Chapter 31: Aftercare and tenderness continued
The borrowed Melbourne shirt—just a memory now—could never compare to this honesty pressing against her skin.
“I think we’re more than friends,” Violet says softly, her voice barely above a whisper as she tilts her head to meet both their gazes. The words feel heavy but lighter than the possibility stretching between them.
Silence settles like smoke between the three bodies still tangled together on the rug. The flickering candlelight casts jagged shadows across the expensive monogrammed sheets—luxury they’ve all paid for in different currencies, but none of them feel like guests here anymore. Andrey’s fingers trace idle patterns on Violet’s waist, thumbs pressing into the dip above her hip bone. His blue eyes darken as he processes her admission, the Russian in his voice suddenly rougher when he speaks.
“You realize what you’re asking?” Andrey’s accent wraps around the words like a challenge and a caress.
"Three people? In this world? You know what they would say."
Violet pulls back just enough to meet his gaze, her dark brown eyes steady despite the trembling in her voice. "I don't care what they say."
She swallows hard, her fingers twisting into the damp cotton of Sascha's shirt—his shirt now, not the borrowed one—where it clings to his chest. The Monte Carlo night air drifts through the half-open terrace doors, carrying the heavy perfume of jasmine and the distant pulse of waves against the shore below. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt is long gone, discarded somewhere between passion and surrender, and Violet doesn't miss it.
Not when she's wrapped in the heat of these two men—one golden and aloof with a voice like rough velvet, the other blue-eyed and intense with a presence that fills the room even when he's silent.
Andrey holds Violet close, his large hand still tracing idle patterns on her waist, his thumb pressing into the dip above her hip bone. His blue eyes darken as he studies her face, the Russian in his voice rougher when he speaks. "You realize what you're asking?" he repeats, testing the weight of her words like a judge examining evidence. The flickering candlelight casts jagged shadows across his sharp cheekbones, making his stubble glint like copper in the dim glow.
His breath is warm against her ear as he repeats himself in Russian, voice rough with something dangerous and tender at once.
Violet shivers, her fingers tightening in Sascha’s shirt. "I know," she whispers in English, then switches to German, voice trembling but resolute. *"Ich weiß."*
Sascha exhales through his nose, golden eyes darkening as he watches her. The rough pad of his thumb traces the curve of her lower lip, then pulls her into a slow, deep kiss that tastes of strawberries and salt. When he pulls back, his voice is low and rough in German.
"You're asking us to share you," Sascha says, testing her reaction. The candlelight catches the sharp angles of his face, casting dark shadows under his cheekbones. The golden stubble along his jaw glints in the flickering light, making him look even more dangerous than he did on the court today. Violet swallows hard, her dark brown eyes steady despite the trembling in her voice. "I want to be with both of you," she says softly, her fingers twisting into the damp cotton of Sascha's shirt. The Monte Carlo night air drifts through the half-open terrace doors, carrying the heavy perfume of jasmine and salt from the distant waves crashing against the shore.
It wraps around the three of them like a living thing, thick with the scent of their shared pleasure, the musk of sex still clinging to their skin.
Violet shivers, her dark brown eyes huge in the flickering candlelight that dances across the expensive monogrammed sheets. She can feel the weight of their gazes on her, the protectiveness in Andrey’s grip on her waist, the possessiveness in Sascha’s fingers tangled in her hair.
"I want to be with both of you," she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "Not just tonight. Not just for the cameras or the gossip.
Not just for the thrill of it.
The words hang between them like a serve that’s just landed perfectly on the line. Violet’s pulse thrums in her throat, the borrowed shirt—long gone—a distant memory. The Monte Carlo night presses against the half-open terrace doors, whispering in jasmine and salt water. The flickering candlelight paints Sascha’s sharp cheekbones in gold, casting Andrey’s reddish-blonde stubble in copper.
Sascha exhales through his nose, golden eyes burning with something raw and rare. He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his thumb traces the curve of her lower lip, slow and deliberate. The gesture feels like a vow.
Violet’s breath stutters, her dark brown eyes shimmering in the dim light.
Andrey’s fingers flex against her waist, his thumb pressing into the dip above her hip bone. The Russian in his voice is rough when he speaks, the words wrapping around her like a promise. “You’re serious,” he states—not a question, just the acknowledgment of something shifting between them.
Violet swallows hard, her fingers twisting into Sascha’s damp shirt. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt is long gone, discarded somewhere between passion and surrender, and Violet doesn’t miss it.
Not when she’s wrapped in the heat of these two men—one golden and aloof with a voice like rough velvet, the other blue-eyed and intense with a presence that fills the room even when he’s silent.
Andrey’s fingers flex against Violet’s waist, his thumb pressing into the dip above her hip bone.
The flickering candlelight catches the sharp angles of Sascha’s face, casting shadows under his cheekbones. His golden eyes darken as he watches Violet, the rough pad of his thumb tracing the curve of her lower lip before pulling her into another slow, deep kiss that tastes of strawberries and salt.
When he finally pulls back, his voice is low and rough in German.
“You’re asking a lot of us, Violet,” Sascha says, his words measured but heavy with something unreadable. His thumb hovers at her jawline, tracing the line where her pulse thrums erratically beneath her skin.
Andrey shifts behind her, his chest rising and falling against her back like the tide. The warmth of his breath ghosts over her shoulder, carrying the faintest trace of strawberries and cigarette smoke—something unexpected, something intimate, that makes Violet’s chest tight. His voice, when it comes, is rough with a Russian rasp that sends a shiver down her spine.
“You realize what this means,” Andrey says, not asking. “Not just for you.
For us too.” Violet’s voice is soft but steady, her dark brown eyes locked onto theirs in the flickering candlelight. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt—long gone—is a distant memory now. In its place is this raw, unguarded honesty pressing against her skin, making her feel both vulnerable and strangely powerful.
Sascha exhales through his nose, golden eyes darkening as he watches her. The rough pad of his thumb traces the curve of her lower lip, slow and deliberate, before pulling her into another slow, deep kiss. It tastes of strawberries and salt, of sweat and something sweet, of all the things they’ve shared in this room.
