Chapter 32: Sleep, rest and conversations
Violet’s breathing evens out and she is now asleep between Sascha and Andrey.
The room holds its breath with her—the only sounds the slow rhythm of three sleeping hearts and the occasional whisper of Mediterranean winds through the half-open terrace doors. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt is long gone, lost somewhere between champagne glasses and tangled sheets, leaving only the warm press of Sascha’s palm against Violet’s waist and Andrey’s fingers tangled gently in her long brown hair.
Sascha studies her sleeping face, the golden stubble along his sharp jawline catching the morning light streaming through the terrace doors. The skin beneath his rough thumb still trembles slightly with each slow exhale, though his own breathing has settled into perfect sync with hers. He shifts infinitesimally closer, his thigh brushing against hers beneath the thin blanket now pooled at their feet.
"She looks so peaceful." Sascha says softly so he doesn't wake Violet.
His voice is rough with something raw. His golden stubble catches the morning light streaming through the half-open terrace doors. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt is long gone, replaced by the warmth of skin against skin. His rough thumb still traces slow circles against Violet’s waist, though he keeps the pressure light, as if he’s afraid of disturbing her peace. The Monte Carlo morning light spills across the floor in golden ribbons, turning the reddish-blonde stubble along Andrey’s jaw into scattered embers. The Russian’s chest rises and falls in slow rhythm against Violet’s back, his fingers still tangled gently in her long brown hair.
The reddish-blonde stubble along his sharp jawline catches the morning light streaming through the half-open terrace doors, casting dramatic shadows across his sharp cheekbones. He exhales quietly through his nose, the faintest trace of peppermint and smoke clinging to his breath.
“She does,” Andrey murmurs softly in return. His voice is rough but not unkind. “Like something rare and breakable.” The Russian word for “rare” lingers between them, heavy with meaning. He shifts infinitesimally closer, his thigh pressing firmer against Violet’s beneath the thin blanket now pooled at their feet.
The balcony beyond is already bathed in golden morning light, the Mediterranean Sea shimmering like scattered diamonds below.
Violet exhales softly in her sleep, her dark lashes fluttering once against her cheeks before settling into perfect stillness.
The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt is long gone—replaced by the warmth of two bodies pressed against hers, the thin blanket pooled at their feet like discarded confetti after a celebration neither of them saw coming.
Sascha studies her with an intensity that makes the golden stubble along his sharp jawline catch the morning light like scattered embers. His rough thumb still traces slow circles against her waist, though the pressure is softer now, as if he’s afraid she might dissolve beneath his touch. The spicy citrus of his cologne lingers in the air between them, mingling with the faint salt scent drifting through the half-open terrace doors.
Violet stirs slightly in her sleep, her long brown hair spilling across Sascha’s chest like a dark waterfall. His golden stubble catches the morning light streaming through the terrace doors, turning his sharp cheekbones into living sculpture.
Andrey shifts infinitesimally behind her, his reddish-blonde stubble brushing against Violet’s shoulder as he tilts his head to press a slow, deliberate kiss to the sensitive skin just beneath her ear. The gesture is possessive, but gentle—like he’s afraid she might disappear if he lets go.
“You’re staring,” Andrey murmurs, his voice rough with amusement.
His reddish-blonde stubble brushes against Violet’s shoulder as he tilts his head, studying Sascha’s face with a knowing glint in his blue eyes. The faintest trace of peppermint lingers on his breath, mixed with the warm scent of Sascha’s cologne—something spicy and citrusy that clings to the damp fabric of his skin.
Sascha exhales through his nose, the golden stubble along his sharp jawline catching the morning light like scattered embers. “Can’t help it,” he admits, his voice rough but not unkind.
“She’s…” He trails off, searching for the right word as his rough thumb pauses its slow circles against Violet’s waist. He studies her sleeping face, the golden stubble along his sharp jawline catching the morning light streaming through the terrace doors. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt is long gone, replaced by the warmth of skin against skin, and his rough palm against her waist feels as natural as breathing now. “Unexpected.”
Behind Violet, Andrey exhales sharply through his nose, his reddish-blonde stubble brushing against her shoulder as he tilts his head to press another slow, deliberate kiss to the sensitive skin just below her ear.
This time, his voice is rough with something darkly amused as he murmurs in Russian:
“Zakoldovannaya. Even when she sleeps, she casts spells.”
Sascha watches the interaction with quiet intensity, his golden eyes crinkling at the corners as Violet exhales softly in her sleep, her dark brown lashes fluttering once before settling into perfect stillness. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt is long gone—lost somewhere between champagne glasses and tangled sheets—replaced by the warmth of two bodies pressed against hers. The thin blanket now pooled at their feet like discarded confetti after a celebration neither of them saw coming.
His rough thumb still traces slow circles against Violet’s waist, though the pressure is softer now, as if he’s afraid she might dissolve beneath his touch.
"I don't want to let her down," Sascha says. "I want to give this thing with the three of us a go, for her." Sascha continues, more softly this time. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt is long gone—replaced by the warmth of skin against skin.
The Monte Carlo morning light spills across the floor in golden ribbons, painting Sascha’s sharp cheekbones in liquid gold. Violet exhales softly in her sleep, her long brown hair spilling across Sascha’s chest like a dark waterfall, the borrowed Melbourne Open shirt long gone—replaced by the warmth of skin against skin.
Andrey shifts infinitesimally behind her, his reddish-blonde stubble brushing against Violet’s shoulder as he tilts his head to press another slow, deliberate kiss to the sensitive skin just beneath her ear.
The gesture is possessive, but gentle—like he’s afraid she might vanish if he lets go. The faintest trace of peppermint lingers on his breath, mingled with the warm scent of Sascha’s cologne—something spicy and citrusy that clings to the damp fabric of his skin.
Andrey answers Sascha.
"And I don't want to break what she's started. So we handle this carefully. No games. No egos." His voice is low, rough with earnestness. His reddish-blonde stubble brushes against Violet's shoulder again as he tips his forehead to rest against the top of her head, inhaling the vanilla and bergamot scent of her shampoo mixed with the salt of the Mediterranean morning breeze drifting through the terrace doors.
