Chapter 27: Feelings
--The Morning After --
Violet wakes the next morning between Sascha and Andrey.
The three of them tangled in the high-thread-count sheets, the villa’s silence only broken by the distant lapping of Mediterranean waves against the shore. The scent of night-blooming jasmine clings to the humid air, mixing with the musky perfume of their shared pleasure and the faint salt spray drifting in from the open balcony.
Violet stirs first, her brown hair fanned out across the pillows like a dark halo. She blinks slowly, her bright smile breaking through as she takes in the sight of the two men still asleep beside her. Sascha is on his back, one arm flung over his face to shield his eyes from the early morning light.
The sheets are down around his hips, revealing the hard planes of his stomach and the dark trail of hair that disappears beneath the fabric. His breathing is slow and deep, chest rising and falling steadily, the rhythmic sound of sleep wrapping around him like a second skin.
Andrey lies on his side facing her, one hand tucked beneath his pillow and the other resting lightly on Violet’s waist. His reddish-blonde hair is tousled from sleep, the ends curling slightly against his forehead. His lips are parted slightly, his eyelashes casting faint shadows against his cheeks. The morning light catches the faint stubble along his jaw, giving him an almost boyish look that contrasts with the intensity she knows lies beneath.
Violet lets her gaze linger longer than she means to, drinking in the sight of them both, so different yet so familiar now after last night.
She bites her lip, suddenly aware of how exposed she must look lying between them naked and vulnerable, her skin still flushed from their shared heat. The thought makes her stomach twist—not with shame, but with a strange mix of pride and longing that settles deep in her chest.
Carefully, she lifts the sheets and swings her legs over the edge of the bed, wincing slightly at the delicious soreness between her thighs. The villa feels too quiet after the passion of last night, the absence of their breathing and movement making her hyper-aware of her own heartbeat.
Violet slips on one of Sascha’s oversized shirts that’s pooled on the floor, the fabric swallowing her entirely as she buttons it up. The sleeves swallow her hands, the collar tickling her chin as she pulls it around herself. She pads barefoot across the cool marble floors toward the open balcony doors, the Mediterranean breeze carrying the scent of salt and ozone as the first light of dawn paints the sky in pale gold.
Outside, the terrace stretches before her, the infinity pool shimmering like liquid mercury in the early light. Violet leans against the railing, her fingers curling around the sun-warmed stone as she watches the waves crash against the shore below.
The sea is restless this early, whitecaps foaming against the dark blue water like restless fingers. She takes a slow breath in, the salt air filling her lungs and making her feel absolutely alive, absolutely present.
The villa’s glass doors slide open behind her with a soft whisper, and she doesn’t need to turn around to know who it is—she can feel Sascha’s presence like a shadow falling across her skin. His warmth radiates toward her, his body heat distinct from the morning chill in the air. He steps beside her without a word, close enough that the fabric of his loose linen pants brushes against the back of her hand where it rests on the railing.
The early sun catches the gold in his dark stubble, turning it into spun copper. He smells like sleep and warm skin and something faintly citrusy—an expensive body wash she didn’t recognize last night when she was too far gone to notice.
Violet keeps her gaze on the horizon, but her fingers tighten imperceptibly against the stone.
"You're up early," she says quietly, still watching the waves crash below.
Sascha exhales through his nose, a sound almost like a laugh but not quite. "Couldn't sleep," he admits, his German accent wrapping the words in something rough but honest.
His fingers brush against the back of her hand where it rests on the railing—the same hand she had just been staring at like it held the secrets of the universe. "Thought I'd find you out here."
Violet's breath catches when his skin meets hers. The contact sends a jolt through her, sharp and bright, like a match struck in the dark. She finally turns to face him, her bare toes curling against the cool stone beneath them.
The sight of him in the morning light steals whatever was left of her breath.
Sascha’s linen pants hang low on his hips, the fabric clinging to the sharp angles of his thighs in a way that makes her throat go dry.
The early light paints his torso in gold, sculpting every defined muscle of his abdomen—each ridge clearly visible beneath the golden tan of his skin. His dark stubble catches the sunlight, turning the morning shadow into something almost luminous. The citrusy scent of his body wash lingers between them, mixing with the salt air drifting in from the ocean. Violet’s fingers tremble slightly where they brush against the railing, her knuckles paling under the strain.
"You couldn’t sleep either?" he asks, his voice rough from sleep, the German accent wrapping around the words like a physical touch.
His eyes search hers, dark and unreadable in the early morning light, but there's something tender in the way he studies her face that makes her chest tighten. "I find myself restless when I'm not touching you." Sascha admits, his fingers flexing against the railing where they brush against hers. The admission hangs between them, heavy with meaning, sending a fresh wave of heat rushing to Violet's cheeks. Her pulse quickens, the realization that this powerful, intimidating man is being so vulnerable with her making her stomach flutter.
Violet swallows hard, turning back to face the ocean so he won't see how deeply his words affect her.
The steady rhythm of the waves provides a distraction as she fights to find her voice. "I... I don't usually sleep well away from home," she admits softly, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the warm railing.
Sascha steps closer until his front nearly touches her back, the heat from his body cutting through the morning chill. His breath is warm against the back of her neck as he leans in slightly. "Funny," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "I've never had trouble sleeping before."
His hand leaves the railing to hover just above her waist, close enough that she can feel the heat radiating from him even without contact.
Violet’s breath hitches when his fingers finally settle on the small of her back, the touch featherlight but deliberate, like he’s committing the shape of her to memory.
"You sure about that, *liebling*?" Sascha murmurs, his German accent wrapping around the words in a way that makes her stomach flip. His fingers flex slightly, the pads rough against her skin, and she can feel the faintest tremor in them—like he’s holding himself back from pulling her closer.
The realization makes her chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with lust.
Violet tilts her head slightly, her gaze still fixed on the horizon where the first golden fingers of dawn are stretching across the sea. “I just… didn’t expect to feel this way,” she admits softly, her voice barely rising above the sound of the waves. “In Europe. With two professional tennis players. Sleeping between them.”