Violet breathes it in—his air, his taste—and lets herself sink into the kiss. His beard scratches her chin, but she doesn’t care. The friction feels like the sharpest edge of them all—gentle and fierce and impossible to look away from.
Andrey watches them, one hand still resting on her hip, the other braced against the rug as if he needs to steady himself. His blue eyes are dark, watchful, like he’s seeing something he didn’t know existed before tonight. Violet feels the weight of his gaze like a physical touch, warm and pressing, and she turns her head slightly so he doesn’t have to strain.
Her dark brown eyes shine in the candlelight, wide and soft, as if she’s offering something precious she’s just realized she can give.
The borrowed Melbourne shirt is long gone, discarded between the terrace and the rug, but Violet doesn’t miss it—not with Sascha’s thumb still tracing her lower lip, not with Andrey’s breath ghosting over her shoulder, not with the scent of jasmine and salt air coiling around them all.
She swallows, her pulse jumping at the base of her throat. “I know it’s a lot,” she whispers, her voice barely audible over the distant murmur of the Mediterranean. “I know what people will say.
But I also know what I feel.” Violet’s dark brown eyes flick between them before settling on the candle between Sascha’s fingers. The flame dances with her words, casting long shadows across the monogrammed sheets. The borrowed Melbourne shirt is long gone, lost somewhere between the terrace and this rug, and Violet doesn’t miss it—not with Sascha’s thumb still tracing her lower lip, not with Andrey’s breath ghosting over her shoulder.
Sascha exhales through his nose, golden eyes burning like embers in the dim light. “The media will tear you apart,” he says, voice low and rough in German.
“Photos. Speculation. They’ll invent stories, Violet. Stories that will follow you forever.” Sascha’s thumb pauses on her lower lip, the rough pad pressing gently, as if testing her resolve. The candlelight flickers, catching the stubborn set of his jaw—the same jaw that once glared down opponents on the court.
Andrey exhales sharply through his nose, his Russian accent wrapping around the next words like a warning. “They’ll call you names. They’ll reduce you. And it won’t just be about *you*, Violet. It will be about *us*—about what this means.” His hand tightens on her waist, fingers pressing into the soft dip above her hip bone.
The Russian in his voice is rougher now, the words edged with something dark and protective.
**"You want this?"** he asks, not a question—just the challenge laid bare. **"You want two men who are already marked in the press? Two men with histories that will drag you through the mud with us?"**
Violet swallows, her throat working. The candlelight dances across her face, painting her cheeks in gold and shadow. She doesn’t look away.
**"Yes,"** she says, her voice barely above a whisper. But then, stronger: **"Yes."**
Sascha’s golden eyes flick to hers, the candlelight catching the sharp angles of his face.
His thumb presses a little harder against her lower lip, not quite a demand but a question without words. The stubble along his jawline catches the flickering light, making him look even more dangerous than he did during his match today.
Andrey’s hand on her waist stills, his blue eyes locked onto hers with an intensity that makes her stomach flutter. The Russian in his voice is rough when he speaks, edged with something raw and protective.
“You’re sure?” he asks, his accent wrapping around the words like a challenge. “Because once we say yes, Violet, there’s no going back. The cameras won’t stop. The whispers—” He cuts himself off, exhaling sharply through his nose.
His reddish-blonde stubble bristles when he shakes his head once, as if physically fighting the words before they can escape. The candle between Sascha’s fingers flickers violently, the flame bending like it’s been struck. “—will never stop. Not for any of us.”
Violet tilts her head back enough to meet Andrey’s gaze head-on. The reflection of the candle flame dances in her wide brown eyes, making them look almost black in the dim light. “I don’t care,” she repeats, softer now but no less certain. Her fingers, still tangled in Sascha’s damp shirt, flex against the warm fabric.
"What matters is how I feel about both of you. How both of you feel about me. The media don't know both of you and what you're really like." Violet says softly, her dark brown eyes flicking between them. The candle between Sascha's fingers flickers violently, the flame bending like it's been struck as he watches her. The Monte Carlo night presses against the half-open terrace doors, carrying the scent of jasmine and salt water that wraps around the three of them like a living thing.
Sascha exhales through his nose, golden eyes darkening as he studies her face. The rough pad of his thumb traces the curve of her lower lip once more before pulling her into another slow, deep kiss that tastes of strawberries and salt and promises that make Violet's chest tighten. When he finally pulls back, his voice is rough in German.
“You’re very brave, Violet.” Sascha’s thumb lingers at the corner of her mouth, his own mouth still glistening from their kiss. The candlelight flickers, making his golden stubble catch the light like scattered gold dust across his sharp cheekbones.
Andrey exhales sharply through his nose, the Russian in his voice rough with something that almost sounds like awe. “Brave or reckless,” he corrects, his blue eyes dark and watchful as they trace the curve of her jaw, the swell of her throat where her pulse jumps erratically beneath her skin.
The reddish-blonde stubble along his jaw bristles as he tilts his head, studying her with an intensity that makes Violet feel both seen and slightly unnerved. The Monte Carlo night presses against the half-open terrace doors, carrying the scent of jasmine and salt water that wraps around them like a living thing.
Sascha exhales through his nose, his golden eyes burning like embers in the dim light. The rough pad of his thumb traces the curve of her lower lip once more, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing the shape of her. The candle between his fingers flickers violently, the flame bending like it’s been struck.
The air itself feels thick—with jasmine, with salt, with the weight of unsaid promises pressing against Violet’s ribs.
Sascha exhales through his nose, golden eyes never leaving hers as his thumb traces the curve of her lower lip one last time. The stubble along his jaw glints in the flickering light like scattered gold dust across sharp cheekbones. "You don’t understand what you’re asking,” he says softly in German, voice rough with something raw beneath the polished veneer. His free hand shifts to cradle the back of her neck, fingers threading into the damp strands at her nape, grounding her—or maybe just anchoring himself.
