She gasps, lifting one leg to wrap around my waist, clinging to my shoulders for stability. I fill her, pumping in and out, her skin under my hands a form of worship.
Her breath rasps. Her gaze stays on my face, intensifying the moment. She’s searching for something. Connection? Truth? Trust?
I wish I fucking knew how to give it to her. All I know is our bodies, so right together. Our skin, wet and slick. The communion of this act, this coming together for mutual release. I know I need this as badly as she does, even though I’d willingly deny myself the pleasure if it meant I could undo what happened tonight.
I work her ass in my hands, massaging it, stroking between her cheeks. Pressing against her anus.
Her eyes fly open in surprise, and her hips thrust frantically, taking me deeper, meeting my strokes.
You like that? You want my finger in your ass while I make you come?
That’s what I would say if I could just dirty-talk my girl.
I bend my neck to meld my lips to hers, drinking in her gasps as I work my fingertip into her anus. When her head arcs back, I kiss her throat and gently pump my finger in and out, just to the first knuckle as I hold her hips captive and thrust into her.
She shatters—throwing herself fully in my arms, both legs wrapped tightly around my waist as she comes. Her nails score my neck and shoulders, the contracting of her muscles around my dick bringing on my own release. I stay deep but rub her clit up and down over my loins, my erection straining with each mini-thrust. I come inside her, and she squeezes more, milking my dick for its seed. I fucking love that I can feel everything. That I’m inside her without any barriers between us.
“Oleg.” She sounds broken.
I don’t put her down. I don’t ever want to put her down again. I ease my finger out of her ass and wash us both under the water, then carry her out of the shower, still wrapped around my waist. I grab a towel and pull it tightly around her back and ass, using it to hold her against my body. Carefully, like she’s made of glass, I prop her ass on the bathroom counter, the towel tucked softly beneath her cheeks, and I use the ends to pat her face dry. Her make-up left smudges under her eyes, but I don’t know what to do about those. We’ll figure it out in the morning.
I run the corner of the towel between her breasts and down her belly, wrap both sides up to dry her thighs, and then I pull her back into my arms, wrap the towel around her back and carry her to my bed.
Story’s quiet the whole time, watching me with big, brown eyes. I lay her gently down and flick off the light before I lie beside her. The chaotic thudding in my chest is soothed when she instantly rolls into me, molding her body against my side, resting her wet head on my shoulder.
“You’re warm,” she murmurs.
She’s right, I’m burning up. But the only thing I care about is holding Story.
Chapter 6
Story
For a moment, when I wake, I don’t recognize where I am. The soft sheets, the warm bed. The sense of comfort. There’s a feeling of safety and of the presence of another, but I can’t quite remember…
I open my eyes, and it all comes rushing back to me.
Oleg.
It’s amazing how comforting his presence is to me. Grounding. Solid. When I’m around him, the chaos in my head seems to quiet.
Oleg is up and dressed, sitting at a table near the curtains. A bag from the local bagel place sits on the table, along with a cup of take-out coffee. The scent gets me out of bed.
I don’t want to think about last night.
The gun at my head.
The three men Oleg killed. The trouble he must be in. I know I need to demand answers—we’re going to figure out how to communicate one way or another—but part of me isn’t sure I even want to know what he’s into.
I was a witness to murder last night.
I don’t even want to think about all the horrible things that could mean. Right now, without knowing Oleg’s story, I can make up my own fairytale around it. He’s the innocent one being hunted. He did what he had to do to protect me, the girl he loves, because I got caught in the middle of it.
That’s the pretty way I want to spin the story.
This is what I’ve always done. I live in the area between fantasy and reality. My life has never been structured and organized. I had the opposite of what you could call a “stable home life.” There was love—so much love—but it wasn’t stable.
But what if it’s uglier than that? What if Oleg’s the villain in the story?
No.
He’s not. I know that from the deepest place in my soul. Not the man who touches me like I’m the most precious thing in the universe. Who looks at me like I’m the only other being in the world. He can’t be bad.
Just like my mother isn’t bad for all her nervous breakdowns, live-in boyfriends and bad breakups. And my father isn’t bad for drinking too much, sleeping with every band groupie who came into his life, and putting his kids last.
I’ve lived in total chaos my whole life. I think that’s why I choose to live alone now. Because my thoughts are messy and disorganized, and usually, when I add someone else to the mix, I lose myself completely. Except that doesn’t seem to happen with Oleg. Maybe because he doesn’t talk. I don’t want to look at that like a plus, but he not only doesn’t add to the noise, he absorbs it.
Now that I’ve identified it, I’m sure that’s why having him at my shows made it so fabulous for me. He somehow gave me space in the chaos.
“Good morning, sunshine.” I kiss his temple.
Oleg’s dark gaze sweeps over my naked form and grows hooded.
My nipples pucker at his appreciation.
Purposely provoking him, I dance out of his reach to the wall of curtains, curious to see what’s behind them. I yank them back and gasp. “Whoa.”
It’s an entire wall of floor to ceiling windows looking out over the city. “This is incredible, Oleg.” I take another look around the place in the light of day, drinking in what, in the shock of last night’s trauma, I failed to notice. This place is gorgeous. And expensive. It’s weird because it’s just a studio without any kitchen—not even a mini fridge, unless I’m missing something—but it’s very high end. We’re in some kind of small penthouse on the top of a building that must be very close to Lake Michigan. I’ll bet other apartments in the building have lake views.
“Can people see in?” I ask, realizing if they can I’m putting on quite a show.
Oleg makes a popping sound with his lips. I turn to find a t-shirt flying through the air at me.
“Thanks.” I catch it and shake it open. It’s one of Oleg’s shirts—soft cotton and hunter green. It’s gigantic. I pull it over my head, and it almost falls to my knees.
“Is this a hotel?”
Oleg shakes his head.
“This is your place?”
A nod.
“I love it.” I race past him to leap onto the bed, which, sadly, doesn’t bounce. “Except your bed has no springs.” I pick up a pillow and lob it at him. “You need a bed with springs, so I can jump on it.”
He catches the pillow. The corners of his mouth tick in a barely perceptible smile. I realize I have never—not once—seen this man smile. His face is usually as inexpressive as his voice, which makes him doubly hard to read.