Chapter 7: The House of Ice and Fire
The penthouse smelled of bergamot and cold air.
Leonid stood in the doorway, his gym bag slipping from his shoulder, his eyes adjusting to the sudden brightness of the space. The walls were white, impossibly white, interrupted only by the vast black marble floor that stretched toward floor-to-ceiling windows. Beyond the glass, the city sprawled like a circuit board, neon lights flickering in the darkness.
His ankle throbbed. He had refused the elevator, taking the stairs instead because Jennie had called him a coward for even suggesting he couldn't manage. It had been a joke—maybe—but he had taken the stairs anyway.
"Take off your shoes," Jennie said, already slipping out of her heels. "I don't want dirt on the marble."
Leonid bent down to untie his sneakers, his fingers clumsy. The compression bandage was looser now, the swelling having gone down during the drive. The ice in the car had helped. The silence had helped too.
Neither of them had spoken since leaving the rink.
He had followed her to the parking garage like a man in a trance, his mind still reeling from the feel of her lips against his. She had opened the door to a black Mercedes and gestured for him to get in. He had obeyed without a word.
Now he stood in her living room, his shoes removed, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides.
"This is your home," he said. It wasn't a question.
"One of them." She walked past him, her steps echoing on the marble. "The rink is home too. I spend most of my time there."
"It's beautiful."
"It's functional." She stopped beside a sleek white sofa and turned to face him. "You should shower. You're covered in ice melt and sweat."
Heat crept up Leonid's neck. "I don't have anything to change into."
"I'll find you something."
She disappeared down a hallway, leaving him alone in the cavernous space. He looked around, taking in the minimalist furniture, the single black orchid on the glass coffee table, the massive mirror that dominated one wall.
And then he saw the ice rink.
It was embedded in the floor at the far end of the room, a perfect rectangle of frozen water. It was small, maybe fifteen feet by thirty, but it was a rink nonetheless. A real one. With boards and everything.
He walked toward it, his feet cold against the marble, and pressed his hand to the glass barrier. The surface was smooth, polished to a mirror-like sheen. He could see his reflection in it, pale and ghostly, his dark curls falling across his forehead.
"Like it?"
He turned. Jennie was standing at the end of the hall, holding a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt.
"It's incredible," he said.
"It was a birthday present to myself." She walked over and handed him the clothes. "The bathroom is the second door on the left. There are towels under the sink."
Leonid took the clothes and made his way down the hallway. The bathroom was as stark and beautiful as the rest of the apartment, with a walk-in shower that had four different showerheads and a massive tub that looked like it could fit three people.
He stripped off his clothes and stepped under the hot spray, letting the water wash away the grime. His muscles ached. His ankle throbbed. But his mind was elsewhere.
He thought about the kiss. The way her mouth had moved against his. The way her hand had tangled in his hair. The way she had pulled back and looked at him with those dark, burning eyes.
You already are.
He pressed his forehead against the cold tile and took a deep breath.
What was he doing here?
He was a skater. A waiter. A student who had dropped out of a business degree because a woman with a gold medal had looked at a video of him and decided he was worth her time. He was nobody. Nothing.
And she was Jennie Kim.
He turned off the water and stepped out, drying himself quickly with a towel that smelled like lavender. He pulled on the sweatpants and t-shirt, both of which fit him perfectly, and stared at his reflection in the mirror.
His body was lean and muscular, the product of years of grueling training. His skin was pale against the dark of his curls. His lips were still slightly red, slightly swollen.
She had done that.
He touched his mouth with his fingertips.
The door behind him creaked open.
Leonid turned. Jennie was standing in the doorway, dressed now in a silk robe the color of deep burgundy.
She looked at him for a long moment, her gaze drifting from his face to his bare arms to his feet.
"Come," she said.
He followed.
Her bedroom was larger than his entire apartment. The walls were the same sterile white, but the bed was enormous, covered in black silk sheets that gleamed under the soft lighting. A single window looked out over the city, the lights flickering like distant stars.
"Lie down," she said.
Leonid hesitated.
"I said lie down."
He moved to the bed and sat on the edge, then swung his legs up, lying back against the pillows. His heart was hammering in his chest.