The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt long gone, Sascha finds himself hypnotised by the sight of Violet's long brown hair fanned across his chest like spilled ink on parchment.
The Monte Carlo morning light spills across her sleeping form in golden ribbons, painting her sharp cheekbones in liquid gold. He absently traces slow patterns against her waist with his rough thumb, the simple act grounding him in a way no trophy or victory ever could.
Beside them, Andrey exhales sharply through his nose, his reddish-blonde stubble brushing against Violet's shoulder as he shifts infinitesimally closer. The faintest trace of peppermint lingers on his breath. "You're both thinking too much," he murmurs, his voice rough with amusement.
"Why ruin a perfectly good morning?"
His reddish-blonde stubble brushes lightly against Violet's forehead as he tilts his head to press a slow kiss to her temple, the warmth of his breath carrying that familiar peppermint scent down to her skin. The gesture is deliberate and possessive, but tender in a way he didn't know he could be. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt long gone, Sascha watches the interaction with quiet intensity, his rough thumb still tracing slow circles against Violet's waist in hypnotic patterns that make the morning light dance across the angles of her face.
Violet stirs between them, her dark lashes fluttering once before settling into perfect stillness again.
"She's so beautiful like this. I can't believe she wants both of us." Sascha says to Andrey in a low tone, his voice rough with something like awe.
Andrey raises an eyebrow, his reddish-blonde stubble catching the morning light as he tilts his head to study Violet's sleeping face. "Something tells me she didn’t plan any of it either." His voice is rough with amusement as he shifts infinitesimally closer to Violet, his thigh pressing firmer against hers beneath the thin blanket.
The faintest trace of peppermint lingers on his breath, mingled with the warm scent of Sascha’s cologne. "You’re both overthinking. She chose us, remember? Or at least, she’s sleeping with us, which is basically the same thing in this case." His reddish blonde stubble brushes against Violet’s shoulder as he tilts his head, studying Sascha with a knowing glint in his blue eyes.
"You're something else, you know that? Always overcomplicating things."
Sascha exhales sharply, the golden stubble along his sharp jawline catching the morning light streaming through the terrace doors. "I'm not—" he starts, but stops himself, his rough thumb still tracing slow, absent circles against Violet's waist. The simple act grounds him in a way no trophy ever could.
"She chose us," Andrey interrupts, his voice rough but not unkind. His fingers tangle gently in Violet's long brown hair, the strands silky against his calloused fingertips.
"Violet chose us. Not just for a night but for more than that." Andrey continues , his voice low and steady, rough with conviction. His reddish-blonde stubble brushes against Violet's shoulder as he tilts his head to press another slow kiss to the sensitive skin just below her ear. The gesture is possessive, but gentle—like he's afraid she might vanish if he lets go. The faintest trace of peppermint lingers on his breath, mingled with the warm scent of Sascha's cologne—something spicy and citrusy that clings to the damp fabric of his skin.
"You're both thinking too much," he murmurs, his voice rough with amusement mixed with something deeper. "Why ruin a perfectly good morning? She’s here.
Really here.
Violet’s eyes snap open.
For a single, disorienting heartbeat, she doesn’t know where she is—only that the morning light streaming through terrace doors is far too bright, too gold, too *warm*. Then memory rushes back in fragments: champagne spilling down Sascha’s chest, Andrey’s voice in her ear, the borrowed Melbourne shirt discarded on cool marble, the weight of two bodies pressing her between them.
She’s in Sascha’s house in Monte Carlo, wrapped in sheets that smell like citrus and salt and something indefinably *male*, her skin still humming from the slow, deliberate touches—kisses that weren’t just kisses, but promises.
Her breath hitches.
Violet’s fingers tighten around the thin sheet pooling at her waist, the fabric suddenly too hot, too coarse. The borrowed Melbourne shirt is long gone—it had been warm in just the right places. But Sascha’s shirt? Sascha’s shirt is gone too. And Andrey’s? Well. She swallows. The evidence is all around her.
Sascha’s golden stubble is shadowed now, the Monte Carlo morning light catching the angles of his face in sharp relief as he watches her wake. His rough thumb pauses its slow circles against her waist—not because he’s stopped, but because he’s waiting. For what, she doesn’t know. Maybe for permission. Maybe for the next move.
Violet swallows again, her throat suddenly dry. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt long gone, replaced by the warmth of two bodies pressed against hers. The thin blanket now pools at their feet like discarded confetti after a celebration neither of them saw coming.
"....I thought I dreamed last night..." Violet says, her voice rough with sleep and disbelief . Her dark brown lashes flutter once before settling into perfect stillness again.
Violet exhales softly through parted lips, the morning light catching the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to her collarbone from the night before. She swallows again, her throat suddenly dry.
Violet gets a little emotional.
"I'm glad both of you are still here." Violet says, her voice a little shaky, though she tries to hide it with a laugh that comes out more like a nervous hiccup. The sheets pool at her waist as she sits up, the borrowed fabric long gone. It's just her bare skin pressed against the soft cotton of the blanket now, the warmth between her thighs still pulsing with the memory of gentle hands and harder ones, of whispered promises in German and Russian that she somehow understood perfectly.
Sascha watches her with those golden eyes, golden stubble casting shadows in the morning light that streams through the half-open terrace doors. His rough thumb traces slow patterns against her waist now that she's awake, the simple act grounding them both.
“We wouldn’t have left anyway,” Sascha murmurs, his voice rough but certain. The golden stubble along his sharp jawline catches the Monte Carlo morning light like scattered embers, softening the sharp angles of his face in a way that makes her chest tighten. “Not after last night.”
Andrey shifts just enough to press another slow kiss to the sensitive skin beneath her ear, his reddish-blonde stubble brushing against her shoulder. The faint trace of peppermint lingers on his breath, mingled with the warm scent of Sascha’s cologne—something spicy and citrusy that clings to the damp fabric of their skin.
Violet shivers at the contact, her breathing hitching once before she forces herself to steady it.