She swallows, the admission catching in her throat. “It doesn’t make sense.”
Sascha makes a rough sound in his throat—half chuckle, half sigh.
His hand on her waist tightens just enough to anchor her, his fingers mapping the dip and flare of her hip bone beneath the oversized shirt she stole from him. The linen is still warm from his body heat, and it carries a faint citrus scent—something expensive and clean that somehow feels like Sascha himself. “Sense is overrated, *liebling*,” he murmurs, his voice rough with the same grit that roughens his edges off-court. “What matters is how you feel when we’re touching you, when we're with you.”
The railing digs into her palms as Violet grips it tighter, her knuckles pale.
“But what does this mean?” she asks, her voice barely audible above the lapping waves. She turns to face him, eyes wide and searching. “For me? For you? For Andrey?”
Sascha’s dark eyes soften as they meet hers, the golden stubble catching the morning light. He exhales, a slow rumble that vibrates through her. “It means whatever we make it mean,” he says, voice rough but sure. “Last night wasn’t just sex. Not for me. When I’m with you—with both of you—it feels right. Natural.” His hand lifts from her waist to brush a stray lock of hair from her face, fingers lingering against her cheek.
“Andrey’s my oldest friend. We’ve been through hell together on and off the court. If last night felt right to him too… then it’s right.”
Violet swallows, her throat tight. “But what about the media? The rumors? The fans?”
Sascha’s smirk is slow and knowing. “Let them talk. I’ve spent my whole career doing what they expected of me. Now I’m doing what I want.” His thumb traces her lower lip, and she shivers. “And what I want right now is you.”
Before she can respond, a deep voice cuts through the quiet morning air.
“She’s not wrong to ask.”
Violet’s breath catches as she turns to see Andrey leaning against the doorway, his arms crossed over his bare chest. The early sun paints his skin in gold, highlighting the lean definition of his torso and the faint reddish stubble along his jaw—reminders of the intensity she felt against her skin hours ago.
His blue eyes are sharp but not unkind as they settle on her face, and Violet feels the heat rise in her cheeks again. The oversized shirt she’s wearing suddenly feels far too small, the fabric clinging to her body in ways that make her painfully aware of how exposed she is.
Violet swallows hard, her fingers tightening around the railing as she tries to steady herself. The morning light catches the faintest sheen of sweat on her skin, a lingering reminder of what they did only hours ago.
Sascha’s hand still rests against her waist, his thumb brushing slow circles that send shivers down her spine despite the warmth seeping into her bones from the rising sun. His presence is like a physical weight against her side, grounding her in a way she didn’t realize she needed until this exact moment.
Andrey pushes off the doorframe with deliberate slowness, his bare feet silent against the marble tiles as he moves toward them.
Each step feels measured, like he's savoring the moment before breaking the quiet.
The oversized shirt she's wearing, Sascha's shirt, barely covers her thighs, the fabric riding up slightly as she shifts her weight nervously. Andrey’s gaze flicks down for the briefest moment, his eyes darkening before snapping back up to meet hers.
"Morning," he says, his voice rough with sleep.
His Russian accent wraps around the single word, making the ordinary greeting feel intimate and deliberate. The late dawn light catches the faintest sheen of sweat on his chest, painting his skin in a warm bronze. The reddish-blonde stubble along his jaw catches the sunlight, making him appear almost regal in his quiet intensity.
Violet swallows hard, her fingers trembling slightly against the railing as she tries to find her voice. "You both caught me off guard," she admits softly, her eyes flicking between the two of them.
"I didn't expect this when I won the meet-and-greet. I just wanted to meet a tennis player, anyone really. Maybe ask for an autograph or a photo."
Sascha chuckles darkly, the sound sending shivers down her spine. "And instead, you met two."
Andrey steps closer, his presence making the air feel heavier with each passing second. "And how do you feel about that now, Violet?"
His question hangs between them, a challenge buried beneath the quiet intensity of his voice. Violet exhales slowly, her breath mingling with the salty breeze drifting in from the sea.
She turns to face him fully, the morning light catching the determination in his sharp blue eyes.
His stance is relaxed but controlled, like a predator poised to strike—not at her, but for her.
Violet licks her lips, suddenly hyper-aware of how small she feels standing between these two towering, powerful men. The oversized shirt still swallows her completely, the hem riding up higher on her thighs with every restless shift of her weight. She folds her arms across her chest instinctively, though it does little to hide the way her nipples have already tightened against the thin fabric.
"It's not what I expected," she admits carefully, her voice softer now. "But that doesn't mean I regret it."
The admission hangs in the thick morning air between them.
Violet's breath hitches as she watches the two men exchange a glance over her head—something unspoken passing between them that she can't decipher. The Mediterranean breeze carries the scent of salt and jasmine, but beneath it, she catches the musk of their combined skin, the residual heat of their shared night still clinging to them both. It makes her stomach flutter in a way that has nothing to do with nerves.
Andrey steps forward, his bare feet silent against the marble terrace. The early sunlight catches the faint sheen of sweat on his chest, making the reddish-blonde stubble along his jaw glint like copper wire.
Violet’s gaze lingers there, on the sharp angle of his collarbone then lower, where the lean definition of his torso disappears beneath the waistband of his low-slung shorts. The fabric is thin enough that she can make out the faint outline of something beneath it—something that makes her throat go dry.
Andrey’s blue eyes lock onto hers, unblinking. His Russian accent wraps around the word like he’s savoring it. “Not what you expected,” he repeats, a slow smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It’s not quite a smirk, but it’s knowing all the same. “Good.”
Violet’s fingers tighten around the railing behind her, knuckles whitening.
The rough stone digs into her palms, grounding her as the weight of his stare presses down on her chest like a physical force. She swallows hard, trying to steady her racing pulse, but the way he looks at her—like she’s something precious and dangerous all at once—makes her skin burn.