Jennie crossed the room and stood beside the bed, looking down at him. She was beautiful in a way that hurt—her face perfectly composed, her eyes dark and hungry.
"You're nervous," she said.
"No."
"You're lying."
Leonid swallowed.
Jennie reached up and untied the sash of her robe. The silk slid from her shoulders, pooling at her feet.
She was wearing nothing underneath.
Leonid's breath caught in his throat. He had seen her in tight dresses and leotards and skating costumes that showed off every curve. But this was different. Her body was compact and perfect, her skin pale and flawless, her breasts small and high, the nipples hardening in the cool air.
She climbed onto the bed, straddling his thighs. Her hair fell in a dark curtain around her face, blocking out the rest of the room.
"Touch me," she said.
He lifted his hands, reaching for her waist. His palms were shaking. She felt warm and soft under his fingers, so different from the icy, commanding presence she projected.
"Do you know how long I've wanted this?" she asked.
"I don't—"
"You don't know anything, do you?" She leaned down, her lips brushing his ear. "You're so beautiful, Leonid. So young. So full of fire. I watched you skate and I thought, this boy is going to be a champion. I'm going to make him a champion."
Her hand slid down his chest, her fingers tracing the line of muscle beneath his t-shirt.
"But I never expected this," she said. "I never expected to want you."
He gasped as her hand found the waistband of his sweatpants.
"Have you ever done this before?" she asked.
The question hung in the air.
"No."
She pulled back, looking at him. There was no judgment in her eyes. No surprise, even. Just a deep, patient understanding.
"I thought so," she said softly. "You're too tense. Too nervous."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be." She leaned down and kissed him, slow and deep. "I'll show you what to do."
She pulled his sweatpants off, letting them fall to the floor. He was already hard, his body betraying him, and she looked at him with a possessive hunger that made him feel drunk.
"Look at you," she murmured. "So beautiful. So perfect for me."
She reached over to the nightstand and pulled out a silk tie. Leonid's breath caught as she held it up, the dark green fabric gleaming in the low light.
"Trust me," she said.
He did. He trusted her more than he had ever trusted anyone.
She took his wrists and bound them together, the silk tight but not painful. She anchored the tie to the headboard, leaving him pinned beneath her.
"Do you like this?" she asked.
"I don't know."
"I'll make you like it."
She kissed him again, harder this time, her mouth demanding. Her hand slid down his chest, her nails raking lightly across his skin. He arched into her touch, a low moan escaping his lips.
"Good," she whispered. "So good."
She moved over him, positioning herself above him. He felt the heat of her, the wetness, and he gasped as she lowered herself onto him.
"Look at me," she said.
He forced his eyes open. She was watching him with an intensity that made his heart clench.
"You are my champion," she said. "My masterpiece. No one else will ever touch you like this."
She began to move, her hips rolling in a rhythm that made his thoughts scatter. He was lost, drowning in her, his body responding to her every motion.
"Do you understand?" she asked. "Do you know what you are to me?"
"Yes," he gasped.
"Say it."
"You're—my—everything."
She smiled. It was not a tender smile, not quite. It was the smile of a woman who had gotten exactly what she wanted.
She rode him harder, her nails digging into his chest, leaving red marks in their wake. He cried out, his hips bucking against hers, his mind white with pleasure.
She leaned down and bit his shoulder, hard enough to sting.
"You're mine," she said. "Mine, do you hear me?"
"Yes."
"Good boy."
He came undone beneath her, crying out her name, his body shaking. She followed moments later, collapsing on top of him, her breath hot against his neck.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then she lifted her head and kissed him, soft, tender, a stark contrast to the force of what they had just done.
"You did so well," she said.
Leonid's chest tightened.
She untied his wrists and pulled the silk free, rubbing the marks it had left on his skin.
"You're staying here tonight," she said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
She curled up beside him, her head resting on his chest, her hand tracing idle patterns on his skin.
He stayed awake long after she fell asleep, staring at the ceiling, feeling the warmth of her body against his.
He had never felt so close to anyone in his life.
And that terrified him.
Because for the first time, he understood what she meant when she said he was her masterpiece.
It meant he belonged to her. Completely, utterly, irrevocably.
And he knew, with a certainty that chilled him, that he would do anything to keep it that way.
Anything at all.