“You’re overdressed,” Violet says, her voice softer than she intends, but the words come out naturally, surprising even herself. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt long gone, replaced by the rough heat of Sascha’s palm against her waist and Andrey’s fingers tangled gently in her long brown hair. The evidence of their presence is still everywhere—in the way the sheets cling to their bodies, in the way her skin still hums where they touched her last night.
Sascha exhales through his nose, the golden stubble along his sharp jawline catching the morning light streaming through the terrace doors.
“I could say the same about you.”
He leans in slightly, close enough that Violet can feel the heat radiating off his skin, close enough that she catches the faintest trace of his cologne—something spicy and citrusy that clings to the damp fabric of his skin. His rough thumb traces slow circles against her waist, the simple act grounding them both in a way that makes her pulse quicken.
Andrey shifts between them, the reddish-blonde stubble along his sharp jawline catching the morning light like scattered embers. “You’re not overdressed, Malyshka,” he murmurs, his voice rough with amusement.
The reddish-blonde stubble along his sharp jawline catches the morning light as he tilts his head, studying her with a knowing smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
“No, you’re not,” Sascha agrees, his golden stubble shadowing the sharp angles of his face. His rough thumb still traces slow circles against Violet’s waist, the simple touch grounding them both as the morning light spills across the floor in golden ribbons, painting everything in liquid gold. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt is long gone—replaced by the warmth of two bodies pressed against hers.
Her fingers tighten around the thin sheet pooling at her waist, the fabric suddenly too hot, too coarse against her sensitized skin. The borrowed Melbourne shirt long gone, replaced by the rough heat of Sascha's palm against her waist and Andrey's fingers tangled gently in her long brown hair.
"We've been waiting to give you a proper good morning." Sascha says.
"We want to show you just how much we love you." Andrey adds.
His voice is low, rough with sincerity, his reddish-blonde stubble catching the morning light as he tilts his head to press another slow kiss to the sensitive skin beneath Violet’s ear. The gesture is deliberate and tender, possessive in a way that makes her skin burn where his breath lingers.
The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt is long gone—replaced by the warmth of two bodies pressed against hers, the thin sheet pooling at her waist now a fragile barrier between them and the world beyond Sascha’s house in Monte Carlo. The Mediterranean morning light spills across the floor in golden ribbons, painting the angles of their faces in liquid gold.
Violet's bare skin glows where the sunlight touches her collarbone, the faintest sheen of sweat still clinging to her skin from the night before. Her breath catches in her throat as Sascha leans closer, the citrus and salt of his cologne wrapping around her senses like a warm, invisible blanket.
"You don’t have to say anything," he murmurs, his rough thumb tracing slow, deliberate circles against her waist. The simple act grounds them both in a way that makes her pulse quicken. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt is long gone—replaced by the warmth of skin against skin and the thin sheet pooling at her waist now a fragile barrier between them and the world beyond Sascha’s house in Monte Carlo.
Violet wonders what they want to do with her. She bites her lip.
Sascha’s rough thumb still traces slow circles against her waist, the simple act grounding them both in a way that makes her pulse quicken. His golden stubble catches the morning light streaming through the half-open terrace doors, softening the sharp angles of his face as he leans closer, close enough that she can feel the heat radiating off his skin.
“We want to keep you,” Sascha murmurs, his voice rough with sincerity. The faintest trace of citrus and salt lingers on his breath, mingled with the warm scent of his cologne—something spicy that clings to the damp fabric of their skin. “For more than just this weekend.”
Violet’s breath hitches once before she forces herself to steady it, her fingers tightening around the thin sheet pooling at her waist.
The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt long gone, replaced only by the rough heat of Sascha’s palm against her waist and Andrey’s fingers tangled in her long brown hair.
“First, you’ll let us take you to breakfast in bed,” Sascha murmurs, his voice rough but unwavering as his golden stubble catches the Monte Carlo morning light streaming through the half-open terrace doors. “No interruptions. No phones. No interviews. Just coffee, fresh pastries, and us telling you exactly what we want from this.” The citrus and salt of his cologne wraps around her senses, grounding her in the moment.
Andrey shifts infinitesimally closer, his reddish-blonde stubble brushing against Violet’s shoulder as he tilts his head to press a slow, deliberate kiss to the sensitive skin just beneath her ear. His voice is rough with promise.
"And Malyshka—" the Russian word for 'little one' rolls off his tongue like honeyed smoke. "—we want your answer before your flight out of Nice on Monday."
Violet’s breath catches. Not just because of the words themselves, but because of how they’re delivered: no pressure, no games, just two men who’ve spent years commanding stadiums now speaking to her with the quiet certainty of people who’ve seen the future and decided she belongs in it.
The sheet pools at her waist as she shifts, suddenly hyper-aware of her own nakedness—not from shame, but from the way they’re looking at her now.
Like she’s something precious they’ve been entrusted with. Like she’s the first sunrise they’ve ever seen.
“Breakfast. Pastries. No interruptions.” Sascha repeats, his voice rough with promise. His golden stubble catches the Monte Carlo morning light streaming through the half-open terrace doors, casting sharp shadows across his face. He exhales through his nose, the faintest trace of citrus and salt lingering on his breath as he leans closer, close enough that Violet can feel the heat radiating off his skin. His rough thumb still traces slow circles against her waist, grounding her in the moment.
Violet’s breath catches as she watches Sascha’s golden stubble catch and scatter the morning light streaming through the half-open terrace doors.
Violet exhales softly, her throat suddenly dry. The borrowed Melbourne shirt long gone, replaced only by the soft cotton of the blanket pooling at their feet like discarded confetti after a celebration neither of them saw coming.
“I don’t know what to say,” Violet whispers, her voice trembling slightly despite her efforts to steady it.
Her fingers tighten around the thin sheet pooling at her waist, the fabric suddenly feeling too thin, too revealing. The borrowed Melbourne shirt is long gone—replaced only by the rough heat of Sascha’s palm against her waist and Andrey’s fingers tangled in her long brown hair. The Monte Carlo morning light spills across the floor in golden ribbons, painting everything in liquid gold, but all she can feel is the weight of their gazes pressing down on her like warm, invisible hands.