The heat from his palm radiates through her skin, a brand she both craves and fears. She can feel the way his breath catches, the faintest hitch before he speaks again, his voice dropping to a rasp that sends a shiver down her spine.
“You don’t understand what you’re asking,” Sascha repeats, this time in English, his accent wrapping around the words like a familiar dance—comfortable in its roughness. The candle between his fingers flickers violently, the flame bending as if caught in a sudden wind, though not a breath stirs in the room. The shadows it casts stretch and pull across his face, exaggerating the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the stubborn set of his jaw.
His golden eyes, half-lidded and heavy-lidded in the way that only happens after release, flick over her face searching for hesitation.
Violet swallows against the pressure of his thumb still resting against her lower lip. The pad of it is rough, calloused from years of gripping tennis rackets, and it feels like every nerve in her body has pooled right there beneath his touch.
She blinks slowly, her dark brown irises reflecting the candlelight like twin moons. “I think I do,” she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper. The words taste like truth and rebellion mixed with something dangerously sweet.
Violet doesn’t look away from Sascha’s gaze as she speaks, even as Andrey’s thumb presses insistently into the curve of her hip, his breath warm against the back of her neck.
Sascha exhales through his nose, golden eyes darkening further, and Violet realizes this is the first time she’s ever seen him hesitant. The man who glares down opponents between serves, who smashes rackets with cold precision when the point gets away from him—hesitating now over the idea of a future that involves sharing rather than controlling.
“You’re serious,” Sascha says finally, his voice rough in German.
“You want this—not just for tonight, but always.”
Violet nods slowly, her dark brown eyes locked onto his. The flickering candle between his fingers sends shifting shadows across his sharp cheekbones, making him look both dangerous and vulnerable.
Andrey’s grip tightens on her waist, his thumb pressing harder into the soft dip above her hip bone. “You realize we’re not easy men,” he says, his Russian accent rough. “We’re used to getting what we want—on the court, in life. Sharing changes everything.”
Violet tilts her head back to meet Andrey’s gaze, her voice steady despite the tremor in her fingers tangled in Sascha’s shirt.
“I didn’t say it would be easy,” she whispers. “I said it’s what I want."
Andrey’s reddish-blonde stubble catches the candlelight as he exhales through his nose, his blue eyes darkening to something raw and unguarded. “You don’t understand what you’re asking us to risk,” he says, the Russian inflection making the words feel like a physical caress. His breath ghosts over the shell of her ear, warm and peppermint-scented. “My reputation. Sascha’s carefully crafted image. The sponsors.
The endorsements. The delicate balance of power we’ve spent years cultivating." His thumb moves in slow circles against her hip, the motion betraying how carefully he’s trying to control himself. Violet feels the tension radiating off him, a live wire running through all three of them.
Sascha’s golden eyes flick between Violet and Andrey, something complicated moving across his face. He exhales through his nose, the sound almost amused despite everything. "You know she’s not wrong about us knowing what we’re really like,” he says lightly, switching to English as he watches Violet’s reaction. The candle flickers again, throwing his face into sharp relief. "The media only sees the showman and the robot.
But you’ve seen the cracks in the armor, Violet,” Sascha murmurs in German, his voice rough but tender. He cups her chin, lifting her face to his. The candlelight flickers across his sharp features, making his stubble gleam like scattered gold dust. “You’ve seen us without the masks. That changes everything."
Violet’s breath catches in her throat. The weight of his words settles over her like the warm Monte Carlo night pressing against the half-open terrace doors. Outside, the distant crash of waves mixes with the heavy perfume of jasmine that drifts into the room.
Andrey’s fingers still against her waist, his thumb resting in that sensitive dip above her hip bone.
His breath is warm against the shell of her ear when he finally speaks, the Russian inflection rougher than usual. “And what do *we* get out of this, Violet?” he asks, the question low and serious.
Violet turns her head slightly, her dark brown eyes catching the flickering candlelight as she meets his gaze. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt is long gone, discarded somewhere between here and the terrace, but she doesn’t miss it. Not now. Not with the heat of Sascha’s body pressed against her front and Andrey’s solid frame behind her.
“I don’t know,” she whispers honestly, her voice trembling slightly.
“I haven’t thought that far. Maybe… friendship and a strong relationship?” Violet’s dark brown eyes flick between them, wide and searching. The flickering candle between Sascha’s fingers sends shifting shadows across his sharp cheekbones, making him look both dangerous and vulnerable in the dim light.
Violet watches the way his golden stubble catches the light like scattered metal — not elegant, not polished, but *him*. Real. All the way through.
She shifts slightly, her body still warm from their shared intensity, the manicured sheets beneath her no longer just expensive fabric but a witness to everything that’s just happened between them. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt is long gone — discarded, forgotten, burned away in the heat of what they just shared.
Andrey’s hand remains on her waist, his thumb pressing gently into the dip above her hip bone, as if he’s still trying to decide whether to pull her closer or let her go.
The Russian in his voice is rough when he finally speaks, the words heavy with something raw. "Friendship?" he repeats, the word sounding foreign in his mouth, like he’s never considered it before. His reddish-blonde stubble catches the flickering candlelight, making the sharp angles of his jawline look even more pronounced. The Monte Carlo night air drifts through the half-open terrace doors, carrying the scent of jasmine and salt water that wraps around them like a living thing. Violet feels the weight of his gaze on her, the intensity of it making her breath hitch.
"I think this is more than friendship Violet." Andrey says , his voice rough with that familiar Russian rasp. His thumb presses harder into the sensitive dip above her hip, pulling her slightly closer against him. The heat from his body radiates through the thin fabric of his shirt, warming her back even as the night air drifting through the terrace doors carries the cool Mediterranean breeze. His blue eyes darken as he watches her, the flickering candlelight catching the coppery strands of his beard. "We're not asking for a three-way arrangement just so you can have another experience to check off your travel journal."
Violet sucks in a sharp breath at the unexpected sharpness in his voice, her fingers reflexively tightening in Sascha's damp shirt where it clings to his chest.
Violet bites her lip trying not to cry. She doesn't just want to check off another experience. She wants more than that with these men.
