Chapter 23: Official
The morning light spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Sascha’s Monte Carlo penthouse, casting golden streaks across the polished marble floors. The city below was a blur of movement—yachts glinting on the Mediterranean, luxury cars weaving through the streets—but inside, the air was thick with something quieter, something unspoken.
Violet sat curled on the plush sofa, her bare feet tucked beneath her, the soft fabric of Sascha’s oversized shirt brushing against her thighs. The scent of coffee and saltwater drifted in from the balcony, where the sea breeze carried the faint hum of distant conversations from the marina. She traced the rim of her mug with her fingertip, her mind racing.
The past few hours had been a blur of sensation, of Sascha’s hands and mouth and the way he made her feel like she was the only person in the world. But now, in the harsh light of day, reality was creeping back in.
“You’re thinking too hard,” Sascha said, his voice rough from sleep. He was leaning against the kitchen island, still shirtless, his hair tousled from her fingers. The way he watched her—like he was memorizing every flicker of her expression—made her stomach flip.
“I’m not,” she lied, taking a sip of coffee to hide her smile.
He arched a brow.
"You’re biting your lip. That’s your tell."
Violet exhaled through her nose, setting the mug down with a soft *clink*. "Okay, fine. I’m just… processing."
Sascha pushed off the counter and crossed the room in three long strides, his bare feet silent against the tile. He stopped in front of her, close enough that she could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the way his eyes darkened when he looked at her. "Processing what?"
She hesitated, then blurted, "Us. This. The fact that I’m sitting here in your shirt, and you’re looking at me like—" She cut herself off, heat rising in her cheeks.
"Like *that*," she finished lamely.
Sascha’s lips twitched. "Like what?"
"Like you’re trying to memorize me." The words slipped out before she could stop them, and she immediately regretted them. Too much. Too vulnerable.
But Sascha didn’t laugh or tease. He just stepped closer, his fingers brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Because I am," he said softly. "I want to remember every second of this."
Violet’s breath hitched. The way he said it—so quiet, so sincere—made her chest ache. She wanted to believe him. She *did* believe him.
That was the problem.
Violet swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around the edge of the couch cushion. "This is new for me," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I haven't been in a serious relationship with anyone in so long."
She hesitated, searching for the right words. "And I don't know how to do this... how to be with someone who sees all of me and still wants to stay."
Sascha's thumb traced the curve of her cheekbone, his touch feather-light. "You don't have to know how to do anything, Violet. We're figuring it out together, remember? No rules, no expectations. Just us."
She exhaled slowly, her shoulders relaxing slightly. "I just don't want to mess this up."
"You couldn't if you tried," he murmured, his lips brushing against her temple. "And even if you did, I'd still be here.
Messing up is part of the process." Sascha's voice was warm, his breath tickling her ear as he spoke. He pulled back slightly, just enough to look into her eyes. "You don't have to be perfect, Violet. You just have to be you."
Violet felt something inside her loosen, like a knot that had been pulled too tight finally giving way. She had spent so much of her life trying to be what other people wanted—her parents, her coaches, even her own expectations of what a "good" tennis player should be. But Sascha wasn't asking her to be anything but herself.
"You make it sound so simple," she said, a small smile tugging at her lips.
"But what if I *do* mess up? What if I say the wrong thing, or do something stupid, or—"
Sascha pressed a finger to her lips, silencing her. "Then we laugh about it later. That's all."
Violet exhaled, her shoulders dropping as the tension left her body. She leaned into his touch, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his bare chest. The warmth of his skin beneath her fingertips was grounding, real. "You make it sound easy," she murmured.
"It *is* easy," he said, his voice low. "Because it's just us. No cameras, no press, no expectations.
Just us.
The words hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken promises. Violet exhaled slowly, her fingers still tracing the faint scars on Sascha’s chest—reminders of years spent battling on hard courts under scorching sun. She had memorized every one of them by now.
Sascha watched her with that infuriatingly patient expression, his thumb still pressed lightly against her lips. The kind of patience that made her want to both scream and kiss him at the same time.
"You're doing it again," he murmured.
"What?"
"Overthinking."
She huffed, pulling back just enough to glare at him. "I'm allowed to overthink.
It's my *thing*," Violet said, trying to keep her voice light despite the way her pulse fluttered under his touch.