Sascha’s rough thumb still traces slow circles against her waist, grounding her in the moment—but for the first time, his touch feels like a question rather than a statement. His golden stubble catches the morning light streaming through the half-open terrace doors, softening the sharp angles of his face as he studies her with quiet intensity.
"You don’t need to say anything right now," Sascha murmurs, his voice rough but gentle. “Just think about it. We’re not going anywhere.”
Andrey shifts infinitesimally closer, his reddish-blonde stubble brushing against her shoulder as he tilts his head to press another slow kiss to the sensitive skin just beneath her ear. "We want you to stay, Malyshka," he murmurs in Russian, the words rolling off his tongue like honeyed smoke.
Violet exhales shakily, her fingers still clutching the thin sheet around her waist.
"I want that too." Violet says in a quiet voice, more confident than she feels. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt long gone, replaced by the warmth of Sascha’s palm against her waist and Andrey’s fingers tangled in her long brown hair. The Monte Carlo morning light spills across the floor in golden ribbons, painting everything in liquid gold. She swallows hard as the sheet pools at her waist, suddenly hyper-aware of her own nakedness.
Sascha exhales through his nose, golden stubble catching the morning light like scattered embers as he leans in closer, close enough that Violet can feel the heat radiating off his skin. His rough thumb traces slow, deliberate circles against her waist as he studies her with quiet intensity.
The citrus and salt of his cologne wraps around her senses like an invisible embrace, anchoring her to this moment.
Andrey shifts infinitesimally closer, his reddish-blonde stubble brushing against Violet’s shoulder as he tilts his head to press another slow kiss to the sensitive skin beneath her ear. His voice carries that familiar rasp, thick with something raw and unguarded.
"Then let us show you," he murmurs, the Russian word velvet on his tongue. The warmth of his breath against her skin sends an involuntary shiver through her body. "No time for clothes anyway."
Violet laughs softly, the sound trembling slightly.
Her fingers tighten on the rustling sheet, knuckles pale where she grips it against her bare chest. "No time for clothes?" she repeats, tilting her head to meet his gaze while the morning light catches the playful spark in her dark eyes. Her long brown hair spills forward like a dark curtain, framing Sascha’s golden stubble as he leans even closer. The citrus salt of his cologne wraps around her senses like a second skin.
Sascha exhales through his nose, his golden stubble catching the Monte Carlo sun like scattered embers. "You heard him," he murmurs, his voice rough but amused now.
"We're making breakfast in bed." The citrus and salt of his cologne wraps around her senses like an invisible thread pulling her closer. His rough thumb still traces slow, deliberate circles against her waist, grounding her even as his words promise chaos.
Violet swallows hard, her throat suddenly dry as the Monte Carlo morning light spills across the floor in golden ribbons, painting their bodies in liquid gold. The sheet pools at her waist, the borrowed Melbourne Open shirt long gone—replaced by the warmth of skin against skin and the knowledge that these men have spent hours memorizing every inch of her.
She exhales shakily, her dark lashes fluttering once before settling into perfect stillness again.
Violet knows she should probably feel overwhelmed by everything—waking up between two of the most famous tennis players in the world, their bodies still warm against hers, their sheets tangled around their legs like discarded promises. But all she feels is a strange, fluttering certainty that she’s exactly where she’s meant to be.
"Breakfast in bed sounds perfect," Violet says, her voice softer than intended but sincere. She shifts slightly, the thin sheet slipping down to reveal more of her bare shoulder, the golden morning light catching the faintest sheen of sweat still clinging to her skin from the night before.
Her fingers flex against the rustling fabric, knuckles still pale where she grips it against her chest, though not from fear—from the sheer overwhelming rightness of this moment.
Sascha exhales sharply through his nose, the golden stubble along his sharp jawline catching the Monte Carlo morning light like scattered embers. His rough thumb pauses its slow circles against her waist, the simple act sending heat pooling low in her stomach. The citrus and salt of his cologne lingers in the air between them, mingling with the faint peppermint on Andrey’s breath as the Russian shifts infinitesimally closer, his reddish-blonde stubble brushing against her shoulder.
Violet presses a small, grateful smile against Sascha’s chest, her hair spilling in dark waves across the fine fabric of his open shirt.
“You’re sure about this?” Sascha asks, his voice rougher than intended, golden eyes searching hers with an intensity that makes her breath hitch. His rough thumb still traces slow circles against her waist, grounding her even as his words promise chaos.
The citrus and salt of his col ogne wraps around her senses like an invisible embrace, anchoring her to this moment.
Violet exhales softly, her dark lashes fluttering once before settling again. She tilts her head up, studying Sascha’s face in the golden morning light. The angles of his sharp cheekbones catch the light in sharp relief, and for the first time, she notices the faintest scar just above his left eyebrow—something he must have gotten in a match years ago. The realization that she’s noticing scars instead of flaws makes her stomach flip.
“I’m sure,” she whispers, her voice steadier now.
The borrowed Melbourne shirt long gone, replaced only by the coarse fabric of Sascha’s jersey against her bare skin. The Monte Carlo morning light spills across his chest in golden ribbons, painting the faint scar above his eyebrow in liquid gold—something permanent, something real.
Andrey shifts infinitesimally closer, his reddish-blonde stubble brushing against the shell of Violet’s ear as he cups her chin with his palm, tilting her face toward him. His thumb traces the sensitive skin beneath her lower lip with a gentleness that belies his competitive reputation.
"Good," he murmurs, his voice rough with approval. The faintest trace of peppermint lingers between them as he studies her face with an intensity that makes her pulse quicken.
Violet swallows hard, her skin tingling where his calloused fingertips meet the softness of her jawline. The borrowed Melbourne shirt long gone, she's hyper-aware of every point of contact—the rough pad of his thumb against her lip, the warmth of Sascha's body pressed against her side, the way Andrey's reddish-blonde stubble brushes against her cheek when he tilts his head closer.
The Monte Carlo morning light paints golden stripes across the floor, but all she can focus on is the way his blue eyes darken when her tongue darts out to wet her lips.