“Not what I expected,” she admits softly, her voice barely rising above the sound of the waves. “But that doesn’t mean I regret it.”
She glances between them—Sascha leaning against the terrace with his arms crossed, shirtless under the morning sun, his golden stubble catching the light like burnished copper.
And Andrey, who’s only a step away now, his presence filling the space between them with something neither of them can name yet.
The oversized shirt she still wears has ridden up even higher on her thighs from shifting her weight nervously, the linen warm from their shared bodies just hours ago. The fabric clings in all the wrong places—especially when both of them look at her like *she’s* the one who’s dangerous.
Violet exhales through her nose, a shaky sound she tries to smooth over with a weak laugh. “Okay, wow. This is… a lot.”
Sascha tilts his head, the corner of his mouth quirking up.
“Define ‘a lot.’ Do you mean the fact that you’re barefoot in nothing but my shirt after a night that should have been impossible, or the way Andrey and I are both pretending we don’t want to peel it off you all over again?”
His voice is rough but playful, the German accent wrapping around the words like a lover’s touch. Violet’s cheeks burn, her fingers flexing against the railing until the warm stone bites into her skin.
Andrey steps forward, close enough that the heat of him presses against her side. “He *is* right,” he murmurs, his Russian accent wrapping around her name like a vow.
“Violet.” The single word rolls off his tongue in a way that makes her stomach flutter. His breath is warm against her ear, his presence so close she can feel the faintest vibration of his chest as he takes a slow breath. “This *is* a lot. But not in the way you think.”
Violet swallows hard, her pulse hammering in her throat as she forces herself to meet his gaze. Andrey’s blue eyes are intense, his sharp features softened only slightly by the morning light. The reddish-blonde stubble along his jaw catches the sunlight, making him look almost regal in his quiet confidence. His stare is unwavering, his presence overwhelming in the best possible way.
Violet’s breath catches as he reaches out, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair back from her face. The touch is featherlight but deliberate, grounding her in a way that makes her knees weak.
"You're overthinking again," Andrey murmurs, his voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate through her entire body.
Violet’s fingers dig into the railing, her knuckles white. She wants to tell him he’s wrong—that she’s not overthinking—but the words lodge in her throat. Because of course she is. She’s always overthinking. Always calculating the wrong thing to say, the wrong way to behave, the wrong reaction to expect.
Violet can’t help herself—it’s what she does. Like now, standing between them both, so acutely aware of every breath they take, every shift of muscle beneath skin still warm from their shared night.
Andrey’s fingers still linger against her cheek, his touch sending shivers down her spine despite the Mediterranean heat already gathering around them. His thumb traces the curve of her cheekbone with deliberate slowness, like he’s memorizing her.
"You’re thinking so hard you’re practically vibrating," Sascha observes from beside them, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. He leans against the terrace railing now, arms crossed over his chest, the golden light of dawn catching the defined lines of his torso.
His dark eyes flick between her and Andrey, a knowing smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
Violet feels the weight of their combined stares pressing down on her like a physical force. The fabric clings in all the wrong places—especially when both of them look at her like she’s the one who’s dangerous.
"Are you ok with this, me have feelings for both of you?" Violet says nervously.
She bites her lower lip while tracing patterns on the warm railing with trembling fingers. The oversized shirt she stole from Sascha rides up higher on her thighs with each restless shift of her weight, the linen thin where it clings to her body.
Sascha's expression softens as he continues leaning against the terrace railing, arms crossed over his chest. The golden light of dawn catches the defined lines of his torso, making each muscle stand out in sharp relief. His dark eyes flick between Violet and Andrey, a knowing smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Andrey, what about you?" Sascha asks, his German accent wrapping around the words, his voice quiet but daring.
His thumb traces the back of Violet’s hand where it rests on the railing, the pads rough from tennis and life—so different from her softer skin.
Andrey exhales through his nose, his fingers still brushing her cheek, making her shiver. "What do you want it to mean, Violet?" he asks, his Russian accent wrapping around her name like a promise. His gaze is intent, unblinking, like he's already decided the answer before she says it aloud.
Violet swallows hard, her pulse hammering in her throat.
The warm Mediterranean breeze carries the scent of salt and jasmine, but all she can focus on is the way both Sascha and Andrey are looking at her—like she’s the most important person in the room, like they’re waiting for her to decide something that will change everything.
"I—" Her voice cracks, so she clears her throat and tries again. "I don't know what I want it to mean. But I know how I feel." She takes a shaky breath. "Happy. Confused. Terrified. In love."
Sascha's smirk softens into something genuinely warm, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners.
He steps closer, the heat of him radiating against her side, and slides an arm around her waist before she can protest. His palm settles against her hip, the rough callouses on his fingers contrasting with her soft skin. "Love is a good place to start," he murmurs, his breath warm against her temple.
Violet turns to face him fully, tilting her head back to meet his gaze. The way he’s looking at her—like she’s something precious—makes her heart stutter. She reaches up, her fingers brushing against the stubble along his jaw. "But what about the future?" she whispers. "What about the press?
The tournaments? The way people will look at me?" Violet asks, her fingers still trembling slightly against Sascha's stubble. She glances at Andrey, her chest tight with anticipation. "This isn't just about us, is it?"
Sascha exhales through his nose, his grip on her waist tightening slightly. His other hand leaves the railing to rest against the curve of her hip, his thumb brushing against the warm skin there. "What if we don't care?" he asks, his voice rough with quiet intensity. The early light catches the gold in his stubble, making his expression unreadable for a moment.
When he speaks again, his voice drops lower than before, the German accent thickening the way it does when he’s truly serious.
"You think we haven’t heard every rumor there is? That we don’t know what the media will spin? Violet, I’ve been called worse." He tilts his head slightly, studying her face with an intensity that makes her stomach flip. "Does that bother you?"
Violet hesitates, her fingers still tracing the rough texture of his jaw. She can feel Andrey’s presence behind her now, the heat of him so close she could lean back and rest against his chest if she dared.
