Chapter 16: The talk
The last bite of curry vanished, the warmth spreading through Alexey’s chest like banked embers finally catching. The frantic edge that had gripped him since the morning, since Sharon’s claiming kiss and Katya’s oblivious hug, softened. He leaned back into the worn leather armchair, the tension leaching from his shoulders. He felt… anchored. Temporarily.
Sharon watched him, her dark eyes soft with understanding. That familiar, knowing smile touched her lips. She didn’t need therapy training to see the path to his peace often wound straight through his stomach. "Better?" she asked softly, her voice warm honey in the quiet room. The setting sun streamed through the window, painting long amber stripes across the cluttered coffee table and gilding the edges of her vibrant hair.
Alexey nodded, a low grunt of affirmation escaping him. He met her gaze, the shared intimacy of the morning – the taste, the surrender – humming silently between them. "Da."
Katya giggled from her perch on the sofa, hugging a cushion to her chest. She’d kicked off her heels, her bare feet tucked beneath her. "Wow, Lesha," she teased, her bright blue eyes sparkling. "You looked like a thundercloud walked in. Now? Like a big, sleepy bear after honey." She wrinkled her nose playfully. "Sharon’s magic curry?"
Sharon chuckled, the sound rich and warm. "Just fuel for the engineer." She shifted slightly on the sofa, turning more fully towards Alexey. The fading light caught the curve of her cheek, the soft swell of her breasts beneath the oversized sweater. "So," she prompted gently, her gaze steady, perceptive. "How was your day? Besides the faulty valve?" She paused, letting the question hang. "The Henderson review… it seemed to weigh on you earlier."
The question, casual on the surface, landed with precision. The valve schematic flashed in his mind, instantly overlaid by the image Sharon had sent: Mark leaning against the reception desk, his easy grin fixed on her. The phantom taste of salt resurfaced on Alexey’s tongue. He cleared his throat, focusing on the chessboard pieces scattered near Katya’s feet. One black knight lay on its side.
"Review was… fine," he started, his voice rough. He picked up his chopsticks, fiddling with them absently. "Pressure valve specs were flawed. Drafted corrections." He kept it clipped, factual. The sterile language of engineering felt like a shield. "Supplier documentation was incomplete. Wasted time chasing it." He shrugged, a stiff movement. "Usual."
Sharon nodded slowly, her gaze never leaving his face. She saw the tightness returning to his jaw, the way his knuckles whitened slightly on the chopsticks. "Chasing paperwork," she murmured sympathetically. "The worst." She leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on her hand. Her dark eyes held a quiet intensity. "Anything else? You seemed… distracted. In your texts." She didn’t mention Mark. She didn’t need to. The unspoken name hung in the air between them, thick as the fading scent of curry.
Alexey’s gaze flickered to her, then away. He could feel Katya’s curious attention shifting between them. "Long day," he muttered, a non-answer. He shifted in the chair, the leather creaking. The memory of Sharon’s wink emoji burned. Told him you still are. Intense. What had she meant? What had she implied? The coil of heat and shame tightened low in his gut again.
Katya, sensing the shift but misreading its source, leaned forward. Her unbuttoned blouse gaped slightly, revealing the delicate silver chain and a hint of smooth skin above the lace of her bra. "Ugh, paperwork!" she commiserated, her voice bright, trying to lighten the mood. "David mentioned that too. Said bureaucracy is the real enemy of good design." She flashed Alexey a sympathetic smile. "At least you didn’t have Sophie from accounting breathing down your neck all afternoon, asking about ‘pixel budgets’." She rolled her eyes dramatically. "Like pixels cost money!"
Alexey managed a faint, tight smile in her direction. Her proximity, her effortless vibrancy, was a stark contrast to the churning darkness inside him. He felt hyper-aware of her – the curve of her throat, the way her blonde hair fell across her shoulder, the warmth radiating from her bare feet tucked close to him on the rug. It was familial affection, he told himself fiercely. Innocent. Yet his treacherous mind superimposed Sharon kneeling, taking him, the ruthless efficiency… and then Katya’s enthusiastic hug at the door, her body pressed against his. The conflicting sensations were dizzying.
