Page 24 of Forcibly Sold to the Bratva
Around us, the other couples find their seats and face one another. I’m about to ask Arina if she’d rather leave, for she looks pale in the face, but just then I see the three men passing outside. Without thinking, I grab her hand and pull her down until she’s plonked on the soft seat.
“They’re behind you,” I whisper. “Don’t turn.”
She nods fearfully, but listens.
“We should just finish this class,” I murmur, and she agrees, her eyes darting around nervously.
Just then, the instructor says, “Now that we’re all seated, that’s wonderful. We can begin our journey of sensual awareness through aromatherapy.”
Arina shoots me a panicked look, and I shrug helplessly. Looking around, I notice that every other couple is sitting close, holding hands. Arina notices too and takes a deep gulp.
“Let us start with the oil of connection,” the instructor says. “This blend of sandalwood and jasmine opens the heart chakra and enhances your bond with your partner.”
Assistants move around the circle, handing each couple a small vial of oil. When one reaches us, she smiles knowingly. “You two are beautiful together. The energy between you is electric.”
I force a smile while Arina looks like she wants to sink into the floor.
“Now,” the instructor continues, “take a small amount of oil and massage it gently into your partner’s inner wrist. This is where the pulse is strongest, where their life force can be felt beneath your fingertips.”
I look at Arina, who is staring at the vial like it might bite her. Through the window, I can see the men still hovering outside, peering in once before walking away. But they could be back at any time.
“We have to do this,” I whisper. “They’re still out there.”
Her eyes meet mine with a nervous resignation. She holds out her wrist, and I take it gently, pouring the pleasantly fragrant oil onto her skin.
I begin to massage her wrists, as we’re being instructed, and the heat from her skin burns into me. Right now, we’re in such trouble, so much danger, but all I can feel is the racing of my heart. Not from the men outside, but from the feel of her skin. Around us, there are people moaning with delight, and Arina blushes, coloring her cheeks a pretty pink that makes her look even more beautiful.
I begin to massage the oil in slow circles, and her eyes flutter closed for a moment. In this moment, I think back to mydays as a young man in the city, all the women I seduced, took to bed. Yet none of it felt as intimate as this moment does.
It’s strange, and the thought takes root in my mind. I haven’t even seen her naked, but if touching her wrist makes me feel this way, what the hell would taking her to bed feel like?
I instantly stop massaging from the fear of that damning thought and her eyes blast open with surprise, those gorgeous blue-green eyes pinned on me.
“Your turn,” I say hoarsely, trying not to drown in her sight.
Arina nods and, with shaking hands, her oil-lathered fingers touch my wrist, and on the first contact itself, I try hard to keep still, to not shudder in delight. Her touch is light, but it leaves trails of fire across my skin.
“Now, look into each other’s eyes,” the instructor’s soft voice washes over us, and I hear Arina take a sharp breath. Our eyes connect and moments pass by. Slowly, I feel my heart beat quiet, find myself going into a trance, but the whole time, the current between us swings stronger, pulling us into each other’s orbit.
I forget the world. Forget where we are. Forget everything but her.
“Feel the connection building between you,” the instructor’s voice breaks through my trance. “Now, we move to the oil of desire. This blend contains lavender and bergamot to awaken the senses and ignite passion.”
Another vial is passed around, and while Arina opens it, I look out of the window. The men are still there, sitting at the café across the street, talking and sipping water.
Shit.
The only saving grace is that they’re not looking in here. Which means, they don’t know we’re here. Which means we have to stay here. We have to participate.
“For this oil,” the instructor continues, “we will focus on the nape of the neck, a place of such beautiful, earth-shattering sensitivity. Partners will apply the oil to each other, allowing your fingers to caress the skin where the hairline meets the neck.”
Arina’s eyes widen. “Ilariy,” she whispers, “we can’t—”
“We have to,” I cut her off, gesturing subtly toward the window. “They’re on the street opposite. We need to stay until they leave.”
She swallows hard, then turns so her back is to me. She parts her hair to one side, revealing the pale skin at her nape, the slender column of her neck.
My mouth goes dry.
