Cristelle Comby - Red Lies

“How did it go?” he asked, unable to hide his eagerness to know the answer. Whether he worried for his wife’s safety or the completion of the mission, Sofiya wasn’t sure—knowing the man, she figured it was for the latter.

“Fine,” she said, patting the backpack that she now balanced on one shoulder. “I took pictures of everything.”

She closed the window behind her and turned to see something she had never seen before. Petrov smiled. It was not one of his faked, politician smiles, but rather, an honest gesture that betrayed happiness, relief, and pride—all at once.

“It’s over?” he said, in a breath. “It’s truly over.”

He moved backwards until the back of his legs hit the bed, and he let himself fall on the soft mattress. The wave of relief that hit him was so intense, it looked as if all energy had been drained out of him.

Sofiya remained by the window, unsure of what to do. This was a new side of Petrov, human and without a mask. She wasn’t used to it, and it left her unsettled. As she looked around, she noticed that both their suitcases had been brought to the room. She hoped he’d been the one to take them there, rather than a bellboy who may have noticed her absence. She was tempted to ask him about it, then thought better of it. It was Viktor Petrov, after all: the man with plans within plans. His name and such a stupid mistake didn’t belong in the same sentence.

She moved to her suitcase and knelt down to open it. Moving her stuff to one side, she pulled at the lining at the back until the Velcro strap released its hold. She placed the small backpack there, along with every precious thing it contained. Then she fastened the lining back in place and spread the clothes in front of it evenly.

She was tired and could do with a shower. But this bedroom only had one door, and it led to the corridor, not an in-suite bathroom. Thinking Plan B would have to do, she untied her hair and removed the black leggings and corset that reeked of the stale smell she had picked up in the tunnels. She’d been up for nearly twenty-four hours, and she looked at the bed longingly. As she glanced at it, she found two light-blue orbs following her every move.

For the first time, Viktor Petrov was looking at her with growing interest. While in Stockholm, Sofiya had tried more than once to arouse him. She’d used all the tools of the trade on her target, such as high-end fabrics and suggestive perfumes, but never once had he spared her an interested glance. Tonight, though, it seemed the young woman in a pair of simple black cotton bra and panties, with her messy hair undone, had caught his interest. Sofiya was tired, covered in grime and dust, and had never felt less sexy and appealing in her life, but Petrov seemed enraptured. He reached out a hand to her, and she moved forward to take it. Sofiya expected it to be cold, but it was the opposite. She held on to him, and he tugged until she was right in front of him.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “For helping me.”

She nodded, stepping closer until their knees touched. When he made no move to escape their proximity, she parted her legs to sit astride his. Petrov tensed with anticipation, and she straddled him fully. Their eyes met, and each one held the other’s gaze.

When the diplomat brought both of his hands up to encircle the young woman’s shoulders, Sofiya quivered beneath his warm touch. In response, she thrust her hips forward—an open invitation for more. Petrov responded in kind, his hands sliding down to unclasp her bra.

It fell to the floor without a sound, and she expected him to look down to discover what its absence revealed. The man’s icy-blue gaze never wavered from her face, and she moved forward to kiss him. Their mouths found each other, and so began a slow celebratory ballet.

Perhaps it was residual adrenaline coursing through her veins, perhaps it was the freedom she knew was within her grasp, but as she captured Petrov’s lips in hers, Sofiya felt more alive than ever. The man’s lips parted underneath hers, and she was afforded her first taste of that elusive man she’d pursued for so long. It was nothing like what she’d imagined, for never had she thought that he could feel so warm, so human.

In the distance, Sofiya could still hear the echoes of music and their guests partying and dancing below. But in the privacy of what was to be their nuptial room, their lips and tongues did a dance of their own. Clothes fell to the floor in messy lumps as bedsheets were pushed aside, and passion surged.

In a display of grace and agility, Sofiya settled herself in the middle of the large bed, naked and inviting. She lay on her back, with her head and shoulders resting on the fluffy pillows. The position made her breasts thrust upwards, an indication that she was ready and eager for more. Petrov showed all the signs of being in a similar state, but still, he took an instant to admire his partner before moving forward. His gaze was like a caress on her skin and, when he joined her on the bed, his hands replaced his eyes.

Their movements were neither rushed nor forceful. Each took their time exploring the other, leaving trails of caresses and kisses along the way. Their hands stroked and cupped at everything they could reach, never seeming to have enough.

Sofiya was the first to orgasm, under Petrov’s gentle and deft fingers. Without rushing it, he’d let his partner’s pleasure build up until she climaxed. And when the pleasure weave overtook her, he pressed his lips to hers, sipping up all her cries and moans as she rode it out. As soon as she was recovered, Sofiya returned the favour until it was time for her mouth to swallow the evidence of the man’s ecstasy.

Outside, light-pink hues tinged the night sky as the first tell-tales of the morning appeared, but neither Sofiya nor Petrov noticed them. Nothing mattered to the couple, but the small space in which they existed as one. They held onto each other with all the strength they had as Petrov moved in and out of her, sharing the common fear that the other would disappear if either one let go. Covered in sweat, aching for that sweet release, they came one more time with their lips sealed together.

In that instant, they had thoughts for nothing more than the moment they shared: a memory that existed outside of time and that belonged to them only. There would be ample opportunity, later, to consider their actions of the night and the repercussions they were sure to have on the European continent and history at large. But for now, passion devoured them alive, and that was enough.

Later that day, Mr and Mrs Petrov enjoyed their first afternoon as husband and wife by taking a walk in the summer breeze that fluttered through Moscow. Hand-in-hand like all newlyweds, they walked around the red square and then followed the Moskova River until they reached Gorki Park. Near the pond, they stopped at a restaurant and had a late lunch on its terrace.

Sofiya pondered what her life would be like now as she dug into her bowl of Shchi . The chef had added sauerkraut and pickle to the cabbage and potato soup, and it was particularly sour and just how she liked it best.

This would probably be her last Shchi for a long time, she realised, and the good moment she was enjoying turned bittersweet. Like many things, the ingredients to make Shchi could be found anywhere, but she knew the result would always taste better in the land of her birth.

Shchi wouldn’t be the only thing she’d soon come to miss, she knew, but she’d made her choice, and there was no way back now. It was her belief that the tapestry of a person’s life was woven with a single thread. How its colour changed was defined by the multitude of choices a person made every day. Left or right, sugar or salt—and the tapestry grew to paint a straightforward picture. The motive was easy to guess at, except when large forks occurred, and the design was irrevocably altered as a result.