"You taste like morning," Andrey murmurs, his voice rough with something raw as his fingers tighten slightly around her chin. The faint mint on his breath mixes with the citrus salt of Sascha's cologne—an intoxicating combination that makes her head spin.
Sascha's rough thumb still traces slow circles against her waist, the simple act grounding her even as his words promise chaos.
He leans forward, his golden stubble catching the Monte Carlo morning light like scattered embers, and presses a slow kiss to the sensitive skin just beneath Violet’s ear.
Andrey shifts infinitesimally closer, his reddish-blonde stubble brushing against her shoulder as he tilts his head to capture her mouth in a kiss that’s equal parts teasing and claiming. His tongue slides between her lips with slow, deliberate precision, tasting her like she’s the first sunrise he’s ever seen.
There’s no rush in the way he claims her—just the quiet certainty of a man who’s waited far too long for something real. His fingers tangle in her long brown hair, the silky strands catching between his calloused fingertips as he tilts her head back just enough to deepen the kiss. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt is long gone; all that remains is the warmth of skin against skin, the thin sheet pooled uselessly at their feet.
Violet moans into the kiss, her fingers flying to Sascha’s chest before sliding up to grip his shoulders. His rough thumb still traces slow circles against her waist, grounding her even as Andrey’s mouth moves over hers with devastating precision.
The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt is long gone—replaced only by the warmth of Sascha’s palm against her waist, the thin sheet pooled uselessly at their feet. Violet’s fingers dig into Sascha’s shoulders, her nails catching on the fine fabric of his open shirt as she arches into the kiss, her bare skin pressing against the rough heat of his chest.
Andrey’s breath hitches against her lips before breaking the kiss just long enough to murmur, “Trust us, Malyshka.”
His reddish-blonde stubble brushes against her cheek as he tilts his head, studying her with a dark intensity that sends a shiver down her spine.
The peppermint on his breath mixes with the citrus-salt of Sascha’s cologne, creating an intoxicating blend that makes her head spin. Violet swallows hard, her pulse quickening as his blue eyes darken with something raw and unguarded.
Andrey’s fingers tighten slightly around her chin, the rough pad of his thumb tracing the sensitive skin beneath her lower lip with slow, deliberate precision. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt is long gone—replaced only by the warmth of Sascha’s palm against her waist and the thin sheet pooling uselessly at their feet.
Sascha exhales through his nose, golden stubble catching the Monte Carlo morning light like scattered embers.
His rough thumb slows its tracing against her waist, pausing entirely when Andrey’s fingers tighten around her chin. The citrus and salt of his cologne wraps around her senses like a second skin, grounding her in the moment even as the world seems to spin beneath them.
Violet arches into the kiss instinctively, her bare skin pressing against the rough heat of Sascha’s chest. Her nails catch on the fine fabric of his open shirt as she grips his shoulders.
"We're going to give you everything Violet." Sascha murmurs against her skin, breaking the kiss to trail his lips down her throat. His golden stubble scratches gently against her collarbone, sending a shiver through her body. The citrus and salt of his cologne wraps around her senses like an invisible embrace. "No games. No masks. Just us."
Andrey shifts infinitesimally closer, his reddish-blonde stubble catching the morning light as he tilts his head to press another slow kiss to the sensitive skin just below her ear.
His voice is rough with something raw when he says, “We’ll give you all the time you need. No rushing, no pressure. Just breakfast in bed, and whatever comes after.”
Sascha exhales through his nose, golden stubble catching and scattering the Monte Carlo sunlight as he leans in close enough that his breath stirs the loose tendrils of Violet’s long brown hair. The citrus and salt of his cologne lingers between them, warm and grounding. His rough thumb pauses its slow circles against her waist, not because he’s stopped, but because he’s waiting—waiting to see if she’ll say yes to this moment, to this quiet promise.
Violet arches into Sascha’s chest instinctively, her bare skin pressing against the rough heat of him. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt is long gone, along with every other barrier between them. The thin sheet pools uselessly at their feet, forgotten in the golden spill of Monte Carlo morning light.
Violet’s bare legs shift against the crisp cotton sheets, the cool fabric doing nothing to calm the fire racing beneath her skin. She can feel Sascha’s rough thumb still tracing slow, absent circles against her waist—anchoring her, grounding her even as the world tilts beneath her.
A soft, distracted laugh escapes her. "Breakfast in bed sounds... dangerous."
Her dark eyes flick between them—Sascha’s golden stubble catching the sunlight like scattered embers, Andrey’s reddish-blonde stubble brushing against her shoulder as he tilts his head, studying her with that knowing glint in his blue eyes.
The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt is long gone, replaced only by the warmth of two bodies pressed against hers, the thin sheet having slipped away completely now.
Violet exhales softly, her fingers flexing against Sascha’s chest as she tries to steady herself. “Breakfast in bed sounds… dangerous,” she murmurs, her voice trembling slightly despite her best efforts to sound confident. The Monte Carlo morning light spills across the floor in golden ribbons, painting their tangled bodies in liquid gold, but all she can focus on is the way their touches—hands on her waist, fingers tangled in her hair—feel like promises carved in stone.
She swallows hard, her throat suddenly dry.
Violet exhales shakily, her dark lashes fluttering once before settling again. "Dangerous how?" she asks, her voice softer than intended but laced with curiosity. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt long gone, she's hyper-aware of every point of contact—the rough pad of Andrey's thumb against her chin, Sascha's golden stubble grazing her collarbone as he leans in closer, the citrus and salt of his cologne wrapping around her senses like an invisible thread.
Andrey's reddish-blonde stubble brushes against her shoulder as he tilts his head, a slow smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
The faintest trace of peppermint lingers on his breath when he murmurs, "Dangerous because we’ll feed you, then we’ll feed you again."
His thumb traces slow circles on her chin before sliding down to the sensitive skin of her throat, pressing just firmly enough to make her gasp. The borrowed Melbourne shirt long gone, Violet’s bare skin is hyper-aware of every inch of contact—the coarse fabric of Sascha’s shirt against her collarbone, Andrey’s rough fingertips against her throat.
Sascha exhales through his nose, his golden stubble catching the morning light as he leans in, close enough that his breath stirs the loose tendrils of her dark brown hair.
