She gasped as we entered the primary space. It was a mostly open floor plan taking up an entire floor of the building. She walked straight to the wall of windows and stared out at the glittering lights of the city below.
Turning her head to the left then right, she asked, “Is the entire place literally just a wall of windows?”
I nodded.
“Even in the bedroom and bathroom?”
I nodded again.
She smiled and turned back to the stunning view. Although it was dark, you could make out some whitecaps from the waves on Lake Michigan as the water hit Navy Pier. “That is so cool! Can people see inside?”
“No, they tint the windows,” I responded, incredibly pleased she seemed to like my home.
She turned her attention to the living room then strolled into the kitchen and the gaming room and the library beyond before returning. While she explored, I selected a bottle of Château Margaux from the wine bar and poured us two glasses.
She joined me at the marble top kitchen island. “Why is everything so white?”
I glanced around. “What do you mean? There’s color.”
She laughed. “Black and white photographs, strictly speaking, don’t count as,” she held her hands up and did air quotes, “color. You have a white sofa, chairs, throw rugs, all the candles and decor. The library is even white with white bookshelves. Never in my life have I seen a white library. I’m surprised you didn’t rebind the books in white leather.”
I took a sip of wine as I thought about what she was saying. No one had ever bothered to ask, so I’d never had to explain myself, but for some reason I wanted to tell Mary. “It sounds absurd to say it out loud, but when I was a child living in Russia things were very difficult. There was no money. It wasn’t until the fall of the regime that my family regained their wealth. Until then, everything we owned was threadbare, used, or dirty. Now that I have money, I want things to always feel new and clean.”
She lowered her gaze and stared at her hands.
I leaned over and lifted her chin. “What’s the matter, krasotka?”
She sighed. “I wasn’t expecting a sadly endearing reason from your childhood. I was half expecting you to say it was easier to see the blood splatter that way, and now I’m feeling guilty for thinking it.”
I laughed and pushed the crystal wineglass toward her. “Drink.”
Her eyes widened, and she stared at me as if I had just handed her a cup of poison. “No way! This is red wine.”
“So?”
“I’m not drinking red wine in here! What if it spills on something?”
“Then I buy another one.”
She shook her head and pushed the glass back toward me.
Without saying a word, I walked over to my white sofa, which was positioned to have a spectacular view of the lake and cityscape, and held my glass high over it.
Mary cried out, “No!”
Ignoring her, I poured the contents directly onto the fabric, permanently staining it. “Feel better now?”
She covered her mouth as she laughed. She was beautiful when she laughed. I would have to remember to make her do it more often. “I can’t believe you just did that.”
“Now will you have a drink with me?”
She took the glass and held it up in a silent toast before taking a sip. “You know, we could have just switched to vodka.”
I tapped my forehead. “Now you tell me. I’m hungry. Did you eat?”
“Does a bag of Ruffles Sour Cream and Cheddar potato chips between classes count?”
“No.”
“Then, no.”
Taking her glass, I put both wineglasses down on the counter and took her hand, leading her past the ruined sofa and down the hallway that led to the bedrooms. When I opened the first door, she pulled back. “Listen, I…”
“Calm down. Stay here.”
I left and returned with my Russian National hockey team long-sleeved jersey. With its bold red color and the gold double-headed eagle emblazoned on the chest, it would match her coloring perfectly. She was such a little thing it would fall almost to her knees. “Change into this. You’ll be more comfortable.”
Before she could object, I left the room and returned to the master suite, where I changed into a pair of gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt. Padding in my bare feet back down the hallway to the kitchen, I pulled the ingredients I would need out of the refrigerator as I set a pan on the stove and melted the butter.
I was whipping the flour, sugar, salt, and whole milk in a bowl when she finally emerged. My hand stilled as I stopped and stared.
She lowered her head and tugged on the hem of the jersey as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Does this look okay?”
She was gorgeous. There was no other word for it. She had washed the rest of the makeup off her face. Her ivory skin glowed. It was the first time I was seeing her lips without either red lipstick or the stain from it. Her lips were actually a soft, pale pink. The same color as her nipples. She had taken the rockabilly curls and scarf out of her hair, leaving it to fall in waves over her shoulders.
And the sight of this stunning creature in my favorite worn hockey jersey made my chest tighten with possessive need. I had never had this kind of intimacy with a woman before, and I was finally seeing the draw.
Placing the bowl on the counter, I crossed to her. I slipped my hands to either side of her neck and tilted her head back. Without saying a word, I claimed her mouth, needing to taste her more than I needed my next breath. Swirling my tongue around hers, I lifted her high, wrapping her naked legs around my waist. I turned and placed her on the counter without breaking the kiss. With a hand on her lower back I pulled her forward, rubbing my cock against her core. The feel of her hands in my hair nearly drove me mad. Showing enormous restraint, I broke free.
I still had plans for her, and they didn’t include fucking her on a counter for a second time this evening. I wanted her in my bed, but first I had to feed her. Handing her her glass of wine, I returned to whipping up my ingredients.
Instead of trying to jump down, she crossed her legs and stayed on the countertop. I tried to get a peek between her legs knowing she wasn’t wearing any panties because I had torn them off her earlier, but she noticed and with a chastising glare, pushed the jersey fabric down to cover herself.
“What are you making?” she asked, as I slowly added the melted butter to my batter.
“Crepes.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, why?”
“I don’t know. I figured you were going to say something more down-to-earth, common, and less froufrou like pancakes.”
“For starters,” I glanced down at my hard cock that dangled between my legs, the outline visible through the sweatpants material, “there is nothing common about me.”
She raised an eyebrow and smirked as her gaze went to my crotch. Her cheeks pinkened as she grabbed her wineglass and swallowed the rest of the contents. I poured her another glass as I waited for the crepe pan to heat.
“Second, there is nothing froufrou about a crepe.”
When the pan was hot and smeared with melted butter, I ladled out a small amount of the batter and spread it in a thin layer over the pan’s surface. When it was ready, I flipped it, exposing its warm golden-brown side. I did this several times till we had a stack of about fifteen. I pulled the rest of the ingredients from the refrigerator. Selecting a large glass platter from a nearby cabinet, I had to rinse off a layer of dust before using it. I rarely ate at home and had never cooked for a woman before, let alone gone to such an effort to entertain one.