"It shouldn’t," she whispers.
"But it does." Violet turns away, her bare arms crossing over her chest despite the warmth of the morning sun. The linen shirt shifts against her skin, barely covering the tender places they'd worshipped just hours before. The Mediterranean breeze carries the scent of jasmine and salt, mixing with the musk of their combined skin still clinging to her. She can feel both men watching her, their gazes heavy. "I don't want people assuming things about me. About who I am. What I want." Violet's voice cracks slightly on that last word, her throat tight. She swallows hard, trying to push the words out anyway. "I'm nobody special.
Just a girl from Melbourne who loves tennis. I follow the tours, watch the matches, dream about being there—close enough to ask for an autograph, close enough to feel the energy of the crowd when someone hits a winner." Violet's fingers curl into the sleeves of the oversized shirt, twisting the fabric around her knuckles until the linen strains. The sun rises higher, painting her bare legs in gold, but she doesn’t feel warm—she feels exposed. "I never wanted to be famous. I never wanted to be *that* girl. The one people gossip about. The one they take photos of between two famous men."
She exhales sharply, her breath shaky, before forcing herself to continue.
“I just wanted to meet someone. One person. Someone whose matches I’ve watched for years. Someone whose posters I tacked up in my bedroom when I was seventeen.” Violet’s voice softens, her eyes glistening as the past flashes through her mind—the cracked posters peeling at the corners, the handwritten notes tucked into the frames. “I didn’t expect to fall between two of them.”
The silence that follows is thick, heavy with unspoken understanding. Andrey steps closer, his presence like a steadying force, his bare chest still glistening faintly from the morning dew. The sunlight catches the faint reddish tint of his stubble, making the angles of his face sharper, more defined.
Violet watches as his expression shifts—the intensity in his blue eyes softening, the rigid set of his shoulders easing just a fraction.
He reaches for her, his hand hovering for only a second before he lets his fingers curl around her wrist. The touch is gentle but deliberate, grounding in a way that makes her breath catch.
“You’re not just *that girl*,” Andrey says, his Russian accent wrapping around the words like a promise. His voice is quiet but steady, like he’s speaking a truth that can’t be undone. “You’re Violet. From Melbourne.
The girl who has followed us across the continent, not because she wanted fame, but because she loved the game. Violet."
Violet swallows hard, her throat tight, her eyes still glistening.
Sascha's expression softens, his dark eyes reflecting the rising sun like polished mahogany as he studies her face. He reaches up, his rough fingers gently wiping away the faintest stray tear that has escaped down her cheek. The touch is featherlight, almost reverent, like she's something fragile and precious.
"You're right," he murmurs, his German accent wrapping around the words like a caress. His thumb traces her cheekbone, the pad catching on the faint freckles scattered across her skin.
"You're *our* Violet," Sascha murmurs, his voice rough with emotion he rarely shows. "No one else matters."
Violet's breath hitches, her fingers trembling as they press against his chest—not to push away, but to anchor herself to the solid warmth beneath her palm. The fabric of his shirt is thin from wear, the texture rough against her fingertips, a stark contrast to the smooth heat of his skin just beneath. She can feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat through the material, strong and unshakable—something she never realized she needed until this moment.
The terrace tilts slightly beneath her bare feet as the world spins, not from dizziness, but from the sheer weight of what he just said. “Our Violet.”
The possessive phrase wraps around her like a claim, personal and undeniable, and for the first time in years, Violet doesn’t question whether she deserves it. She steps closer, drawn by something deeper than desire or infatuation—something like belonging. “That scares me,” she whispers, her voice trembling. “What if I’m not what either of you deserves?”
Sascha’s hand moves to the back of her neck, fingers tangling in the loose waves of her hair.
He pulls her forward just enough that their foreheads nearly touch, his breath warm against her lips.
“You terrify me too,” he admits, voice rough. “Because I can’t think straight when you’re near. I can’t focus on the game. I can’t—” His voice breaks off, and for the first time ever, Sascha, the stoic champion, looks uncertain. His dark eyes flicker with something raw and unguarded. “I can’t lose you.”
Behind her, Andrey exhales slowly, the sound almost a growl. His presence shifts, the warmth of his body brushing against her back like a brand.
“He’s right,” Andrey says, his voice low and steady.
“You terrify me too, Violet.”
The admission surprises her—the intensity in his tone, the way he steps closer until the heat of his chest presses against her shoulders.
“Because you’re real,” Andrey continues. “No games. No pretenses. Just you, standing here between us, afraid and honest all at once.” He pauses, his fingers brushing the back of her hand. “That’s rare. That’s worth fighting for.”
Violet’s breath hitches. The railing digs into her palms, but she doesn’t care. The morning sun warms the bare skin of her legs and arms, yet her spine shivers with something far more electric.
The fine hairs on her nape rise when Andrey's breath brushes the shell of her ear. He doesn’t touch her—not quite—yet the heat of his chest hovers a heartbeat away from her back like a silent promise.
Violet sucks in a shallow breath, her fingers curling into the railing until the polished stone bites into her skin. The linen shirt she stole from Sascha—now damp with nervous sweat at the collar—clings to her sides as she finally pulls in enough air to speak.
"I—" Her voice cracks on the single syllable, but she forces herself forward anyway. "I'm not used to this.
Not the attention, not the... complications." Violet’s fingers tighten around the railing, knuckles whitening. The Mediterranean breeze carries the scent of salt and jasmine, but beneath it, the musk of their combined skin lingers—something that makes her stomach flutter despite her nerves. "I just wanted one night. One memory. One autograph. Not... this."
Sascha’s dark eyes soften as he studies her face, his thumb tracing slow circles on the exposed skin of her waist where the oversized shirt has ridden up. The golden morning light catches the stubble along his jaw, making the angles of his face even sharper.