Sharon watched the silent interplay. She saw Alexey’s fleeting glance at Katya’s exposed skin, the way his throat worked as he swallowed. She saw the tension radiating from him, a taut wire vibrating with unspoken conflict. Her expression softened further, a complex blend of affection and deep, unsettling understanding. She knew the storm inside him. She’d helped unleash it. And she held the reins.
"Pixel budgets," Sharon echoed Katya, her tone light, but her eyes remained locked on Alexey. "Sounds terrifying." She paused, then added, her voice dropping slightly, layering meaning beneath the casual words, "Some things are harder to quantify than pixels, aren't they, Alex?"
Alexey’s head snapped up. He met her gaze fully now. Her dark eyes held his, unblinking. They were warm, loving, yet utterly fathomless. They saw everything – the shame, the unwanted arousal, the confusion Katya sparked, the lingering echo of his submission against the door. They saw the turmoil churned up by Mark’s grinning photo. They promised understanding… and demanded confrontation. Tonight we talk.
The silence stretched, thick with unspoken currents. Katya glanced between them, her playful smile fading slightly, replaced by a flicker of confusion. She sensed the gravity beneath the surface but couldn't decipher it. The room seemed to hold its breath. The last rays of the sun dipped below the windowsill, plunging the cozy space into deepening twilight. Only the soft glow of the table lamp illuminated Sharon’s face, her eyes like dark pools reflecting the light, holding Alexey captive.
Sharon didn't look away. Slowly, deliberately, she unfolded herself from the sofa. The movement was fluid, powerful. She stood, the oversized sweater draping her curves, her presence suddenly filling the dimming room. She took a single step towards Alexey’s armchair, her gaze never wavering.
"Katya," she said, her voice calm, gentle, but leaving no room for argument. "Would you mind clearing the coffee table? I think Alexey and I…" She paused, her eyes still locked on his, a silent command passing between them. "...need to debrief his day. Properly." The final word landed with the weight of a stone dropped into still water. The promise from the morning hallway echoed: Tonight. We talk. About it all.
Alexey felt the air leave his lungs. The cozy sanctuary of the living room vanished. The chess pieces, the potted plant, Katya’s curious face – they all blurred. All he saw was Sharon standing before him in the gathering gloom, her dark eyes promising an intimacy far deeper, far more terrifying, than anything physical. The taste of salt flooded his mouth again. The leash tightened. The talking was about to begin.
The talking was about to begin. Alexey felt the worn leather grip his thighs as Sharon’s shadow fell across him, immense and intimate in the lamp-lit gloom. The air crackled.
Katya blinked, snapping out of her momentary confusion. "Oh! Debriefing!" she chirped, the word bright and jarring in the heavy silence. She scrambled off the sofa, surprisingly agile in her bare feet. "Got it!" Plastic takeout containers rattled as she started stacking them with efficient clatters. "Paper towels?"
Sharon’s gaze, locked onto Alexey, softened infinitesimally. "Under the sink, Katyusha." She didn’t move, her presence a warm pressure pinning Alexey to the chair.
Katya giggled again, the sound bouncing off the bookshelves as she headed towards the kitchenette. "You guys are debriefing often lately," she called back, her voice playful, cutting through the tension like a sharp knife. "Night, morning…" She reappeared, waving a roll of paper towels. "Lesha, you lucky dog!" Her bright blue eyes danced with mischief, entirely oblivious to the storm brewing beneath the surface.
Sharon finally broke eye contact with Alexey, a genuine, warm laugh escaping her. It was rich, familiar, and utterly disarming. "Sorry if we’re disturbing you, Katyusha," she said, the apology light, brushing away Katya’s teasing like lint. She turned slightly towards the younger woman, her hand still resting possessively on the back of Alexey’s armchair. "Walls are thin in these old buildings."