The citrus and salt of his cologne lingers between them—warm, grounding, familiar. His rough thumb still traces slow, absent circles against her waist, not rushing her, not demanding. Just waiting. "We'll feed you pancakes," he murmurs, his voice rough but gentle. "Then we’ll feed you fruit. Then we’ll feed you *other things*." The last words roll off his tongue like a promise, low and deliberate, his golden eyes crinkling at the corners as he watches her reaction.
Violet swallows hard, her pulse fluttering in her throat where Andrey’s thumb still rests, pressing just firmly enough to make her breath hitch.
The Monte Carlo morning light spills across the floor in liquid gold, painting the angles of their faces in sharp relief—the golden stubble of Sascha’s jaw catching the light like scattered embers, the reddish-blonde stubble of Andrey’s cheekbone catching flecks of brightness as he tilts his head closer.
She exhales shakily, her fingers curling into the fabric of Sascha’s open shirt. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt is long gone—replaced only by the warmth of their bodies pressed against hers, the thin sheet long since abandoned in favor of skin against skin.
“Other things?” Violet repeats, her voice softer than intended but laced with a breathless curiosity that betrays her.
Her dark brown lashes flutter once before settling into stillness, her long brown hair spilling across Sascha’s chest like a dark waterfall. The morning light streaming through the terrace doors catches the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to her skin, painting everything in liquid gold—especially the way her throat works as she swallows.
Andrey shifts infinitesimally closer, his reddish-blonde stubble catching the Monte Carlo sunlight as he tilts his head to press another slow kiss to the sensitive skin just beneath her ear.
His voice drops to a rough murmur, the Russian word rolling off his tongue with deliberate slowness. "Da, *malyshka*. Other things." His breath is warm with the faintest trace of peppermint, mingling with the citrus and salt of Sascha's cologne in a way that makes Violet's stomach flutter.
Sascha's rough thumb pauses its slow tracing against her waist, the simple act grounding her as his golden stubble scratches gently against her collarbone when he leans in to trail his lips down her throat. His voice carries the quiet certainty of a man who has spent years commanding stadiums now speaking to her with something raw and unguarded. "What *other* things would you like us to feed you, Violet?"
Andrey shifts infinitesimally closer, his reddish-blonde stubble catching the morning light as he tilts his head. His thumb traces slow circles on her chin before sliding down to the sensitive skin of her throat, pressing just firmly enough to make her breath hitch. His voice carries the rasp of a man who understands exactly what she needs before she does. "Tell us.
No shame. No games." Sascha’s voice is rough but gentle, his golden stubble catching the morning light as he leans in closer, close enough that the citrus-salt of his cologne wraps around her senses like a second skin.
Violet exhales shakily, her throat working as she swallows.
The Monte Carlo morning light spills across the floor in liquid gold, painting everything in its glow—especially the way her bare skin catches the brightness where two bodies press against hers. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt is long gone, replaced only by the warmth of their bodies and the thin sheet long since abandoned.
She licks her lips, her dark eyes flicking between them—Sascha’s golden stubble catching the light like scattered embers, Andrey’s reddish-blonde stubble brushing against her shoulder as he tilts his head closer. His peppermint-scented breath mixes with Sascha’s citrus and salt cologne, creating an intoxicating blend that makes her head spin.
Violet exhales shakily, her nails digging into Sascha’s chest as she tries to steady herself. Her bare legs shift against the crisp cotton sheets, the loose fabric doing nothing to calm the fire racing beneath her skin.
“Tell us what you want, *malyshka*,” Andrey murmurs, his voice rough and low. His reddish-blonde stubble brushes against her shoulder as he tilts his head, his blue eyes darkening with something raw. His thumb still traces slow circles on her throat, pressing just firmly enough to make her gasp.
"You...both of you." Violet says, her voice trembling slightly but sincere. Her dark brown lashes flutter once before settling again, long hair spilling across Sascha’s chest like dark silk. The golden morning light catches the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to her collarbone from the night before, painting everything in liquid gold.
Sascha exhales sharply through his nose, the golden stubble along his sharp jawline catching the Monte Carlo sunlight like scattered embers. The citrus and salt of his cologne lingers in the air between them, mingling with the faint peppermint on Andrey’s breath.
Sascha exhales through his nose, his golden stubble catching the Monte Carlo morning light like scattered embers as he leans closer, close enough that Violet can feel the heat radiating off his skin.
“Then you’ll have us,” Sascha murmurs, his voice rough but certain. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt is long gone—replaced only by the warmth of their bodies pressed against hers, the thin sheet pooled uselessly at their feet. The Monte Carlo morning light spills across the floor in golden ribbons, painting everything in liquid gold, especially the way his golden eyes darken with something raw as he studies her face.
His rough thumb still traces slow circles against her waist, grounding her in the moment despite the chaos of emotions swirling inside her chest.
Violet exhales shakily, her fingers flexing against Sascha's chest as she tries not to tremble. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt long gone, she's hyper-aware of every point of contact—the rough pad of Andrey's thumb pressing gently against her throat, the way Sascha's golden stubble scratches against her collarbone when he leans in closer still.
"Andrey..." she breathes, her voice barely more than a whisper.
The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt is long gone, just like every inhibition from last night. The Monte Carlo morning light continues its golden dance across Sascha’s chest, painting his golden stubble in scattered embers, while the faint peppermint scent from Andrey’s breath mixes with Sascha’s citrus-salt cologne—an intoxicating blend that makes her head spin. The thin sheet has long since slipped away completely, abandoned in favor of skin against skin and the rough heat of two bodies pressed against hers.
Andrey’s thumb presses just a fraction firmer against her throat, his reddish-blonde stubble catching the sunlight as he tilts his head closer.
The faintest trace of peppermint lingers on his breath when he murmurs, “You have us, *malyshka*.”
Sascha exhales through his nose, golden stubble catching the morning light like scattered embers. His rough thumb pauses its slow tracing against Violet’s waist—not because he’s stopped, but because he’s waiting. His voice carries the rough certainty of a man who has spent years commanding stadiums now speaking to her with something raw and unguarded. “No rushing.”