"Your wish was more than granted," he murmurs, his voice rough with quiet intensity. The German accent thickens the way it does when he's truly serious. "But it’s never been about just one night for me."
He tilts his head, studying her face with an intensity that makes her stomach flip. "That’s not fair, is it? That I want more?" She can feel Andrey's presence behind her like a physical weight, his breath warm against the back of her neck. His fingers still linger against her wrist, the pad of his thumb brushing against her pulse point with deliberate slowness.
Violet can feel the steady rhythm beneath his touch—her heart racing, betraying every fear and longing she’s tried to keep hidden. The warm Mediterranean breeze carries the scent of salt and jasmine, but beneath it, there’s something else—the musky heat of their shared skin still clinging to her, marking her in ways she’s only beginning to understand.
Andrey exhales slowly, his breath warm against the shell of her ear. "Stop overthinking, Violet," he murmurs, his Russian accent wrapping around her name like a promise. His voice is low, rough with sleep and something deeper—something that sends shivers down her spine.
"We both have feelings for you too." Andrey says , his voice steady but soft, like he's choosing each word carefully. His thumb continues tracing patterns on the back of her hand, slow and deliberate, as if he's memorizing the shape of her. The early sun catches the faint reddish stubble along his jaw, making his expression appear even more intense in the golden light.
Violet's breath catches, her fingers flexing against the railing as she processes the weight of his words. The linen shirt she's wearing, Sascha's shirt, feels suddenly too warm, too constricting.
The fabric clings to her skin where nervous sweat has pooled at the small of her back. Violet swallows hard, her fingers trembling against the terrace railing. The Mediterranean breeze carries the salt of the sea, but beneath it lingers the musk of their combined skin—something that makes her stomach flutter despite the nerves coiling tight in her chest.
The sun climbs higher, painting the terrace in richer gold, and Violet feels exposed under its gaze, standing between them half-naked, her pulse betraying every emotion she's tried to keep hidden. She bites down gently on her lower lip, the familiar habit kicking in as she tries to find the words.
The morning light paints the terrace in warm hues, but all Violet notices is how the golden glow highlights every dip and curve of the men standing before her.
Sascha’s dark gaze remains locked on hers, his expression unreadable yet warm in a way she’s never seen from him before. The muscles in his jaw work slightly as he waits, his fingers still tracing idle patterns on her waist where the shirt has ridden up.
Andrey shifts slightly behind her, so close she can feel the heat of his chest nearly touching her back. His voice comes low, rough with that familiar Russian accent.
"We’re not asking for anything you’re not ready to give." The pad of his thumb brushes against the pulse point on the inside of her wrist, slow and deliberate. “But we’re asking you to trust us.”
Violet’s breath hitches, her fingers curling tighter around the railing. The salt air mixes with the citrusy scent clinging to Sascha’s skin from last night, overpowering in its intimacy. She can feel the warmth of both bodies pressed close—even without full contact, their presence is overwhelming.
"I want to try." Violet says, her voice barely above a whisper. "I want to try trusting you. Both of you." The words tremble as they leave her lips, each one fragile, each one a risk. But beneath the fear, there is something else—something warm and bright and terrifying—hope.
Sascha makes a rough sound in his throat, something between a growl and a laugh. His grip on her waist tightens, fingers digging into the soft flesh beneath the loose linen shirt. The fabric shifts, pressing against her skin, and Violet feels the heat of his palm sear through her.
"Andrey," he says, and his voice is rough, commanding in a way she’s never heard before.
It sends a shiver down her spine.
Andrey doesn’t hesitate. He steps forward until his chest nearly touches Sascha’s side, his presence a solid wall of warmth behind her. His blue eyes lock onto hers, intense and unyielding. "Tell us what you need," he says, his Russian accent wrapping around the words like a promise. "Not what you think we want to hear. What you truly want." The oversized shirt she's wearing—*Sascha’s* shirt—clings to her skin where it rides up on her thighs, the linen thin and warm from their shared bodies.
Violet's bare feet curl against the terrace stones, the rough texture grounding her as she fights to steady her racing heart. The Mediterranean breeze carries the salt of the ocean and the faintest trace of jasmine blooming nearby, but beneath it all, the musky scent of their combined skin still lingers on her, making her stomach flutter despite everything.
She takes a slow, shaky breath, her fingers still gripping the terrace railing until her knuckles blanch white. I need time," Violet admits softly, her voice trembling slightly. The admission feels like a physical weight lifting off her chest, but it also makes her heart race even faster. "I need to understand what this means. What *we* mean.
What *this* means." Her gaze darts between them—first to Sascha, then Andrey—her long brown hair shifting like silk against the nape of her neck as she shakes her head slightly. The oversized shirt she’s wearing, Sascha’s shirt, has ridden up even higher on her thighs, the linen clinging to her sides where nervous sweat has dampened the fabric. The morning light catches the faintest sheen on her skin, the bright freckles across her shoulders catching the sun like tiny constellations.
Sascha exhales sharply through his nose, the sound almost a growl.
His fingers flex against Violet’s waist, the rough pads of his fingers pressing into the soft curve where her hip meets her torso. The linen shirt shifts with the motion, the fabric riding up a little more, exposing the faintest sliver of skin to the morning air. His dark eyes darken further, the golden tones in his stubble catching the light as he tilts his head slightly, studying her with an intensity that makes her pulse jump.
“Time,” he repeats, his voice rough with that familiar German accent. The word is neither a request nor a command—it’s a reckoning.
Sascha draws it out like a vow, the syllables curling around the early light still settling over the terrace. His fingers press harder into Violet’s waist, not enough to bruise, but enough to anchor her—to remind her that she doesn’t have to stand alone.
The linen shirt has ridden up another inch, exposing the curve of her hip to the warm Monte Carlo morning. The terrace stones beneath her bare feet are rough against her sensitive skin, grounding her as much as his touch.
“Fine,” Sascha says, his voice rough with barely leashed control. The German accent thickens the word, wrapping around it like a promise. His dark eyes flicker between Violet and Andrey, something unspoken passing between them—an understanding forged in years of friendship and competition. “But know this, *Liebling*… I don’t wait well.”