Katya ripped off a sheet of paper towel, vigorously wiping a curry smear from the wooden coffee table. "Disturbing?" She snorted, a surprisingly unfiltered sound. "Pfft. No way! It’s okay. Totally normal. Healthy, even!" She straightened up, tossing the crumpled towel onto the growing pile of containers. Her expression shifted, losing the giggly edge, becoming earnest. She looked directly at Sharon, then flicked her gaze to Alexey’s rigid profile. "I’m really happy for both of you. Seriously."
She leaned her hip against the sofa arm, crossing her arms loosely. Her unbuttoned blouse gaped slightly, revealing the delicate chain. "Look, I’m not shy," she stated, her voice dropping a notch, clear and direct. "Especially about sex." A small, knowing smile touched her lips. "It’s just another language between two people, you know? A way of expressing yourself." She gestured vaguely between Alexey and Sharon. "And when you love each other like you both do? That makes it… even more beautiful." She shrugged, the movement fluid and confident. "So don’t hold back because of me." Her gaze settled firmly on Sharon, then slid back to Alexey, challenging yet warm. "Feel free to call a spade a spade." That mischievous glint returned. "I’m not so fragile and innocent as you might think I am. Hihi."
The frankness hung in the air, stark and unexpected. Alexey felt a hot flush crawl up his neck. The image of Sharon kneeling this morning, the feel of Katya’s body against his at the door – Katya’s words stripped away any pretense of distance. Call a spade a spade. His own hidden, shameful thoughts felt suddenly exposed under the lamp light.
Sharon watched Katya, her therapist’s perception sharp, absorbing the younger woman’s confidence. A slow, appreciative smile spread across her face, different from her earlier laugh – deeper, more complex. "Noted, Katyusha," she murmured, her voice low and rich. "Loud and clear." She turned her full attention back to Alexey. Her hand moved from the chair to his shoulder, a firm, grounding weight. The touch seared through his thin t-shirt. "Ready?" she asked him softly. Not a question about the Henderson valve, or paperwork. A question about the abyss they were about to peer into.
Alexey looked up at her. Saw the understanding, the challenge, the unwavering possession in her dark eyes. He saw Katya in his peripheral vision, watching them with open, unguarded curiosity and something akin to approval. The taste of salt was a scream on his tongue. His pulse hammered against his ribs. He managed a single, stiff nod.
Sharon’s fingers tightened briefly. "Good," she breathed. She glanced towards their bedroom door down the short hall. "The kitchen’s yours, Katya. We’ll be… talking." She gave Alexey’s shoulder a subtle tug upwards. The command was silent, absolute.
He rose, his legs feeling strangely detached. Sharon’s hand slid down his arm to grasp his hand, her fingers intertwining with his. Her grip was warm, strong, unyielding. She led him away from the lamplit sanctuary of the living room, past the chessboard and the potted plant, towards the closed bedroom door. Katya watched them go, a thoughtful expression replacing her earlier teasing smile, the crumpled paper towel forgotten in her hand. The soft click of the bedroom door closing echoed in the sudden quiet.
The soft click of the bedroom door closing echoed in the sudden quiet. Outside, Katya’s movements continued – the clatter of containers, the sink running faintly – mundane sounds incongruous with the charged stillness inside. Sharon didn’t turn on the overhead light. Instead, she guided him towards the bed bathed only in the dim, bluish glow filtering through the blinds from the city outside. Their own little cave.
She stopped him beside the rumpled sheets, their unmade state a stark reminder of the morning’s frantic intensity. Her fingers, still laced with his, squeezed gently. "Okay, Alex," she breathed, her voice low, stripping away the playful therapist, leaving only the woman who knew his darkest corners. "Talk. About the text. About Mark. About whatever churned inside you all day." She released his hand, her dark eyes searching his face in the gloom. "No judgment. Ever." She placed her palm flat against his chest, feeling the rapid thud beneath his ribs. "Just us."