Sascha's lips twitched. "Your *thing* is being adorable when you panic."
She swatted his chest. "I do *not* panic."
He caught her wrist gently, his fingers curling around it. "You're currently hyperventilating into my shirt."
Violet exhaled sharply. Maybe a little." She bit her lip, her gaze flicking to the balcony where the Mediterranean glittered under the morning sun. "It's just... this is all happening so fast.
One minute I was just a girl who loved tennis, and the next I'm in Monte Carlo with you, and the whole world knows about us, and—"
Sascha's fingers tightened slightly around her wrist, grounding her. "Breathe, Violet."
She did, inhaling the scent of him—salt and citrus and something uniquely him. "I'm breathing." Violet exhaled sharply, her fingers still tracing the faint scars on Sascha's chest. "I'm just... overwhelmed. This isn't how I imagined my life going."
Sascha's thumb brushed against her wrist, his touch grounding. "How *did* you imagine it?"
She hesitated, then shrugged. "I don't know. Quiet, maybe. Predictable. I was supposed to be the girl who traveled alone, watched tennis matches, and came home with nothing but sunburns and a few good stories."
Sascha's lips curved into a slow smile. "And now?"
Violet met his gaze, her heart pounding.
"Now?" She exhaled slowly, searching for the right words. "Now I'm here, with you, and everything feels... bigger. Louder. More *real* than I ever expected."
Sascha's fingers traced the curve of her shoulder, his touch warm through the thin fabric of his shirt. "And is that a bad thing?"
She bit her lip, considering. "No. But it's... a lot."
A soft laugh rumbled in his chest. "You're telling *me* about 'a lot'? The guy who has to dodge paparazzi in his own driveway?"
Violet smirked, some of the tension leaving her shoulders.
"Fair point."
Sascha's fingers lingered on her skin, tracing idle patterns that sent shivers down her spine. "You know what this reminds me of?" he murmured.
"When I first met you at that tennis gala.
You were standing by the bar, looking like you wanted to bolt at any second, and I thought, *This girl is either about to run or steal my heart.*" Sascha's voice was low, teasing, but his fingers never stopped moving against her skin. "Turns out it was both."
Violet snorted, but the sound came out more like a breathless laugh. "I *was* about to run. You were intimidating as hell."
"Still am," he murmured, leaning in until his breath ghosted over her lips. "But you stayed."
She swallowed hard, her pulse fluttering under his touch.
"That's because you're impossible to resist," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.
Sascha's lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. "Good to know." His fingers traced the line of her collarbone, his touch feather-light. "So what do you say we make the most of this impossible situation?"
Violet's breath hitched as his thumb brushed the sensitive skin just below her ear. "What did you have in mind?"
His eyes darkened, the playful edge in his voice giving way to something deeper. "I was thinking we could start with breakfast. Then maybe a swim. And after that..." His fingers trailed lower, tracing the edge of his shirt where it dipped between her breasts.
"Or we could skip breakfast entirely."
Violet's breath hitched as his thumb brushed the sensitive skin just below her collarbone. The way he looked at her—like she was the only thing in the world worth looking at—made her pulse race. "You're insatiable," she murmured, though her body already leaned into his touch. "Only with you."
The words sent a shiver down her spine. She had never felt this way before—so seen, so desired. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.
"You're making it hard to think," she admitted, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
The way his thumb traced slow, deliberate circles just above her pulse point made it impossible to focus on anything but the heat pooling low in her stomach.
Sascha's lips quirked. "Good. I don't want you thinking too much." His other hand slid beneath the hem of the shirt, his palm warm against her bare thigh. "I want you feeling."
Violet's breath hitched as his fingers traced upward, his touch feather-light against her skin. "You're distracting me on purpose," she accused, though her voice lacked any real conviction.
"Is it working?" He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.
"Completely," he murmured, his breath sending shivers down her spine. "You're trembling."
Violet swallowed hard, her fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt. "That's because you're... you're doing that thing with your fingers."
Sascha chuckled low in his throat, the sound vibrating through her. "What thing?"
"The thing where you make me forget my own name." Her voice was breathless, her pulse fluttering wildly under his touch.
His fingers stilled, though they remained pressed against her skin. "Is that what you want? For me to stop?"