Violet wants something real. Seeing past the polished exteriors and the celebrity masks to what beats beneath. The genuine connection that lingers in the quiet moments between fierce foreplays and whispered words in languages she doesn’t fully understand. The vulnerabilities shared in the soft glow of candlelight with the Mediterranean breeze brushing bare skin.
"I want this to last." Violet starts , her voice trembling, then finding its strength. "If that makes me naive then so be it. Because for the first time in my life someone actually sees me. Both of you do."
Sascha’s golden eyes flicker with something complicated—pride, protectiveness, maybe even fear. The candlelight reflects off his sharp cheekbones, making the golden stubble there catch the light like embers. His thumb brushes over her lower lip once more, slow and contemplative. "You make it sound so simple, Violet."
Behind her, Andrey’s chest rises and falls against her back, his breath warm against her ear.
The rip of the condom wrapper is loud in the quiet room, then the rustle of fabric as he shifts, his hands gripping her hips possessively. The cool air kisses her skin where his touch had been seconds before, making her shiver.
Sascha’s thumb still traces the curve of her lower lip, his eyes dark and unreadable. He doesn’t look at her when he speaks, but his voice is rough and sure in English. “You know what they’ll call you, don’t you? The tennis groupie who couldn’t make up her mind. Or worse—” The candle between his fingers flickers violently once more, as if his emotions are stirring the air itself.
He exhales sharply, the rough pad of his thumb pressing just a little firmer against her lower lip. “—the girl who settled for the scraps when she could have had the whole damn banquet.” His voice drops lower, rough with something raw and rare. “Is that what you want written into the history books, Violet?”
Behind her, Andrey shifts, his breath warm against her ear as he finally speaks in that familiar Russian rasp. The scent of peppermint and something darker lingers there—his cigarette smoke clinging to the air between intimacy and recklessness. “He’s not wrong,” Andrey murmurs, his voice low and rough as gravel underfoot.
The Russian accent coils around the words like smoke, wrapping around her spine and pulling tight. His breath is warm against the shell of her ear, peppermint sharp beneath the smoke and something darker, something that smells like old regrets and expensive liquor. “The world will see you as the girl who couldn’t decide. The girl who wanted both but got neither.” His hand tightens on her waist, fingers pressing into the dip above her hip bone hard enough that she feels the edge of his nail through the thin fabric. “They’ll call you desperate. Or worse—*unattainable*.” The word hangs in the air between them, heavy with meaning. Violet swallows, her pulse jumping in her throat.
The flickering candlelight doesn’t help—it turns the world into a series of sharp edges and deep shadows, making everything feel more dangerous than it already is.
For the first time in her life, someone actually sees me. Both of you do.
Those words hang between them, fragile and fierce. Sascha’s thumb still rests against her lower lip, warm and calloused from years of gripping tennis rackets. The rough pad presses gently, testing, as if he’s afraid she might break. His golden eyes—so bright in daylight—are half-lidded now, heavy with something she can’t name. Not just desire. Something deeper. Something like *fear*.
Not of her. Of this.
Violet’s breath hitches under his touch, her dark brown irises reflecting the candle flame like twin moons. The borrowed Melbourne shirt is long gone—discarded on the terrace or burnt to ash in the heat between them, she doesn’t care which—but she feels everything else: Sascha’s calloused thumb against her mouth, the way his breath catches before he speaks again, the weight of Andrey’s chest against her back, his thumb pressing possessively into the dip of her waist.
She swallows, the sound too loud in the stillness, and when she finally speaks, her voice doesn’t tremble.
It’s soft, sure, and deliberate. “Then let me prove them wrong.”
The candle flickers one last time before the flame straightens, as if the universe itself is holding its breath.
Andrey exhales sharply through his nose, his Russian accent wrapping around the words like a warning. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
Sascha’s thumb still rests on her lower lip, his golden eyes locked onto hers with a quiet intensity that makes her stomach flutter. “You could be signing your own reputation into a grave, Violet.”
She lifts her chin slightly, her dark brown eyes meeting both of their gazes without flinching.
The borrowed Melbourne shirt—long gone, lost between the terrace and this tangled moment on Sascha’s monogrammed sheets—no longer matters. What matters is the quiet strength humming beneath her skin, the way her pulse steadies even as the candlelight flickers wildly between them.
“I’m not asking for their approval,” she says softly, her voice wrapping around the words like a promise. The Monte Carlo night presses against the half-open terrace doors, carrying the scent of jasmine and distant saltwater that coils around the three of them like a living thing. “I’m asking for *ours*.”
Sascha exhales through his nose, golden eyes burning with something raw and rare.
The flickering candle between his fingers reflects in his gaze, making the gold of his irises seem molten. The rough pad of his thumb pressing just slightly harder makes Violet’s breath catch, her lips parting instinctively beneath his touch.
Andrey’s fingers flex against her waist, his thumb pressing into the sensitive dip above her hip bone. His blue eyes darken as he watches them, the Russian in his voice rough when he finally speaks. “You’re sure about this?” he asks, his accent wrapping around the words like a challenge.
His breath is warm against the shell of her ear, peppermint sharp beneath the smoke and something darker that clings to his skin. The reddish-blonde stubble along his jaw bristles as he tilts his head, studying Violet with an intensity that makes her feel both seen and slightly unnerved.
The Monte Carlo night presses against the half-open terrace doors, carrying the scent of jasmine and saltwater that wraps around them like a living thing. The flickering candle between Sascha’s fingers sends jagged shadows across the monogrammed sheets, painting his sharp cheekbones in gold and Andrey’s copper stubble in reddish light.
The air between them hums thick with jasmine and the distant pulse of waves against Monaco’s cliffs. Violet feels neither. She only feels the rough pad of Sascha’s thumb tracing the curve of her lower lip, slow and deliberate, as if learning the shape of her by touch alone. His golden eyes, half-lidded in the candle’s glow, search hers for hesitation. She finds none. Not here.