He sucked in a breath, the taste of salt phantom-bright on his tongue again. The image of Mark’s easy grin, Sharon’s wink emoji, crashed back. "The selfie," he started, the words scraping out. "Him… looking at you like that." He swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet her unwavering gaze. "Your smile. It wasn't… just friendly." He clenched his jaw, the admission feeling like tearing skin. "And your text… ‘told him you still are. Intense.’" He looked away, focusing on the blurred outline of their dresser. "What did he think that meant? What did you want him to think?"
Sharon didn’t flinch. She stepped closer, her body heat radiating against him. "He saw me looking happy," she murmured, her voice a soft caress. "Engaged. Flattered, maybe, by his attention. Because I was." Her fingers traced the tense line of his jaw. "And I told him you were intense because you are, Alex. Stoic, focused… powerful." Her thumb brushed his lower lip, the touch sending a jolt through him. "Underneath that, something else simmers. He doesn’t know what. But I do." Her eyes held pure understanding. "It scared you? That I did it? That I liked doing it?"
The directness punched the air from his lungs. "Da," he rasped. "Yes." He dragged his gaze back to hers, the conflict raw. "It… stirred something. Ugly. Hot." He looked down at his own hands, clenched into fists at his sides. "The hug. Katya. This morning. Her… energy. It mixes with… that. With you and Mark." He shook his head, a low growl of frustration escaping. "I don’t understand it. Wanting that fire… fearing the burn."
Sharon closed the final inch between them, her body pressing soft and warm against his tense frame. She wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her head on his chest. "Oh, Alexey," she sighed, the sound vibrating against him. "It’s not ugly. It’s human. Complex." She tilted her head up, her face a pale oval in the dimness. "After you left this morning… after tasting you on me… I looked into it. Really looked. About sharing. About cuckolding." Her voice was steady, clinical yet intimate. "The craving for that… heat. The sting of jealousy twisted into arousal. The little humiliations – like tasting yourself on my lips, like knowing I enjoyed another man’s attention." Her fingers slid under the hem of his t-shirt, finding the warm skin of his back. "It’s a powerful cocktail. And it’s yours."
He shuddered, her words naming the unnamed things inside him, both a relief and a deeper exposure. "You… researched?"
"Of course," she said simply. "To understand your language." She traced the muscles along his spine. "The wanting more… the fear… it’s okay. I’m not scared of it." She pulled back slightly, her hands rising to frame his face. Her touch was grounding, absolute. "Promise me something. If it gets too much… if the uncomfortable tips into pain… you tell me. Immediately. No walls. No stoic silence. You tell me. I will stop. I will never judge your ‘too much’. Okay?"
The trust she offered was terrifying, vast. He saw only sincerity, fierce understanding, in her shadowed eyes. "Okay," he whispered, the word thick. "I promise."
"Good." A small, tender smile touched her lips. Her hands drifted down, fingers finding the hem of his t-shirt again. This time, they tugged it upwards. "Clothes off," she murmured, her voice dropping to that husky register that resonated deep in his belly. "All of them." Her own hands went to the button of her leggings. "Show me your skin, Alex. Like you showed me your thoughts."
They undressed in the near-darkness, movements quiet, deliberate. Fabric whispered against skin – the rustle of his t-shirt over his head, the soft sigh of Sharon’s leggings and sweater pooling on the floor. The cool air kissed his bare skin, raising goosebumps. Sharon stood before him, gloriously naked, her curves softened by the blue gloom, her F-cup breasts full, her nipples taut peaks. He felt exposed, vulnerable, intensely seen in a way that had nothing to do with the lack of light.
She guided him back onto the bed. The sheets were cool against his back. She straddled his thighs, her weight a familiar, welcome pressure. Her heat radiated against his skin. For a moment, she just looked at him, her gaze travelling the length of his body, lingering on his half-hard cock lying against his stomach. Her expression was contemplative, loving, possessive.