She hesitated, her mind racing.
The truth was, she didn’t want him to stop. Not even a little. But admitting that out loud felt like stepping off a cliff.
Sascha’s fingers remained still, his gaze locked onto hers, waiting. The air between them crackled with tension, thick enough to taste.
Violet exhaled slowly, her fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt. “No,” she admitted finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want you to stop.”
A slow, knowing smile spread across Sascha’s face. “Good,” he murmured, his thumb resuming its slow, deliberate circles against her skin.
“Because I don’t want to stop either.”
Violet’s breath hitched as his fingers traced higher, his touch feather-light against her inner thigh. “You’re insatiable,” she whispered, though her body already leaned into his touch.
“Only with you,” he replied, his voice rough with desire.
The words hung between them, heavy with meaning.
Violet’s breath hitched as his fingers traced higher, his touch feather-light against her inner thigh. The morning light from the balcony painted golden streaks across his bare chest, highlighting the faint scars from years of grueling matches.
Violet’s breath hitched as his fingers traced higher, her touch feather-light against her inner thigh. Then—
Her shirt slipped downward suddenly, the fabric catching on her shoulder before sliding free. The cool air of the penthouse brushed against her bare skin, and she instinctively crossed her arms over her chest, her cheeks flushing.
Sascha’s hand stilled mid-motion, his dark eyes flicking up to meet hers. A slow, knowing smirk curled at the corner of his mouth. "Didn’t mean to startle you," he murmured, though his voice carried a teasing edge. "But I’m not complaining about the view."
Sascha’s smirk deepened as his gaze traced the curve of her exposed collarbone, the way her chest rose and fell with each quickened breath. His fingers hovered just above her bare thigh, not quite touching, not quite pulling away.
Violet’s heart hammered against her ribs. She should have been embarrassed, or at least self-conscious, but the way Sascha looked at her—like she was the most fascinating thing in the world—made her feel anything but shy. His gaze burned with an intensity that sent heat pooling low in her stomach, his fingers still hovering just above her skin, waiting for permission.
"You're not helping," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly.
Sascha's smirk softened into something warmer, something that made her pulse flutter. "Would you rather I stopped?" His fingers finally brushed against her thigh, feather-light, sending a shiver through her.
Violet shook her head, her fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt. "No," she admitted, her voice barely audible. "I don't want you to stop."
The words hung between them, heavy with meaning, and Sascha's expression shifted, his eyes darkening with desire.
"I want to show you just how much I love you, Violet," he said, his voice rough with emotion. His fingers traced slow, deliberate circles against her skin, sending shivers down her spine.
Violet's breath hitched as his words settled over her, warm and heavy like the Mediterranean sun. She had never heard him say those words before—not like this, not with such raw honesty. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, grounding herself as the world around them seemed to tilt. The penthouse, the city, the entire world outside these walls faded into insignificance.
"You don't have to say it back," Sascha murmured, his thumb brushing against her pulse point. "I just need you to know."
Violet swallowed hard, her heart pounding against her ribs. The words were there, right on the tip of her tongue, but something held her back—not fear, not doubt, but the sheer weight of the moment.
Violet knew she loved Sascha too, and she wanted to say it. She wanted to show him too. After the last few months, she wanted to give herself to him again, completely.
His fingers stilled against her skin, waiting. The air between them was thick with unspoken things, the kind of silence that hummed with possibility. Sascha’s gaze never left hers, his dark eyes searching, patient.
"You don’t have to say it," he murmured again, his thumb brushing the inside of her wrist. "But I want you to know."
Violet exhaled, her fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt. The words were right there—*I love you*—but they felt too small, too inadequate for everything she was feeling. Instead, she leaned forward, pressing her lips to his in answer.
Sascha’s breath hitched against her mouth, his hands sliding up her back, pulling her closer.
The kiss deepened, slow and deliberate, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips before she parted for him. The taste of him—coffee and salt and something uniquely him—sent heat spiraling through her veins.
Violet’s fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, her body pressing against his with a desperation she couldn’t explain. Every touch, every breath, felt like a promise. His hands slid lower, gripping her hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above her thighs.
“Violet,” he murmured against her lips, his voice rough with need. “Tell me what you want.”