Andrey’s hand shifts on her waist, his thumb pressing possessively into the dip above her hip bone. The heat of his palm radiates through the thin fabric of his shirt, warming her back even as the Mediterranean breeze drifting through the open terrace doors carries the cool night air.
Sascha's thumb traces her lower lip once more, slow and deliberate. The rough pad catches on her sensitive skin, sending a shiver down her spine. His golden eyes never leave hers as he speaks, his voice rough with something raw and rare. "You make it sound so simple, Violet," he says softly in German.
Behind her, Andrey shifts, his breath warm against her ear as he finally speaks in that familiar Russian rasp.
"You're playing with fire, malysh," he murmurs, his voice rough as gravel underfoot. The Russian endearment rolls off his tongue like a promise and a warning, his thumb pressing harder into the sensitive dip above her hip bone. "You want to be with two players who already have enough enemies without adding you to the list."
Violet's breath catches as his nail grazes her skin through the thin fabric of his shirt.
The names and insults he mentions feel distant now, muffled beneath the warmth of his palm against her waist, the solid pressure of Sascha's body against her front. She realizes she has never been more certain of anything in her life.
"I don't care about enemies or lists or reputations anymore," Violet says softly, her voice barely audible over the distant crash of Mediterranean waves against Monaco's cliffs. She turns her head slightly, her dark brown eyes catching the flickering candlelight as she meets Andrey's gaze. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt is long gone—discarded somewhere between the terrace and this tangled moment on Sascha's expensive sheets—but she doesn't miss it. Not with both of them pressed against her like this.
Violet swallows hard, the pulse in her throat throbbing with every breath she takes. "I care about *both of you*," she whispers, her voice steady despite the way her fingers tremble where they grip Sascha’s damp shirt. The borrowed Melbourne shirt is long gone, discarded somewhere between the terrace’s stone pavers and the rug where they collapsed in each other’s arms.
The Monte Carlo night presses against the half-open terrace doors, carrying the scent of jasmine and distant saltwater that coils around them like a living thing. The flickering candle between Sascha’s fingers casts jagged shadows across the monogrammed sheets, painting his sharp cheekbones in gold and Andrey’s copper stubble in reddish light.
The air between them hums thick with the scent of jasmine and the distant pulse of waves against Monaco’s cliffs.
Sascha exhales through his nose, golden eyes darkening further.
The rough pad of his thumb presses one last time against Violet’s lower lip before he finally pulls her into a slow, deep kiss.
"Malyshka," Andrey murmurs, his breath warm against the shell of her ear as he switches to Russian, the endearment rolling off his tongue like a promise. The Russian in his voice is rougher now, edged with something dark and protective. He tilts his head, studying her with an intensity that makes her feel seen.
For once, Violet doesn't look away. "I know what I want," she says softly, her voice steady despite the trembling in her fingers tangled in Sascha's shirt. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt is long gone—discarded somewhere between the terrace's stone pavers and the rug where they collapsed in each other's arms. The flickering candle between Sascha's fingers casts jagged shadows across the monogrammed sheets, painting his sharp cheekbones in gold and Andrey's copper stubble in reddish light.
The air presses thick with jasmine and saltwater, wrapping around the three of them like a living thing.
Violet feels the weight of their gazes on her—protective, challenging, heated. Andrey's breath ghosts over her shoulder again, peppermint sharp beneath the smoke and something darker that clings to his skin. His thumb rests possessively in the dip above her hip, fingers splayed wide as if he's memorizing the shape of her waist.
Sascha finally pulls back from their kiss, his golden eyes burning with something raw and rare.
His thumb lingers against Violet's lower lip for one slow, deliberate moment before he exhales through his nose. "I'll try for you Violet," he says softly in German.
Sascha's hand drops from her chin, his thumb catching the corner of her mouth one last time. The candle between his fingers flickers violently, casting long shadows across his sharp cheekbones and down the line of his throat where his pulse throbs beneath golden stubble. The air is thick with the scent of sex and saltwater drifting through the half-open terrace doors. Andrey exhales sharply through his nose behind her, his breath warm with peppermint and something darker against her ear. The Russian in his voice is rough as gravel underfoot. "I'll try for you too," he murmurs, his accent wrapping around the words like a promise and a warning.
"But don't expect me to be gentle with you when the cameras are watching, Violet. You'll need to be stronger than that."
His fingers tighten on her waist, pulling her back against him. The heat from his body radiates through the thin fabric of his shirt, warming her bare skin where it meets his. His stubble brushes against her shoulder as he tilts his head, studying her with an intensity that makes her breath catch.
Violet turns to face him fully, her dark brown eyes locking onto his intense gaze. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt—long discarded—no longer matters.
What matters is the reckless courage humming beneath Violet’s skin, the way her pulse steadies even as the candlelight flickers wildly between them. She lifts her chin, her dark brown eyes locking onto Andrey’s intense gaze without flinching.
"I don't need you to be gentle," she whispers, her voice steady despite the way her breath shivers against Sascha’s still-warm palm resting against her waist. The Monte Carlo night presses against the half-open terrace doors, carrying the scent of jasmine and distant saltwater that wraps around them like a living thing.
Violet feels neither the cool night air nor the heat radiating from two bodies pressed so close to hers. She only feels the rough pad of Sascha's thumb tracing the curve of her lower lip, slow and deliberate, as if learning the shape of her by touch alone. His golden eyes, half-lidded in the candle's glow, search hers for hesitation.
Andrey's hand shifts on her waist, his thumb pressing possessively into the dip above her hip bone.
The heat from his palm radiates through the thin fabric of his shirt, warming her bare skin where it meets his. His reddish-blonde stubble brushes against her shoulder as he tilts his head, studying her with an intensity that makes her breath catch. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt—long discarded, lost somewhere between the terrace’s stone pavers and these tangled sheets—holds no significance anymore. What matters is the reckless courage humming beneath her skin, the way her pulse steadies even as the candlelight flickers wildly between them.
She lifts her chin, her voice steadier than she feels.
“I’ve spent my whole life tiptoeing around people who couldn’t see the real me. So no. I don’t need gentle. I need *true*.”
