I'm curled up in my recliner, the worn leather creaking as I sink deeper into Song of Russian Ice and Secrets, the pages pulling me into the opulent, treacherous world of Peter the Great and Catherine I's court. The book, one of my favorite author's best, opens with a steamy scene in February 1711, weeks before a grand banquet:
In a secluded chamber of the Winter Palace, weeks before the grand banquet of February 1711, Peter the Great sprawls across a velvet-draped bed, his bare chest glistening with sweat in the candlelight. His love and secret wife, Catherine, lies beside him, her auburn hair spilling over the pillows, her muslin shift clinging to her form. The air is heavy with the warmth of their love-making, the distant hum of St. Petersburg's frozen streets muffled by thick walls.
My breath catches, my pulse quickening as the words ignite a fire in my imagination. The biker—tall, broad, definitely muscular, with dark hair and those hazel eyes that glint like they know all my secrets—replaces Peter in my mind. I picture him sprawled across that velvet-draped bed, his leather jacket tossed carelessly to the floor, his bare chest taut and glistening, every line of his body radiating that commanding power I saw when he leaned against his bike. I'm Catherine, my hair fanned out, my skin warm under a thin shift as his strong hands trace the curve of my waist, pulling me close, his killer smile hovering over me in the candlelight. His low, teasing "I *will* see you again" becomes a heated murmur in my ear, like Peter's rough "sun and stars," and my body warms, a flush spreading through me as I imagine his lips brushing my neck, his fingers gripping me with that same bold intensity he had when he paid for my coffee and books.
The book's scene shifts, and so does my fantasy:
Peter growls in anger, grabbing Catherine and rolling on her, pounding into her hard, her breaths coming in waves. The gentle love-making turns raw and crude with emotion, her insides clenching uncontrollably around him as he slams into her one last time.
My cheeks burn, my heart racing as I picture the biker in that moment, his broad shoulders caging me in, all raw passion and control. I imagine my hands gripping his back, feeling the hard muscle under my fingers, his hazel eyes locked on mine as he moves with that same fierce, untamed energy. My breath hitches, my skin tingling as I sink deeper into the fantasy, the air in my apartment feeling heavier, warmer, like the Winter Palace chamber. I can almost feel the weight of his body, the heat of his touch, the way his smile would curve against my skin, teasing and confident, like he knows exactly what he's doing to me. The book describes Peter hurling a glass, his rage and desire a tangled storm, and I see the biker doing the same, his intensity matching Peter's as he pulls me close again, his hands rough but deliberate, my body responding in ways that make me bite my lip to stay grounded.
I shift in the recliner, my chamomile tea forgotten in my hands, now lukewarm as I set it on the side table. My copy of The Grid: Book 2 sits untouched on the coffee table, but I'm too caught up in this haze to care. The biker's presence—his towering six-two frame, his muscular build, that chiseled jaw—merges with Peter's larger-than-life aura, and I'm lost in it, imagining myself as Catherine, caught in his arms during the book's later scenes:
Peter's rage softens, his dark eyes glinting as he turns to her. "I love my-a sun and stars, ze light of winter. For my-a girls, da. We have made seven children. And lost two heirs already, I vill claim zem and announce zem tonight as princesses. For Russia! For you!" He breathes into her ear.
In my mind, it's the biker's voice, low and gravelly, whispering against my ear, his hands cupping my face as he promises something reckless and wild, not unlike Peter's vow to Catherine. My body's on fire now, a slow burn spreading through me as I imagine his lips trailing down my jaw, his broad frame pressing against me, all heat and power. I'm rattled, but not by my earlier obliviousness—how I didn't notice him in the coffee shop or bookstore until he paid. That naivety feels like a distant worry, brushed aside by the thrill of this fantasy, where I'm not just Elise but a Catherine to his Peter, caught in a storm of desire and danger. I close my eyes for a moment, the book open on my lap, Vivaldi's Summer still spinning softly on the record player, its vibrant strings amplifying the heat pooling in my chest. I'm all hot and bothered, my skin flushed, my thoughts tangled in leather and candlelight, wondering how a stranger I don't even know could take over my head like this.