She swallowed hard, her pulse fluttering under his touch.
"I want you," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "All of you."
Sascha's fingers tightened around her hips, his thumbs pressing into her skin with just enough pressure to make her breath hitch. "Good," he murmured, his lips brushing against hers. "Because I want you too." Violet could feel the heat pooling low in her stomach, her body responding to his touch in ways she couldn't control. She leaned into him, her fingers tracing the faint scars on his chest—reminders of years spent battling on hard courts under scorching sun.
Sascha's gaze never left hers, his dark eyes searching, patient.
The air between them hummed with electricity, the kind that made Violet's skin prickle and her breath catch. She could feel the weight of his hands on her hips, the heat of his body pressing against hers, and it sent a shiver down her spine.
The way he looked at her—like she was the only person in the world—made her heart race. She could feel the tension between them, thick and electric, and she knew that this moment was one she would never forget.
Violet's fingers traced the faint scars on Sascha's chest, her touch feather-light against his skin. She could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her fingertips, and it grounded her, anchored her to this moment. The world outside the penthouse faded away, leaving only the two of them, wrapped in the quiet intimacy of the morning.
Sascha's fingers lingered at the hem of her shirt, tracing slow, deliberate circles against her skin before sliding upward with deliberate slowness. The fabric lifted inch by inch, cool air brushing against her bare skin as he carefully eased the shirt over her head, his movements slow and deliberate. Violet's breath hitched as the fabric caught on her shoulder for a moment before slipping free, leaving her exposed in a way that should have made her self-conscious but instead sent a thrill through her veins.
Sascha didn't look away, his dark eyes tracing every curve, every freckle, every faint scar from years of tennis matches. His fingers brushed against her waist, his touch feather-light, as if memorizing the shape of her. The way he looked at her—like she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen—made her pulse flutter wildly.
"You're beautiful, Violet," Sascha murmured, his fingers tracing the curve of her waist with reverence. The words settled over her like sunlight, warm and golden, chasing away any lingering doubts.
Violet exhaled shakily, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. The way his gaze burned into her, tracing every freckle, every faint scar from years of tennis matches, made her feel both exposed and cherished. "You make me feel beautiful," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "That's because you are." His fingers traced upward, his touch feather-light against her bare skin, sending shivers down her spine. "Every part of you." Sascha's voice was rough with sincerity, his fingers tracing the curve of her waist with reverence. "Even the parts you think are flaws."
Violet's breath hitched as his thumb brushed the faint scar on her hip—the one from a childhood fall on a tennis court. "You don't have to say that," she murmured, though her fingers tightened in the fabric of his shirt, grounding herself in this moment.
Sascha's lips quirked into that infuriatingly knowing smile. "I don't *have* to say anything. But I want to." His fingers traced higher, his touch feather-light against her ribs.
"Especially the parts you try to hide."
Violet swallowed hard, her pulse fluttering under his touch. She had spent years trying to perfect her serve, her backhand, her entire game - but she had never felt this exposed, this vulnerable. The way Sascha looked at her - like he could see straight through her - made her heart race.
"You make it sound so simple," she whispered, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. "Like I'm not a mess of insecurities and bad habits."
Sascha's thumb brushed against her collarbone, his touch sending shivers down her spine. "You're not a mess, Violet. You're a work in progress.
And I happen to like the way you're coming together." His fingers traced the curve of her shoulder, his touch warm and steady. "You're not supposed to be perfect. You're supposed to be *you*."
Violet exhaled slowly, her fingers tracing the faint scars on his chest—the ones from years of grueling matches, from battles fought and won. "I just don't want to disappoint you," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.
Sascha's fingers stilled against her skin, his dark eyes searching hers. "Disappoint me?" He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Violet, you could never disappoint me.
Not in a million years." Sascha's voice was low, rough with sincerity. His fingers traced the line of her jaw, tilting her face up to meet his gaze. "You're the only thing in my life that makes sense anymore."
The morning light spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting golden stripes across the marble floor. The city of Monte Carlo stretched out below them, a glittering postcard of luxury and excess, but up here, in this penthouse, it all felt distant. Unreal. Violet's fingers tightened around the edge of the sofa cushion, her knuckles whitening slightly.
The weight of Sascha's words settled over her like a warm blanket, chasing away the last of her doubts.
