Petrov was there, pressed against her, or rather, she was pressed into him. Pure reflex had her clinging to his arm as hard as she could. Behind the man’s strong shoulder, she saw black asphalt rush by, beneath a broken window that was mangled beyond recognition.