The citrus and salt of his cologne wraps around her senses like an invisible thread pulling her closer.
Silence hums between them, thick with the weight of unspoken things—the kind of silence that fills entire stadiums between points in a match, heavy with tension and possibility. Violet’s breath is shallow, her pulse a staccato rhythm against the pad of Andrey’s thumb still pressed lightly to her throat.
"Let's feed you first." Sascha murmurs, his voice rough but gentle, golden stubble catching the Monte Carlo morning light like scattered embers. He shifts upward, pressing a slow kiss to the sensitive skin where Violet's pulse hammers at the base of her throat. The citrus and salt of his cologne wraps around her senses, warm and familiar, as his rough thumb traces slow, deliberate circles against her waist.
"Pancakes sound delicious," Violet whispers, her dark brown lashes fluttering once before settling again. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt is long gone—replaced by the rough heat of Sascha’s palm against her waist and the thin cotton sheets pooling uselessly at their feet.
Violet exhales shakily, her fingers flexing against Sascha’s chest as she watches the Monte Carlo morning light paint golden stripes across the floor, then crawl up the walls like slow-motion flames.
“Pancakes,” Andrey repeats, his voice rough with amusement as his reddish-blonde stubble catches the sunlight. He shifts infinitesimally closer, the peppermint on his breath mingling with the citrus-salt of Sascha’s cologne, creating an intoxicating blend that makes her head spin. His thumb still rests lightly against her throat—just enough to feel the pulse jumping beneath his calloused skin. “American-style pancakes.
With maple syrup. And butter. Thick slices, dripping like sunshine.” Sascha’s voice is rough but measured, golden stubble catching the morning light like scattered embers as he shifts upward to press another slow kiss to the sensitive skin beneath Violet’s ear. The citrus-salt of his cologne wraps around her senses, warm and grounding, as his rough thumb traces slow circles against her waist.
Violet exhales shakily, her nails digging into the fine fabric of Sascha’s open shirt. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt is long gone—replaced only by the rough heat of his chest against her bare skin and the weight of two bodies pressed against hers.
"American-style pancakes," she repeats softly, her voice still trembling slightly. The Monte Carlo morning light spills across the terrace floor in golden ribbons, painting the angles of their faces in liquid gold—Sascha’s golden stubble catching the light like scattered embers, Andrey’s reddish-blonde stubble brushing against her shoulder as he tilts his head closer. Her dark brown hair spills across Sascha’s chest like dark silk, catching the sunlight.
She lifts her head slightly, eyes flicking between them—Sascha’s golden stubble catching the Monte Carlo morning light like scattered embers, Andrey’s reddish-blonde stubble brushing against her shoulder as he tilts his head closer.
Violet's stomach rumbles.
The sound is soft but unmistakable—the kind of embarrassing echo that makes her wish she could melt into the sheets. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt long gone, she's hyper-aware of every point of contact—Sascha's rough thumb still tracing slow circles against her waist, Andrey's peppermint-scented breath mingling with the citrus-salt of Sascha's cologne to create something dangerously intoxicating.
"You don’t have to be embarrassed," Sascha murmurs, his voice rough but gentle as his golden stubble catches the Monte Carlo morning light like scattered embers. He shifts upward, pressing another slow kiss to the sensitive skin beneath Violet's ear where her pulse hammers.
His rough thumb slows its tracing against her waist, pausing entirely as he waits to see if she'll lean into the moment or pull away.
Violet's breath catches when Sascha's golden stubble scratches gently against her collarbone, sending a shiver through her body that makes the thin cotton sheets beneath them rustle. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt is long gone—replaced only by the rough heat of his chest against her bare skin and the weight of Andrey's body pressed against her side.
"Let's get you those pancakes," Andrey murmurs, his voice rough with amusement. The peppermint on his breath mixes with the citrus-salt of Sascha’s cologne, creating something dangerously intoxicating as his thick fingers trace slow circles on her throat. "We’ll even pour the syrup ourselves."
Violet exhales shakily, her stomach fluttering when his thumb presses just firmly enough to make her gasp. The Monte Carlo morning light paints golden stripes across the floor, then crawls up the walls like slow-motion flames. The thin cotton sheets beneath them rustle as her bare legs shift, the fabric doing nothing to calm the fire racing beneath her skin.
Violet’s stomach gives another traitorous gurgle, loud enough this time that Andrey’s smirk deepens, reddish-blonde stubble catching the Monte Carlo morning light like scattered embers.
“Sounds perfect,” she whispers, her voice barely above a breath. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt is long gone—replaced only by the rough heat of Sascha’s chest against her bare skin, the citrus-salt of his cologne wrapping around her senses like an invisible embrace. Her dark brown hair spills across his collarbone, catching the sunlight in dark waves, and for the first time, she doesn’t overthink the nudity, the vulnerability, the sheer rightness of this moment.
Sascha’s rough thumb still traces slow circles against her waist, grounding her as Andrey’s fingers lightly grip her throat, not possessive, just steady. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt has been gone for hours now, replaced by the warmth of their bodies and the thin sheets tangled uselessly at their feet.
“Good,” Sascha murmurs, his voice rough but sincere. The golden stubble along his sharp jawline catches the Monte Carlo morning light like scattered embers as he shifts upward again, pressing a slow kiss just beneath her ear. His cologne—something spicy and citrusy—wraps around her senses like an invisible blanket, warm and grounding.
He shifts upward again, pressing another slow kiss just beneath her ear. His rough thumb still traces slow circles against her waist, grounding her as the Monte Carlo morning light spills across the floor in golden ribbons.
"Good," he murmurs against her skin, the warmth of his breath making her shiver.
Violet exhales shakily, her fingers flexing against Sascha’s chest as she tries to steady herself. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt is long gone—replaced by the rough heat of his chest against her bare skin and the steady pressure of Andrey’s thumb against her throat.
Sascha and Andrey decide to get the pancakes.
They’re both shirtless, casual in their own way, but it feels like a negotiation of trust. Violet watches them move around the kitchen, mimicking their steps with her own—her bare feet padding softly against the cool marble floors of Sascha’s Monte Carlo home.