Andrey’s thumb stills on her waist, his blue eyes darkening under the flickering candlelight. His reddish-blonde stubble catches the flame like embers as he exhales sharply. The peppermint scent of his breath wraps around her ear, warm and deliberate.
“Careful with words you can’t take back,” he murmurs in Russian, his voice rough with something that sounds dangerously close to respect.
Sascha watches them both, his golden eyes unreadable behind half-lidded lids.
The flickering candle between his fingers casts long shadows that dance across the sharp angles of his face, making the golden stubble along his jaw shimmer like scattered metal. The borrowed Melbourne shirt is long gone—lost somewhere between the terrace’s stone pavers and the tangled sheets beneath them—but Violet doesn’t feel the absence of fabric anymore.
What remains is the heat of two bodies pressing against hers, the weight of their gazes, the quiet intensity of three people who have just made a decision that will change everything.
Andrey’s thumb still rests possessively in the dip of her waist, his breath warm against her shoulder as he exhales.
The Russian in his voice is rough, edged with something unfamiliar—respect, maybe even awe. "Careful with words you can’t take back," he murmurs, his accent wrapping around the sentence like smoke.
Violet doesn’t look away. The candlelight flickers between them, casting her dark brown eyes into shadow before pulling them back into golden focus. "I meant every one," she says softly, her voice unwavering.
Sascha exhales through his nose, golden eyes glinting in the dim light. He drops his palm from her waist, letting it rest against her thigh instead—solid, grounding.
The contact sends another ripple of warmth through her. She watches his expression shift as he finally closes the distance between them, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to her collarbone that tastes of gin and the faintest hint of salt. His golden stubble scratches her skin, but the sensation is strangely comforting—like the rough edge of a man who expects nothing to be handed to him. Violet lets her head fall back slightly, her eyes fluttering shut as she loses herself in the warmth of his mouth moving against her pulse point.
Andrey exhales sharply at the sight, his breath warm against her neck.
The reddish-blonde stubble along his jaw bristles when he tilts his head, watching them with an intensity that makes Violet’s pulse jump beneath Sascha’s lips. The Russian in his voice is rough when he finally speaks, something unfamiliar in the tone—respect, maybe even awe.
"You surprise me, Violet." Andrey says , his voice rough as gravel.
His breath is warm against her ear, peppermint sharp beneath the smoke and something darker that clings to his skin. The reddish-blonde stubble along his jaw bristles as he tilts his head, studying her with an intensity that makes Violet’s pulse jump beneath Sascha’s lips still pressed against her pulse point. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt is long gone—discarded somewhere between the terrace’s stone pavers and the tangled sheets beneath them—but Violet doesn’t feel its absence anymore.
The warm weight of two bodies pressing against hers fills that space now, pressing into her from both sides like the tide claiming the shore. The Monte Carlo night presses against the half-open terrace doors, carrying the scent of jasmine and distant saltwater that coils around them like a living thing, thick and intoxicating.
Sascha’s thumb finally leaves her lower lip, his rough pad catching the corner of her mouth one last time before trailing down her throat where her pulse jumps beneath his touch. His golden eyes are half-lidded, the candlelight flickering across their sharp angles making him look both dangerous and vulnerable in the dim glow.
Violet watches the way his stubble catches the light like scattered embers across his sharp cheekbones.
Sascha exhales through his nose, the sound almost amused despite everything. "You make it sound so simple," he repeats in German, his voice rough but tender. The candle between his fingers flickers violently, throwing his face into sharp relief. "You've seen the cracks in the armor, Violet. You've seen us without the masks.
Violet swallows hard, her pulse jumping in her throat where Sascha's thumb now rests against her collarbone. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt—long discarded between the terrace and this tangled moment—holds no significance anymore.
Instead, Violet feels the sharp contrast of Sascha’s golden stubble scraping against the sensitive skin of her collarbone as he presses another slow, deliberate kiss there. His rough palm moves down her thigh, fingers curling possessively around the curve of her hip. The gesture isn’t gentle, but it’s not cruel either—just honest, in the way only Sascha can be.
The Monte Carlo night air drifts through the half-open terrace doors, carrying the scent of jasmine and distant saltwater that wraps around them like a living thing. The flickering candle between Sascha’s fingers casts shifting shadows across the monogrammed sheets, painting his sharp cheekbones in gold and Andrey’s copper stubble in reddish light.
Violet tilts her head back slightly, her breath hitching as Sascha’s stubble scrapes against her collarbone again. His rough palm still rests against her thigh, fingers curling possessively around the curve of her hip.
The gesture isn’t gentle, but it’s honest—just like the way his breath still carries the faintest trace of mint and gin.
Sascha kisses Violet.
He kisses her like he’s both discovering and claiming her—one hand tangled in the back of her hair, tilting her face to his, the other pressing her deeper into the sheets like he wants to memorize the weight of her. The borrowed Melbourne shirt is gone—lost somewhere between the terrace stone pavers and the monogrammed sheets—but Violet feels it everywhere else: Sascha’s stubble scraping her chin, the rough callouses of his palm against her waist, the way his breath catches when she tangles her fingers in the damp curls at the nape of his neck.
His German curse is a low, rough sound against her lips.
“Du machst mich verrückt,” he murmurs against her mouth, his voice rough. The candlelight flickers violently, throwing his face into sharp relief and making the golden stubble dance like scattered embers across his sharp cheekbones. The Monte Carlo night air presses against the half-open terrace doors, carrying the scent of jasmine and distant saltwater that wraps around them like a living thing.
Andrey exhales sharply behind her, his peppermint-scented breath warm against the shell of her ear. The Russian in his voice is rough when he finally speaks, edged with something raw and protective.
"Careful, malyshka," Andrey warns, his breath warm against her ear, peppermint sharp beneath the smoke and something darker that clings to his skin. His thumb presses insistently into the dip above her hip bone, pulling her slightly closer against him. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt—long discarded in their haste—no longer matters.
Sascha pulls back just enough to let his forehead rest against Violet's, their breaths mingling in the space between them.
Andrey kisses Violet's neck.