"You really mean that?" she whispered, her voice barely audible over the distant hum of the city below.
Sascha's thumb brushed against her cheek, his touch feather-light. "Every word," he murmured.
Violet exhaled slowly, her shoulders relaxing.
The tension that had coiled in her chest since waking up began to unravel. Sascha's fingers traced idle patterns on her bare shoulder, his touch warm and grounding.
Violet leaned into him, her pulse fluttering under his fingertips. She wanted everything with him—the way his hands moved over her body like he was memorizing every curve, the way his breath hitched when she arched into his touch. The way he made her feel was unlike anything she'd ever experienced.
"Tell me what you want," he murmured against her skin, his lips brushing the sensitive spot just below her ear.
Violet shivered, her fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt. She wanted to say it—to tell him exactly what she craved—but the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she tilted her head back, exposing her neck to him, an invitation he didn’t hesitate to take.
His mouth found hers again, slow and deliberate, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips before she parted for him. The kiss deepened, his hands sliding down her back, pulling her flush against him.
Violet wanted everything with Sascha—the way his fingers traced her skin like he was memorizing every curve, the way his breath hitched when she arched into his touch.
His mouth moved to her neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below her ear. "You taste like sunshine," he murmured, his voice rough with desire. Violet gasped as his hands slid lower, gripping her hips with just enough pressure to make her pulse flutter wildly.
"You're shaking," he noted, his thumb brushing against her hipbone. "Cold?"
She shook her head, her fingers tightening in his hair. Just... you."
Sascha's lips curved against her skin. "Good." His hands slid up her ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts before moving higher, tracing the line of her collarbone. "Because I don't want you to be cold.
I want you to burn." His fingers traced the curve of her shoulder, his touch feather-light against her skin. "I want you to feel every second of this." The way his gaze burned into her—like she was the only thing in the world worth looking at—made her pulse race.
Sascha's hands slid down her back, his fingers tracing the curve of her hips before he gently lowered her onto the couch, his movements slow and deliberate. The leather was cool against her bare skin, a stark contrast to the heat pooling low in her stomach. His fingers lingered on her waist, his touch feather-light, as if memorizing the shape of her.
Violet's breath hitched as her back met the cushions, the soft leather molding to her body. The way Sascha looked at her—like she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen—made her heart race.
"You're shaking," Sascha murmured, his thumb brushing against her hipbone.
"Just...
A slow, knowing smile curved his lips.
"Just me?" he repeated, his voice rough with amusement. "That’s all it takes?"
Violet’s fingers tightened in the fabric of his shirt, her pulse fluttering wildly under his touch. "You’re insufferable," she whispered, though her body arched into his, betraying her words.
Sascha chuckled, low and warm, as his hands slid up her ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of her breasts with deliberate slowness. "And yet, here you are," he murmured, his breath ghosting over her collarbone. "Still shaking."
She swallowed hard, her breath hitching as his fingers traced higher, his touch feather-light against her skin.
"It's because I love you," Violet said, the words tumbling out before she could take them back. The confession hung between them, raw and vulnerable, and for a moment, the world seemed to still.
Sascha's fingers stilled against her skin, his dark eyes searching hers with an intensity that made her pulse flutter wildly. The air between them crackled with electricity, thick and heavy with unspoken emotions. Violet held her breath, her fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt, waiting for his reaction.
The words hung between them, heavy with vulnerability, and for a moment, the world seemed to still.
Sascha’s fingers stilled against her skin, his dark eyes searching hers with an intensity that made her pulse flutter wildly. Violet’s heart pounded against her ribs, her breath catching in her throat as she waited for him to respond.
Then, slowly, a smile curled at the corners of his mouth—a real one, not the practiced smirk he often wore for the cameras. His thumb brushed against her hipbone, his touch feather-light, grounding.
"I love you too, Violet," Sascha said, his voice rough with emotion. "More than anything." The words settled over her like sunlight, warm and golden, chasing away the last of her doubts.
Violet exhaled shakily, her fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt. The way his gaze burned into hers—like she was the only person in the world—made her heart race. She had never heard him say those words before, not like this, not with such raw honesty. The confession hung between them, heavy with vulnerability, and for a moment, the world seemed to still.