Andrey cracks eggs into a bowl with a practiced flick of his wrist, the shells clinking against the ceramic edge. Sascha sets a skillet on the stove, the iron hissing when he tests the heat with a drop of water.
Violet leans against the kitchen island, arms crossed loosely.
The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt is long gone—replaced by the borrowed Monte Carlo sunlight spilling across her bare shoulders, catching the dark brown strands of hair cascading down her back. The citrus-salt of Sascha’s cologne lingers on her skin, mixing with the faint peppermint from Andrey’s breath. The borrowed sheets are long gone too, replaced only by the rough heat of two bodies pressed against hers during the night.
Andrey cracks eggs into a bowl with a practiced flick of his wrist, the shells clinking against the ceramic edge like miniature drumbeats.
Sascha sets a heavy cast-iron skillet on the stove, the iron hissing when he tests the heat with a single drop of water that dances away in a brief silver arc. The kitchen smells of warm vanilla and toasted almonds from the espresso machine that’s already humming in the corner, its rich aroma mingling with the morning salt breeze drifting in from the open terrace doors.
Violet leans against the kitchen island, arms crossed loosely beneath her bare breasts. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt never made it out of the bedroom—replaced by the borrowed Monte Carlo sunlight spilling across her bare shoulders, catching the dark brown strands of her long hair like polished mahogany.
Violet watches Sascha and Andrey move around the kitchen—Andrey’s reddish-blonde stubble catching the morning light as he flicks egg shells into a bowl with practiced precision, the shells clinking against ceramic like miniature drumbeats. Sascha sets a heavy cast-iron skillet on the stove, the iron hissing when he tests the heat with a single drop of water that dances away in a brief silver arc.
The kitchen already smells of warm vanilla and toasted almonds from the espresso machine humming in the corner, its rich aroma mixing with the morning salt breeze drifting in from the terrace doors.
Violet watches as Andrey cracks eggs into a bowl with the flick of his wrist, shells clinking against ceramic like miniature drumbeats. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt never made it out of the bedroom—replaced by the borrowed Monte Carlo sunlight spilling across her bare shoulders, catching her long brown hair like polished mahogany.
Violet watches Sascha and Andrey move around the kitchen, their bodies moving with the effortless synchronization of two people who have danced this dance many times before.
Andrey’s reddish-blonde stubble catches the morning light as he flicks egg shells into a bowl with practiced precision, the sound sharp and clean. The kitchen smells of warm vanilla and toasted almonds from the espresso machine humming in the corner, its rich aroma mingling with the morning salt breeze drifting in from the terrace doors.
Violet's bare feet press gently against the cool marble floors as she watches them work, her long brown hair spilling down her back in dark waves.
Sascha tests the skillet again with another drop of water, watching as it skitters away in a brief silver arc. His golden stubble catches and holds the Monte Carlo morning light like scattered embers, his broad shoulders flexing slightly as he adjusts the flame beneath the heavy pan.
"Andrey..." Violet says softly, her voice barely above a whisper as she watches the way his reddish-blonde stubble catches the light when he tilts his head to crack another egg. The movement is effortless, practiced—the kind of precision that makes her stomach flutter.
Andrey’s calloused hands never fumble, never hesitate. Each crack of the shell against the bowl’s rim sounds like a small victory, the shells clinking into a neat little pile on the counter like discarded promises.
Violet hugs herself a little tighter, her arms crossing loosely beneath her chest. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt never made it out of the bedroom—replaced by borrowed Monte Carlo sunlight that spills across her bare shoulders like liquid gold, catching her long brown hair in dark, glossy waves. The citrus-salt of Sascha’s cologne still clings to her skin, warm and grounding, while the faintest trace of peppermint lingers from Andrey’s breath when he exhales.
Violet shifts slightly, the cool marble of the kitchen island biting into the bare skin of her ass where she perches on the edge. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt is long gone—replaced only by the borrowed Monte Carlo sunlight painting golden stripes across her thighs and the memory of two bodies pressed against hers hours ago. The sheets are cold now, abandoned in favor of this morning’s slow unraveling.
Andrey’s voice cuts through her thoughts like a well-placed volley. “Eggs need salt,” he says, turning to rummage through Sascha’s cabinet with the easy familiarity of someone who’s navigated this kitchen before.
His reddish-blonde stubble catches the morning light as he tilts his head, those blue eyes flicking over to where Violet watches them with quiet fascination. “You like yours soft, Malyshka?”
The question hangs in the air between them, laced with something far more intimate than breakfast preparations. Violet swallows, her throat suddenly dry despite the cool morning breeze drifting in from the terrace.
“Soft,” she confirms, her voice barely above a whisper. The borrowed Melbourne Open shirt is long gone—replaced only by the borrowed Monte Carlo sunlight painting golden stripes across her bare shoulders, the citrus-salt scent of Sascha’s cologne clinging to her skin like a second memory.
Violet watches as Andrey rummages through Sascha’s cabinets with the effortless confidence of someone who has broken bread in this kitchen a hundred times before. His reddish-blonde stubble catches the morning light as he tilts his head toward her, those intense blue eyes flicking over her with quiet assessment.
"Soft," she confirms, her voice barely above a whisper.
Andrey’s lips curl into a slow, knowing smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He turns back to the bowl, scooping up a pinch of salt between his fingers before sprinkling it evenly over the eggs. The movement is precise, practiced—the kind of ritualistic grace she’s come to associate with athletes who treat their craft like an art form.
Andrey’s fingers dust the eggs with salt like a painter adding delicate strokes to a canvas, his reddish-blonde stubble catching the Monte Carlo morning light as he tilts his head back to study the bowl with critical eyes.
“Should be perfect,” he murmurs, more to himself than to anyone else, though his gaze flicks briefly to Violet with an intensity that makes her thighs press together involuntarily.
Sascha exhales through his nose, golden stubble catching the light like scattered embers as he pushes the skillet back over the flame. The iron hisses again, the sound sharp and clean against the morning’s silence.
Chapter excerpt truncated at the edge.