His reddish-blonde stubble scratches against her skin as his lips find the sensitive spot beneath her jaw, his breath warm with peppermint and something darker. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt is long gone—discarded somewhere between the terrace’s stone pavers and the tangled sheets beneath them—but Violet feels more undressed now than she ever did in fabric. The heat of his body radiates through the thin fabric of his shirt, warming her back even as the Mediterranean breeze drifting through the open terrace doors carries the cool night air against her bare skin.
Sascha watches them both, his golden eyes darkening further as Andrey’s mouth moves against Violet’s pulse point.
The rough pad of his thumb still rests against her thigh, fingers curled possessively around the curve of her hip.
Violet lets her head fall back slightly, her breath hitching as Andrey’s stubble scrapes against her collarbone again.
"You like that Violet, our mouths on you?" Sascha asks gently , his voice rough with desire. He kisses the corner of her mouth, then the other corner, his lips lingering as if savoring the taste of her.
Behind Violet, Andrey exhales sharply through his nose. His warm breath ghosts over her shoulder, carrying the familiar scent of peppermint and something darker he must have had after his match. "Nevozmozhno," he murmurs in Russian, the word slipping between them like a prayer. "Never possible to get enough."
His hand moves from Violet's waist, fingers tracing slow patterns against her skin before settling possessively over her hip. The heat from his palm radiates through her body, making her shiver despite the Monte Carlo warmth drifting through the half-open terrace doors.
Violet’s pulse jumps beneath his touch, her dark brown eyes fluttering shut as she loses herself in the sensation of two men worshiping her at once.
Sascha’s golden stubble scrapes deliciously against her chin as his mouth finds hers again, this kiss slower, deeper—tasting of gin and something sweet she can’t quite place. His rough hand tangles in the damp curls at the nape of her neck, anchoring her to him as Andrey’s breath ghosts over her shoulder, warm with peppermint and that dark, smoky something that clings to him.
“You like that Violet, our mouths on you?” Sascha murmurs against her lips, his voice rough with desire.
His golden stubble scrapes deliciously against her chin as his mouth finds hers again, this kiss slower, deeper—tasting of gin and something sweet she can’t quite place.
Violet shivers between them, her body arching slightly under their combined heat. She wants more.
Her body is a live wire between them, sparking wherever they touch. Violet arches into Sascha’s hard frame, her back pressing against Andrey’s solid chest. The sensation of two men worshipping her at once is intoxicating—like holding lightning in her hands.
“You’re perfect,” Sascha murmurs against her lips, his voice rough with something raw beneath the polished veneer. His free hand shifts to cradle the back of her neck, fingers threading into the damp strands at her nape. The metallic scent of his sweat mixes with the gin still clinging to his breath, creating a heady cocktail that makes her dizzy.
Violet tangles her fingers deeper into the damp curls at his nape, pulling him closer even as Andrey's mouth finds the sensitive spot beneath her ear. His stubble burns against her skin in the most delicious way.
Violet whimpers softly when Andrey’s teeth graze the shell of her ear—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to send a jolt of pure electricity straight through her nerve endings straight down to where she’s sensitive and aching between her thighs. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt has been forgotten long ago, lost somewhere between the terrace’s cool marble pavers and these tangled sheets beneath them.
Sascha’s golden eyes darken even more at the sound Violet makes, his rough thumb pressing insistently into the dip of her hip bone. “You like that, don’t you, Violet?” he murmurs in German, his voice rough.
The candle between his fingers flickers violently, casting long shadows that dance across his sharp cheekbones and down the line of his throat where dark stubble catches the light. The borrowed Melbourne shirt is long gone—discarded somewhere between the terrace’s stone pavers and the tangled sheets beneath them—but Violet feels every inch of his body pressed against hers now. The heat from Sascha’s chest radiates through the thin fabric of his borrowed shirt that still clings to him from their earlier exertions, warming her bare skin where it meets his.
Andrey exhales sharply behind her, his breath warm with peppermint and something darker clinging to his skin.
The Russian in his voice is rough when he finally speaks.
"Da. Polyubish' to, kak moy rot derzhit tebya," he murmurs in Russian, the words wrapping around her like smoke. His thumb presses insistently into the dip of her hip, pulling her more firmly against him.
Violet asks Andrey to translate, her eyes wide and dark in the candlelight. But Sascha answers first, his voice rough with desire. “He said ‘Yes. You love how my mouth holds you,’” Sascha murmurs in German, his tongue tracing the shell of her ear with the same precision he might use to cut through an opponent’s backhand.
Andrey exhales sharply through his nose, the Russian in his voice rough when he finally speaks in a low growl. "I was trying to be careful," he admits.
"Your language sounds beautiful Andrey." Violet says softly in English, her voice warm with curiosity. The borrowed Melbourne shirt—long discarded—no longer matters.
Sascha's hand moves down her thigh, fingers curling possessively around the curve of her hip. The gesture isn't gentle, but it's honest—just like the way his breath still carries the faintest trace of mint and gin.
Violet watches the way his golden stubble catches the flickering candlelight like scattered embers across his sharp cheekbones as he finally closes the distance between them, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to her collarbone that tastes of gin and masculine heat. His rough palm rests against her thigh, fingers splayed possessively across the curve of her hip. The Russian in his voice is rough with something unfamiliar—respect, maybe even awe.
His breath is warm against her neck as he exhales sharply through his nose, making the reddish-blonde stubble along his jaw bristle. "Careful with words you can’t take back," Andrey murmurs in Russian, his voice edged with warning.
But Violet doesn’t look away. The candlelight flickers between them, catching the dark brown of her eyes before dragging them into golden focus as she lifts her chin with quiet defiance. "I mean every word," she says softly in English, her voice steady despite the way his thumb presses insistently into the sensitive dip of her waist.
Sascha watches the exchange, his golden eyes darkening at the stubborn tilt of her chin.
The candlelight flickers between them, throwing his sharp cheekbones into stark relief, the golden stubble catching the flame like scattered metal. He exhales through his nose, the rough pad of his thumb still tracing slow circles on her thigh where his borrowed Melbourne shirt has ridden up.