Behind her, Andrey exhales slowly, the sound vibrating through the late dawn air.
His chest nearly brushes Violet’s shoulder as he steps closer, the heat of him pressing against her side like a silent claim. The reddish-blonde stubble along his jaw catches the morning light, the copper glint making him look almost mythic in his quiet intensity.
“Good,” Andrey murmurs, his Russian accent wrapping around the word like a vow. His voice is low, rough with sleep and something deeper—something that sends shivers down Violet’s spine. “Because we’re not going anywhere.”
Violet turns slightly, her bare arms crossing over her chest instinctively.
The oversized linen shirt—*Sascha’s* shirt—shifts against her skin, the fabric still warm from their shared bodies hours ago. The morning light catches the hem where it rides up on her thighs, painting her legs in soft gold. She swallows hard, her throat tight.
“I just need to be sure,” she says, her voice barely rising above the sound of the waves.
Sascha’s expression darkens, his dark eyes reflecting the rising sun like polished mahogany. He exhales through his nose, a slow rumble that vibrates through the terrace. His fingers flex against the railing where they still rest, the pads rough from years of gripping tennis rackets.
"We're not going anywhere Violet. We want to be with you, love you. Last night is not just a one time thing for us." Sascha said, voice rough with quiet intensity. The golden morning light caught the gold in his stubble, making his expression unreadable but his meaning clear. "It's not just the sex, not just the novelty. It's the way you laugh when you're nervous. The way you bite your lip when you're thinking too hard. The way you still smell like jasmine and ocean salt even after hours of being with us." His thumb traced slow circles on her waist through the thin linen, the touch both grounding and electric. "It's *you*, Violet. All of you."
Andrey stepped closer, the heat of his chest nearly touching her back as he exhaled against her temple.
The morning light caught the copper glint in his short reddish-blonde hair, the angles of his face sharper in the dawn. His fingers brushed the back of her hand where it still gripped the railing—steady, warm, deliberate.
“You’re shaking,” Andrey murmured, his Russian accent wrapping around the words like a vow. “But not from cold.”
Violet takes a deep breath and starts to relax a little. These men want to be with her more than for just a night. She feels like she has found where she belongs.
The golden morning light wraps around them like a warm embrace, painting the terrace in shades of honey and amber. The scent of jasmine and salt lingers in the air, mixed with the musk of their combined skin still clinging to her.
Violet takes a slow, steadying breath, her fingers no longer trembling against the railing. The linen shirt she’s wearing—*Sascha’s* shirt—shifts slightly, the fabric warm and familiar against her skin. The morning light catches the faintest sheen of sweat still clinging to her collarbone, a reminder of the night they shared.
“You’re right,” she whispers, her voice no longer trembling.
The words feel like a release, like the first exhale after holding her breath for years. The terrace is still bathed in golden light, the Mediterranean stretching out in endless blue beyond the railing, but all she sees is them—two men who have somehow become her anchors in a world that suddenly feels too bright, too loud, too *much*.
Violet’s fingers finally relax their death-grip on the railing, the polished stone warm from the sun. She exhales slowly, letting the air out in a shaky rush that carries the scent of jasmine and salt from the breeze.
“I don’t want to mess this up,” she admits, her voice softer now.
She keeps her gaze locked on Sascha’s face, the only one of them who’s ever called her *liebling*—darling—a word he drops into conversation like it’s nothing. His dark eyes soften at the admission, the usual sharpness in them melting into something almost tender.
Sascha lifts his free hand, brushing his thumb along her cheekbone, his calloused fingers leaving a trail of warmth in their wake.
“You won’t,” he murmurs. His voice is rough but gentle, the German accent softening the words. The golden light of the morning catches the gold in his stubble, making his expression unreadable but his sincerity clear. “Because you’re too smart to believe in perfect fantasies. That’s why this works. Real things are messy.”
Andrey steps closer behind her, his presence a solid, warm weight against her back.
The reddish-blonde stubble along his jaw catches the rising sun, making the angles of his face look regal in the golden light. His breath is warm against the nape of her neck as he exhales slowly, a sound that vibrates through the tender skin where last night's kisses still linger.
"We don't do perfect either," Andrey says, his Russian accent wrapping around the words like a promise. His voice is low but steady, the roughness of sleep still lingering in the tones. "But we do real. And real isn't afraid of mess."
His hand finds her waist, the palm pressing against the warm linen where the shirt has ridden up, exposing the soft curve of her hip.
The fabric shifts with the motion, the hem teasing the top of her thigh. The morning light catches the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to her skin—no longer from exertion, but from the lingering heat between them.
Violet exhales slowly, her breath mingling with the scent of jasmine drifting through the terrace air. The linen shirt she borrowed from Sascha feels heavier now, not from fabric, but from the weight of their words settling over her. She turns slightly, her bare legs brushing against Andrey’s as he moves even closer, his presence a steady warmth at her back.
Sascha watches her with an intensity that makes her pulse quicken. His dark eyes darken further, the gold flecks in his irises catching the morning light like embers.
“Good,” he murmurs, his voice rough with barely leashed control. The German accent thickens each syllable, wrapping around Violet like a vow. “Because the moment I met you—despite your ridiculous ‘just one autograph’ fantasy—I knew you were different.”
Violet swallows hard, her fingers curling into the railing as the linen shirt rides higher on her thighs. The terrace stones beneath her bare feet are warm from the Mediterranean sun, grounding her as Sascha’s gaze traces every inch of her exposed skin with disturbing precision.
“You were sweating through your shirt,” Sascha continues, stepping closer until the heat of him radiates against her side.
“Your hair stuck to your forehead. You looked like every other fan in the stands—except you weren’t screaming. You were watching. Listening. *Wanting.*” His thumb brushes the exposed skin of her waist where her shirt has ridden up, the rough pad of his finger catching on the faintest bead of nervous sweat. “That’s when I knew you weren’t just another girl pretending to love tennis.”