Then her hand moved. Not to him directly, but to rest possessively low on his stomach, just above the base of his cock. Her touch was warm, claiming. "That picture," she began, her voice a low murmur, thick with reminiscence. "Mark. Leaning against the reception desk like he owned the place." Her fingers started a slow, idle circle on his skin. "He saw me walking in, his eyes lit up. That appreciative look he always has." Her thumb brushed the very base of his shaft, making him twitch. "He asked how ‘the formidable Mr. Volkov’ was doing." Her lips curved. "Said you seemed intense at the retreat. Focused. Reserved. Powerful." Her hand slid lower, fingers finally wrapping loosely around his cock, her touch feather-light, barely there. He hardened instantly under her grasp.
"He was standing close," she continued, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, her eyes fixed on his face, watching every flicker. "Really close. Invading my space just a little. His cologne… something woody, expensive." Her fingers tightened fractionally, beginning a slow, languid stroke up his length, her thumb pressing lightly against the sensitive underside of the head on the upstroke. Alexey gasped, his hips lifting slightly off the bed. "I angled myself towards him," she breathed, her own breath quickening slightly, her gaze locked on his. "Just a subtle shift. Let my hand rest on my arm, drew his eye down." She demonstrated, lifting her free hand to her own bicep, her movement graceful, deliberate. "Told him you were still intense. Said it with a little smile. Let it hang there." Her stroking hand maintained its slow, torturous rhythm. "He leaned in even closer then. His shoulder brushed mine. Asked if intense was… good." She leaned down over him, her dark hair falling like a curtain, her breath warm on his cheek. Her hand tightened, the pace still deliberate. "I looked him right in the eye, Alex," she murmured, her lips almost touching his ear. "Held his gaze. And I said, ‘Oh, it’s very good. He burns… brightly.’"
The image exploded behind Alexey’s eyes – Mark’s grin, Sharon’s unwavering stare, the subtle body language, her loaded words. Shame, jealousy, and a blinding spike of pure, unadulterated arousal slammed into him. He groaned, deep and guttural, his hips bucking upwards involuntarily into her tight, slick fist. She smiled against his skin, a predator satisfied.
"Then I pulled out my phone," she whispered, her voice rough now with her own arousal. Her strokes quickened, becoming firmer, more insistent. She used the wetness beading at his tip to slick her way. "Took that selfie. Right there. Felt him watching me, felt the charge." She squeezed him hard on an upstroke, drawing a choked gasp from him. "Sent it to you. Watched his face flush a little as I tapped the screen." Her free hand slid down, cupping his balls gently, rolling them. "The wink emoji?" She chuckled darkly. "That was all for you, Alex. Knowing you’d see him. Knowing you’d see me, playing the game. Knowing exactly what it would do to you." Her hand worked him faster, her breath coming in short bursts against his neck. "Like it’s doing now." She lifted her head, her eyes blazing down at him in the dimness, her lips parted. "Like a fire I lit inside you."
Her words, the vivid recounting, the relentless rhythm of her hand – it was too much. The coil in his belly snapped. Pleasure detonated, white-hot and shattering. He arched off the bed with a strangled cry, his release pulsing hotly over her fingers and his stomach in thick, helpless spurts. She rode it out with him, her hand milking him firmly until he collapsed back onto the sheets, trembling, utterly spent, the taste of salt and submission thick in his mouth.
She slowed her strokes, gentling him through the aftershocks. Then she lifted her hand, glistening in the faint light, and brought her fingers deliberately to her own lips. Her dark eyes held his, unblinking, as she slowly, deliberately, sucked his release from her fingertips. The intimacy was shocking, profound. A low moan escaped him, part protest, part surrender. She lowered her hand, a satisfied glint in her eyes. She leaned down, her lips brushing his sweat-dampened temple. "Mine," she whispered, the single word resonant with possession, echoing the morning. Her breath hitched, warm against his skin. Outside, the muffled sound of Katya humming drifted through the door.