Page 45 of Sinful Games

For a second, a memory flashed in my mind. It hit out of nowhere. My mom, on one of her good days—before the drugs, before she disappeared into her own mess—would sit with me, brushing my hair or telling me some story about when she was a kid. Small moments that, back then, felt like gold. Rare and fleeting, but they stuck.

Sometimes I wonder if my mind just conjured up those moments, trying to paint a picture of happiness in the chaos of my fucked-up past.

I shoved that thought aside.

Caia finished up, giving my hands one last look. In that moment, when our eyes locked, everything else just faded. Our breaths mingled, faces so close I could’ve counted the little veins under her eyes—like she hadn’t slept in days. It wasn’tjust her eyes though; the exhaustion was all over her, but somehow it made her even more fucking magnetic.

I couldn’t look away.

We stayed like that for what felt like hours until her cheeks flushed bright red.

With a shy smile, she stood up, excusing herself to wash her hands.

I left the bathroom and headed back to the kitchen, trying like hell to focus on cooking. The clatter of utensils was the only thing keeping my mind from spiraling

You got a fucking game to win Alexsei, wake up!

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed her heading to the vinyl player. The melancholic notes of Nina Simone's "Ne me quitte pas" filled the room. She moved gracefully, lighting a candle on the dining table, all the while seemingly engrossed in her own world, ignoring my presence.

I caught a glimpse of her in that red dress, and fuck, it hugged her curves perfectly. Her slender waist, those tempting hips, and that ass—hell, it was hard not to notice. Cursing under my breath, I swiftly turned away.

"I love this song," she remarked, settling herself on the kitchen counter beside me, casually crossing her legs—those damn stockings teasingly peeking out for a microsecond. "You have good taste."

"You doubted it?" I reached for a spoon, scooping a bit of sauce, and cooled it before offering it to her. "Give it a try."

Her lips parted as she tasted the sauce, closing her eyes briefly. "Perfect."

I grabbed two plates, serving up portions of perfectly al dente pappardelle pasta topped with my shrimp white sauce. "Come on. Dinner's ready."

As we settled in, the room was soaked in the flicker of candlelight. She sipped her water while I threw back acouple inches of whiskey, feeling the burn down my throat. The shadows from the candle danced over her face.

"So, about your assignment. What did you do?"

She set her glass down. "I did what I told you—snapped a photo of our hands, mine entwined with my grandmother's. It's a picture I'll hold close forever."

Curious to hear more, I leaned in. "What's your favorite memory with your babushka?"

She paused, her fork twirling absently on her plate. "When I was eight," she began, a hint of a smile playing on her lips, "my father grounded me because I accidentally broke his phone while trying to take a picture of my bedroom where a small butterfly had landed."

A chuckle escaped her as she continued, "I slipped on a piece of clothing and ended up face-first on the ground, breaking his phone." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "He said I was grounded for a week and couldn’t have dessert the whole time." She took a bite of pasta. "But every night, after my father went to sleep, my babushka would sneak in some cookies from the afternoon, a slice of lemon cake, or a few blinis, then whisper goodnight to me."

Her fingers traced the rim of her glass, a gentle smile lingering on her lips.

"That was the thing about my babushka. She found a way to sneak love into every corner of my life."

I leaned back, taking a long swig from my glass, letting the alcohol scorch its way down my throat. She loves her babushka so much. Too much, really. That’s the reason why she is hurting.

Love, in all its glory and agony, is the cruelest of all emotions. It can lift you up only to tear you apart, leaving you shattered and lifeless.

Her gaze drifted to the gentle flicker of thecandle's flame. "She's the reason why I have such a love for desserts," she confessed softly.

“What’s your favorite dessert?”

Her eyes met mine. “Berry Pavlova. What about you?”

“I don’t like desserts.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. "Really? Why's that?"

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