Sascha’s voice drops lower, the German accent thickening with every word like honey poured slow. His eyes darken, the golden flecks catching the rising sun until they nearly glow. “You were the real thing.”
“You were watching me that day,” Sascha says, his voice low and rough, the German accent wrapping around the words like a melody she can’t resist. His thumb traces slow circles on her waist—just beneath the hem of the shirt, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake.
Violet remembers that day.
Warm in Melbourne's summer sun—she had worn a tank top, her long brown hair piled messily atop her head because she'd forgotten to pack her hair tie in the excitement of the trip. She remembers the way sweat had beaded at the nape of her neck beneath the brim of her sunhat, the way her tennis shoes had dug into her heels in her nervous haste to get closer to the court.
And then she saw *him*—Sascha—stepping onto the court in his crisp white outfit, the sunlight catching the gold in his stubble as he shook hands with his opponent. He didn’t look at the crowd, not even at the sea of screaming fans pressing against the barriers.
His focus was total, his shoulders squared beneath the pristine white fabric that clung to his powerful frame. The microphone in his hand picked up the steady, measured rhythm of his breath as the match official called for silence.
Violet had frozen in the stands, her fingers tightening around the program in her hands until the paper bowed under the pressure. The printed names—*Zverev vs. Nadal*—meant nothing. She didn’t know the opponent, didn’t care about rankings or seeding or any of the complex scoring systems that governed professional tennis.
All she knew was the way his presence seemed to alter the air around him.
He moved with effortless grace, each step a controlled burst of power, as if the court was an extension of his body.
Violet’s breath caught when he raised his racket, the familiar arc of the serve slicing through the air. The sound of the ball meeting strings was crisp, authoritative, and she found herself leaning forward despite herself. Her pulse quickened, not from the match unfolding in front of her, but from the way his body moved—how his hips rotated with controlled force, how his forearm flexed as he unleashed the serve, how his entire being seemed to radiate something electric even when he was still.
The crowd erupted around her, a wave of noise that normally would have faded into background static, but today it faded.
All Violet could focus on was the way Sascha’s broad shoulders rose and fell with each controlled breath, the way the white fabric of his shirt clung to the defined muscles of his chest as he moved. The golden stubble along his jaw caught the Mediterranean sun, making him look almost regal in his quiet intensity.
She didn’t cheer. Didn’t scream. She simply watched—the way his racket moved with precision, the way his eyes tracked the ball like it was the only thing that mattered in the world. The chair umpire called the score in English and Spanish, but Violet barely heard. Her pulse raced, her breath quickening as he lunged for a backhand that sent the ball skidding just past the baseline.
A low, instinctive sound escaped her—something between a gasp and a cheer—before she could catch it. The moment was too raw, too *alive*.
She clamped her mouth shut, pressing her lips together as heat flooded her cheeks. Around her, the crowd roared for the point, but Violet barely heard them. Her focus was locked on Sascha, on the way his chest rose with a sharp inhale as he forced himself to reset, on the way his damp shirt clung to the hard planes of his torso in the humid air.
*He’s real.*
The thought struck her like a physical blow. Not the posters she’d peeled from her bedroom walls at seventeen.
Not the replays she’d watched a thousand times on YouTube. Not even the surreal memory she’d just made in Sascha’s bed.
Just the man himself—six-foot-six of coiled power and quiet focus, the golden stubble catching the Mediterranean light like molten bronze, the dark eyes scanning the court with the same intensity he’d turned on her in the car last night when she’d fumbled over the words “I don’t do… this.”
"You're remembering it aren't you?" Sascha began. "When we first met." Sascha continued and his voice carries the weight of memory, still rough but laced with something deeper now. The golden light of dawn spills across his face, painting his sharp cheekbones in amber and catching the stubble along his jaw in a way that makes Violet's breath catch all over again. "You didn't scream like the others. You didn't ask for a selfie or a ball or even an autograph." His thumb traces slow circles on her waist, the rough pad of his finger catching on the damp fabric of the oversized shirt. "You just stood there watching me like I was something worth studying."
Violet's fingers tighten against the railing, the polished stone warm from the Mediterranean sun.
"You're hard to look away from, especially on a tennis court." Violet said.
"I never expected you to notice me."
Sascha's dark eyes crinkle at the corners, the first genuine smile she's ever seen from him softening his sharp features. The golden morning light catches the faintest lines around his eyes, making him look both more human and more devastatingly handsome than she ever imagined.
"And then you walked into my life," Sascha murmured, his voice lowering to that rough German accent that always sent shivers down her spine. His thumb traced slow circles on the warm skin of her waist where the linen shirt had ridden up, the rough pad of his finger catching on the faintest bead of nervous sweat. "Literally. Three weeks ago.
Somewhere between Monte Carlo and Madrid.
It was also when she met Andrey.
She remembers the night vividly—the way she had been standing in the back of the corridor outside the players' lounge at the Madrid Open, clutching the printed VIP pass to her chest like a shield. Her heart had been pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears, her fingers damp with nerves from overthinking every possible way this could go wrong.
She had rehearsed the words in her head a hundred times—"Hi, I'm Violet, I'm a huge fan, would you mind?"—but none of them had prepared her for the moment when she turned a corner and nearly collided with two towering figures blocking the narrow hallway.
Two pairs of intense eyes locked onto hers at once—Sascha with his dark, assessing gaze, and Andrey with his cool blue focus.
The VIP pass burned against her chest.
Sascha exhaled slowly, his voice rough with amusement. “You’re Violet?”
Violet’s breath hitched. “Y-yes.”
Andrey crossed his arms over his chest, the movement making his biceps flex beneath the tight fabric of his polo shirt. “You’re the one who’s been watching every one of our matches this season.”
Violet’s face burned. “I—I just love tennis.”
Sascha smirked, stepping closer.
