“You’re angry,” Ivan remarks astutely.
“Not angry, exactly.”
“Offended?” he pushes. I wish he would just drop it.
“It’s just that I like being in control,” I admit quietly. Ivan squeezes my thigh.
“And I certainly do not want to take that control from you against your will, Katy,” he explains in an undertone. “But I think you like it more than you say.”
Again, there’s that mingled sensation of irritation and arousal. What does it say about me, a strong woman with a hold of her own destiny, that I enjoy being bossed around and dominated by a bigger, stronger man?
“You may be right,” I reply softly. The car finally slows as the driver parallel parks on the street. I look out the window to see that we are at the American Museum of Natural History.
“Well, here is our destination,” Ivan says, smiling again as he pays the driver and takes my hand to assist me out of the cab. “We’re going to see the butterflies.”
All my previous annoyance dissipates instantly. I can’t help but laugh out loud. This has got to be a joke — going to the Butterfly Conservatory with my Russian mafia hit man master.
“Don’t you like it?” Ivan asks, and the twinge of slight insecurity in his tone almost makes me melt right there on the icy sidewalk. He actually cares if I like his date idea or not.
“I love it,” I reply genuinely.
We spend the next hour or so wandering through the bright flowers and butterflies, shedding our cold weather layers in the near-80 degree temperature of the conservatory. It feels like a tropical paradise, a slice of warm, colorful heaven smack dab in the middle of snowy New York City. I feel like an ethereal being, floating around surrounded by such beauty. It’s truly a magical place, and I find myself feeling a little dreamy as Ivan guides me by the hand, excitedly pointing out different moths and butterflies.
But my stomach is rumbling by now, and Ivan suggests that we go to a sweet little café down the street for lunch. It feels exhilarating to walk down the street hand-in-hand with such a powerful man. Despite the precarious, transactional nature of our relationship, and despite knowing exactly what Ivan has done with these hands, I still feel safer than I’ve ever felt.
And yet that underlying current of danger remains, and I like that, too.
When we get to the restaurant, he firmly informs the hostess that we want to sit in the front corner. She takes one look at him and immediately acquiesces. It doesn’t take much for Ivan to get whatever he wants. All he has to do is fix you with that cold, forceful gaze.
He orders a sandwich and a vodka tonic, while I eat a bowl of pasta and sip my peach martini. I keep wondering when the cutesy-date portion of our day will end and my Prince Charming transforms back into my domineering sex master.
As lovely as the past few hours have been, I have to admit that I am starting to really anticipate the inevitable second part. He’s staring out the window wistfully at the snow, looking as though his mind is a thousand miles away. I wonder if it really is.
“You like the snow?” I ask conversationally. There’s a moment’s delay before he replies.
“Da. It reminds me of home.”
I feel a little blindsided by this sudden glimpse of Ivan’s inner thoughts. He’s usually so closed-off and cold, it’s hard to imagine what goes on inside his head. I wonder if he will mind if I push him for more information…
“Russia?”
He nods. “Balakovo.”
“I imagine it’s a lot colder there, though,” I add.
“Yes. Much colder. And quieter. Much smaller than New York. It is where I grew up, and sometimes I still miss it.”
“How did you end up here in the Big Apple?” I prod. Ivan stops and looks at me sideways, causing me to freeze up instinctively. I hope I haven’t asked too much.
“It is a very long story, and not a happy one. I am sure you don’t want to hear it.”
I nod, looking at him expectantly. I am sure that he is about to tell me no, that it’s time to leave. But instead, after a few moments he waves over the waitress and orders another martini for me and a vodka on the rocks for himself. Once the new drinks appear, he takes a long sip and then leans in closer.
“I was just a small boy when my mother and my older sister Anya were killed,” he begins, swirling the vodka gently in its glass. I prop my chin on my hand to show that I’m listening.
“I don’t remember it at all because I was only three, but the witnesses say that four men on motorbikes forced my mother’s van off the road and into a ditch. My mama, she was killed instantly, and poor Anya bled out before the policemen and the doctors came. She was eleven. We were driving to visit my father at work.”