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 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 intensity fuels the 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, my hands gripping his back as the air grows thick with desire. It's so vivid I can almost feel the heat of his touch, the weight of his gaze, and I'm swept up in it, my earlier unease about being oblivious—missing him in the coffee shop and bookstore until he paid—brushed aside like dust. Who cares if I didn't notice him lurking? The thrill of imagining him like this, all power and heat, makes it feel like a game I'm suddenly winning. I shift in the recliner, my chamomile tea forgotten in my hands, now lukewarm as I set it on the side table. My new copy of The Grid: Book 2 sits untouched on the coffee table, and I'm just settling into the book's calmer banquet scene, where Peter strategizes with his advisor, when my phone buzzes, Lena's name lighting up the screen.
I jolt, tea sloshing over the rim of the mug onto my jeans. "Crap," I mutter, setting the book on the side table and grabbing a napkin to dab at the spill. I stand, nearly tipping the recliner in my haste, and stumble toward the Bose speaker, fumbling to shut off Vivaldi's Summer mid-note, the vibrant strings fading to silence. My socked feet slip slightly on the hardwood, and I catch myself on the coffee table, cursing under my breath as I answer the call, my voice a little breathless. "Lena, that's so weird—I was *just* about to call you."
"Why, what's up?" Lena's voice is bright, a little crackly through the line, full of her usual curiosity.
"Oh, you have no idea," I say, laughing as I head to my bedroom, phone pressed to my ear. My jeans are damp and clingy, so I set the phone on speaker and toss it on the bed, hopping around as I tug them off. "But you called me, so you go first." I nearly fall over in my underwear, my foot catching on the jeans, and I grab the bedframe, giggling at my own clumsiness. "Hang on, I'm changing—I spilled tea all over myself."
Lena snickers. "Classic Elise. Okay, but you sound way too wired. Spill. What's got you all worked up?"
I yank open a drawer, grabbing my favorite silk night shorts and slipping them on, the smooth fabric a relief after the sticky jeans. I ditch my shirt, tossing it toward the hamper, and stand there in my bra as I talk. "Okay, so I had the weirdest day," I start, balancing on one leg and nearly tripping again as I remove my socks. I dive into the story—the biker keeping pace with my Mercedes, the breakup joke at the light, him telling me to take it back with those hazel eyes glinting and that killer smile flashing across his chiseled face, paying for my latte and books without warning, and then vanishing with that cryptic promise. "Lena, he was hot. Like, tall, broad, definitely muscular under that leather jacket, with dark hair and this smile that's just... lethal. I'm reading this book about Peter the Great and Catherine, and he's got that same intense, larger-than-life vibe, you know? I was just picturing him in these... steamy scenes, like I'm Catherine and he's pinning me down instead of Peter, all heat and power. It's ridiculous."
Lena's laughing so hard she snorts. "Oh my God, Elise, you're casting him as Peter the Great in your own personal sex scene? That's next-level. So, he's a nine, then? With that smile and build? Damn, girl. How tall we talking?"
"At least six-two, maybe more," I say, my face heating as I picture him again, all power and heat like Peter in the book's velvet-draped bed. I pace the room half dressed. "He's got this presence, like he owns the space without trying. But seriously, who does that? Paying for a stranger's stuff and then just... poof?"
"Hot and mysterious," Lena says, her voice gleeful. "Okay, job guesses. I'm thinking... stuntman, maybe? All that muscle and the bike screams action movie vibes. Or a firefighter who rides on his days off. Something rugged, right?"
I snort, imagining him in fireman's gear, though he'd probably still carry that tsar-like swagger. "Maybe. But he could be some tech bro with a gym obsession, playing bad boy on weekends. Or—hear me out—professional stalker. Because who follows someone around, buys their stuff, and doesn't even ask for a name?"
Lena hums, thinking. "Okay, but you said he didn't hide he was there. That's not stalker vibes. Stalkers don't let you see them. Maybe he's just... bold? Like, he saw you, thought you were cute, and decided to shoot his shot in the most extra way possible."
I chew my lip, thinking of the book's raw, passionate embrace, now tangled with the biker's leather-clad intensity. "Yeah, but why not ask for my number? Why the whole 'I'll see you again' thing? It's creepy, right? Or... maybe not creepy, but weirdly intense."
"Intense is hot," Lena says, and I can hear her grin. "He's probably planning his next grand gesture. Bet he shows up at your coffee shop tomorrow with a rose or something ridiculous, like Peter wooing his Catherine."
I laugh, but my stomach flips, my body still warm from those book-fueled fantasies. "God, I hope not. Or... maybe I do? Ugh, I'm a mess. I was so oblivious today, Lena. He was right there in the coffee shop, the bookstore, and I didn't notice until he was paying. But honestly? I'm kinda over it—picturing him in these book scenes is way more fun than worrying about it."
"Then lean into the fantasy but stay sharp," Lena says, her tone shifting to serious. "Sounds like he's just into you. You might never even see him again. Keep your eyes open, but don't stress. Speaking of stress, how's work? You still dealing with Mark's flirty crap and that campaign due Monday?"
I sigh before answering her and nod, even though she can't see me. I glance toward the living room, where Song of Russian Ice and Secrets waits, its tale of Peter and Catherine's passion still tangled with my own fleeting daydreams of the biker.