"Nice to meet you." Sascha said , his lips curling into a smirk that was all sharp edges and knowing warmth. His dark eyes gleamed with something unreadable as he extended one hand, the grip of his tennis racket still visible in the way he held it—like a man who was never far from the game. The gold in his stubble caught the fluorescent lighting of the corridor, making the angles of his face look almost predatory in the sterile glow.
Violet swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around the VIP pass until the edges bit into her palms. "I—I'm such a fan," she blurted out, the words tumbling over each other in her haste.
The VIP pass crinkled in her grip as her fingers flexed against it. The corridor smelled of disinfectant and expensive cologne, the sterile environment doing nothing to calm the racing of her heart or the flush creeping up her neck.
Sascha's smile deepened, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made her stomach flip. "Just a fan?" he teased, his German accent wrapping around the words like velvet. "No tennis ball requests? No autograph demands?"
Violet's breath caught, her pulse hammering in her throat. She shook her head slightly, her long brown hair shifting against her shoulders.
“I just wanted to meet you,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. The admission felt too heavy, too personal, but she forced herself to continue. “To see you play. To feel the energy of a real match.” Her fingers loosened their grip on the VIP pass just a fraction. “I never expected to actually talk to you.”
Andrey pushed off the wall where he’d been leaning, his presence filling the narrow corridor. The reddish-blonde stubble along his jaw caught the fluorescent lighting, making him appear even more striking up close. “That’s all?” he asked, his Russian accent wrapping around the words like a challenge. His blue eyes locked onto hers, intense and unyielding.
"Just to meet us? Not to... have more?"
Violet shook her head again, her throat tight. She could feel the heat radiating from his body even though he stood a good foot away. "I didn't expect anything more than that. Just to see you both play. To be close to the matches that I love so much."
Sascha's smirk softened slightly as he studied her face, his gaze tracing the slope of her nose, the curve of her lips. The fluorescent lights of the corridor cast sharp shadows beneath his cheekbones, making him appear almost godlike in her eyes. "But here you are," he murmured. "With a VIP pass to our entire schedule.
With us." Sascha steps closer still, reducing the narrow corridor to mere inches between them. His tennis racket dangles from his fingers, the frame catching the fluorescent light and casting a thin bar of glare across Violet’s chest. "That seems like more than just 'close to the matches,' don’t you think?" His voice drops to a growl, the German accent thickening with every syllable. The warmth of his body rolls off him in waves, cutting through the sterile air of the players’ lounge corridor like a blade.
Violet swallows hard, her breath hitching as his presence consumes the space between them. The VIP pass crumples further in her grip, the paper edges biting into her palm.
The fluorescent corridor lights buzz overhead, casting a sterile glow that does nothing to dim the magnetic pull of the man standing just inches away. Sascha’s proximity feels deliberate, invasive in the most exhilarating way—his broad shoulders nearly brushing hers, the musky scent of his cologne mixing with the faint citrusy tang of his sweat from the afternoon match.
She should step back. She *knows* she should step back. But the corridor feels too narrow, too suffocating, and the only thing her body seems capable of doing is leaning forward, drawn to him like a compass needle to true north.
The VIP pass crumples further in her grip, the edges biting into her palm—not enough to draw blood, but enough to ground her before she completely loses herself in the electric charge crackling between them.
Sascha tilts his head slightly, his dark eyes studying her with an intensity that makes her stomach flutter. “You came for the matches,” he murmurs, his voice rough and low, the German accent wrapping around the words like honey. “But you stayed for us.”
Violet’s breath shakes as she exhales, her pulse hammering in her throat.
The fluorescent hallway feels narrower than ever, the sterile lights buzzing overhead like a swarm of trapped insects. Sascha’s presence is too much—too warm, too close, the citrusy scent of his cologne mixed with the faint salt of his skin from the match still clinging to him. And behind him, Andrey watches with quiet intensity, his arms crossed, the red-gold stubble along his jaw catching the unforgiving light.
She swallows hard, her fingers tightening around the VIP pass until it crumples in her grip. “I didn’t plan this,” she admits, her voice trembling slightly.
The words feel like a confession, one she’s never uttered aloud before. The VIP pass crumples further in her grip, the edges pressing into her palm until it stings. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting a sterile glow over the narrow players' corridor that does little to calm the racing of her heart.
Sascha exhales slowly, the sound almost a growl. His dark eyes darken as he studies her face, the golden flecks in his irises catching the harsh light like embers. The citrusy scent of his cologne mixes with the faint salt of sweat still clinging to his skin from the match, making the air between them feel thick with possibility.
Violet’s breath catches as his gaze drops to her lips, the intensity in his dark eyes making her pulse stutter.
Behind Sascha, Andrey shifts slightly, his lean frame filling the narrow hallway. The reddish-blonde stubble along his jaw catches the fluorescent lighting, making the angles of his face sharper, more predatory in the sterile glow. His blue eyes lock onto hers, unreadable but intent.
"You're shaking," Sascha murmurs, his voice rough with something between amusement and challenge. The German accent wraps around the words like velvet, making the simple observation feel like a caress. His free hand lifts, his rough fingers brushing the back of her wrist where the VIP pass has dug into her skin.
The simple contact sends a jolt through her, sharp and unexpected, making her knees tremble slightly despite the solid wall behind her.
“You’re shaking,” Sascha murmurs again, his voice dropping lower this time, rough with amusement and something darker that makes her stomach clench. The golden stubble along his jaw catches the fluorescent lights, making the angles of his face look almost predatory in the sterile corridor. His thumb traces slow circles on the sensitive skin of her wrist, the rough pad catching on the faint pulse point there.
Andrey steps forward suddenly, his presence filling what little space remained between them.
The corridor, already narrow, seems to shrink until the heat of his body presses against Violet’s side, his lean frame a solid wall of warmth. His breath is warm against her temple, the faintest ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he watches Sascha’s hand still resting against her wrist.
Chapter excerpt truncated at the edge.