"You always say the wrong thing at the wrong time," he murmurs in German, his voice barely audible over the distant crash of Mediterranean waves against Monaco's cliffs. The words aren't unkind, just resigned—like a man who's long since accepted that some things are beyond his control.
"I like that about you." Sascha says to Violet , his voice surprisingly tender as he cups her face and kisses her forehead. The flickering candlelight catches the golden stubble on his sharp cheekbones, making it glint like scattered embers. What matters is the warmth of his hand against her skin, the steady rhythm of his breath, the way his thumb brushes gently over her collarbone.
Andrey watches them both with an intensity that makes Violet's pulse jump in her throat. His peppermint-scented breath ghosts over her shoulder, warm against her bare skin. "He's right you know," Andrey murmurs in Russian, his voice rough around the edges.
"You do say the wrong things at the wrong time. Always have." The reddish-blonde stubble along his jaw bristles as he tilts his head, studying her with an intensity that makes Violet's pulse jump beneath Sascha's palm against her collarbone.
Sascha exhales through his nose, golden eyes flickering between them before settling back on Violet's face. The candle between his fingers flickers violently, casting long shadows that dance across the sharp angles of his face. The borrowed Melbourne shirt—long discarded in their haste—no longer matters.
Violet feels the rough pad of Sascha’s thumb still tracing slow circles on her thigh, his calloused skin warm against the sensitive skin just above her knee. The borrowed Melbourne shirt—long gone—no longer matters. What remains is the heat of two bodies pressing against hers, the weight of their gazes, the quiet intensity of three people who have just committed to something that will change everything.
Violet watches them both, her dark brown eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight like twin moons. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt—long discarded between the terrace’s stone pavers and these tangled sheets—no longer matters.
Sascha exhales through his nose, golden eyes flickering between them before settling back on Violet’s face. His thumb still traces slow circles on her thigh, his calloused skin warm against the sensitive skin just above her knee.
"What do you want next Violet?" Sascha asks her softly, his voice rough with restrained desire as his thumb traces slow circles on the sensitive skin just above her knee.
Her breath hitches in her throat as she considers the question. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt is long forgotten between the terrace pavers and these tangled sheets.
The flickering candle between them throws dramatic shadows across Sascha’s sharp cheekbones and the reddish-blonde stubble along Andrey’s jawline. The scent of jasmine and saltwater drifting through the half-open terrace doors wraps around them like a living thing, thick with intimacy.
Violet swallows hard, her pulse fluttering in her throat as she meets both their gazes steadily.
The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt—long discarded somewhere between the terrace’s stone pavers and the tangled sheets—no longer feels like something she’s missing. The only fabric that matters now is the thin barrier of Sascha’s borrowed shirt against her skin, the rough palm of his hand still tracing slow circles on her thigh.
“I want to know you,” Violet says softly, her voice barely above the whisper of Mediterranean waves crashing against the cliffs below. “Both of you. Not just tonight, but who you are when the cameras aren’t watching. When the noise fades away.”
"I want to know your thoughts, feelings, your desires." Violet continues softly, her gaze steady on both of them. "Not just the public versions. The real ones."
Sascha’s thumb still traces small circles on her thigh, his golden eyes darkening at her request. The borrowed Melbourne shirt stretches across his chest as he shifts slightly closer, his voice rough when he speaks. "You realize we’re men who make their living by hiding who we really are, don’t you?"
The candle between his fingers bucks violently, the flame stretching toward the ceiling like a desperate thing. The flickering light makes the golden stubble catch fire across his sharp cheekbones, turning them into molten gold.
Sascha exhales through his nose, his thumb pressing just slightly harder against the sensitive skin of her thigh before he answers. His German voice is rough with something raw—almost vulnerable. “You want honesty? Violet, I don’t know how to be honest without breaking things.”
Behind Sascha, Andrey exhales sharply through his nose, the Russian in his voice edged with something dark. His reddish-blonde stubble bristles as he tilts his head, studying Violet with an intensity that makes her breath catch. “He’s right,” Andrey murmurs, his voice rough as gravel. “We’re built to conceal.
It’s the only way we survive the fire.” Sascha’s fingers tighten around Violet’s thigh, his calloused thumb pressing into the sensitive curve just above her knee. The borrowed Melbourne shirt—long discarded—clings to him in all the wrong places, damp where her body pressed against his earlier.
Andrey exhales sharply through his nose behind her, his peppermint-scented breath warm against the shell of her ear. The Russian in his voice is rough, edged with something unfamiliar—protection, maybe even vulnerability.
“You want to know the real us?” Andrey murmurs in Russian, the words wrapping around her like smoke.
“Then bridge the gap yourself, malyshka... ask the questions that make our masks slip. But be ready for what slips out.”
The candle between Sascha’s fingers flutters, casting wild shadows that stretch his sharp cheekbones into Gothic relief, golden stubble catching fire in the flicker. The borrowed Melbourne shirt clings to him, damp where their bodies pressed together earlier. Violet feels the weight of their stares—gold and blue, heated with something raw and unguarded.
She swallows hard, the pulse in her throat jumping beneath Sascha’s rough palm resting on the dip of her waist.
"Tell me about when you both first became friends. You've known each other since junior tennis days right?" Violet asks.
She leans back slightly, resting her weight against Andrey’s chest as she turns to face Sascha more fully. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt—long discarded somewhere between terrace stone and tangled sheets—no longer exists in her mind. Only Sascha’s golden stubble catching candlelight like scattered embers, the rough calloused pad of his thumb still tracing slow circles on her thigh, and Andrey’s steady warmth against her back.
Sascha exhales through his nose, golden eyes flickering between the two of them before settling back on Violet’s face.
The candle between his fingers flutters violently, casting long shadows that stretch his sharp cheekbones into dramatic relief, golden stubble catching fire in the flicker. The borrowed Melbourne shirt—long discarded—clings to him in all the wrong places, damp where their bodies pressed together earlier.
Chapter excerpt truncated at the edge.