Last Kiss (Hitman #3) (18 page)

But Vasily belongs to me, and his wound might as well be mine. I swallow hard, and then I black out.

VASILY

“You forgot your eyebrows,” Naomi says. She’s eating crackers and drinking juice in bed. After she passed out from the sight of my puny wound, I bundled her into the bathroom and while she was unconscious I dyed her hair a dull red to match the new papers we will be getting from Guillaume. I knew she would prefer it that way. She came to as I was rubbing the concoction through her strands. Thankfully she closed her eyes and willed herself to not look at the mess. When I was done, I carried her back to the bed and dyed my own hair brown.

I run out and find a pizzeria still open and buy us two pies. Half for her and one and a half for me. Hopefully the cheese is brown enough for her.

In the bathroom I see my error. The hair on my head is rather
dark but my face looks pale. I frown. Her face appears behind. She is holding a black tube.

“It’s mascara.”

I take it out and examine the fuzzy, curved brush covered with a dark brown substance. “Put it on me,” I order.

She scrunches her nose. Naomi does not like my orders but she complies. I sit down on the dirty bed that is barely big enough for one let alone two bodies, but both of us are sore from our jump from the train.

We need to rest before we can journey further. It is doubtful I can resist her no matter that the sheets might be dirty or that there is blood on my shoulder and my side. I’ve resigned myself to my own frailties. I plan to explain this to Naomi before we lie down. She, of all people, should understand neurosis—if not from an intellectual level at least.

Her red hair dangles down around her face. I’m not certain how she colored her eyebrows, but they have a red tint to them as well. She is still beautiful but somehow she is not Naomi. The color is too harsh for her or too red or just not
her.

“I prefer you as a blonde.”

She pulls a lock of her hair and stares at it. “Me too.”

She steps between my legs and bends over. The position is awkward for her.

“Why don’t you sit on my legs,” I suggest.

“But you don’t like to be touched,” she reminds me.

“This isn’t touching. It is merely providing a place for you to be seated while we finalize the details of my disguise.”

This explanation must make sense to her, because she nods several times and climbs onto my lap. I cup her back to prevent her from falling off, but my hands drift lower.

“Vasily, I’m too close to you now. Don’t hold me so tight.”

I’ve pulled her toward me, I realize. Close enough so that her stomach is nearly flush with mine. Other parts of us are touching as well. I force myself to relax and loosen my grip.

“You’re hard,” she says as she bends forward with her small brush. Her observation is made coolly and without any indication that it excites her. Having experienced the evening with her at the fetish club, I now know how she sounds and looks when she is aroused. Her eyes glitter and her facts turn provocative. If she wanted me, she would say something like—

“
A man’s penis averages around six inches. The vaginal canal might be longer but the G-spot is only one to three inches inside. And most women come from clitoral stimulation not penis-in-vagina sex so six inches is all you need. Six inches is three inches extra, although if someone has like a twelve-inch penis not all of it would be able to fit inside the vagina. And something that big would hurt bad.
”

Perhaps I still need lessons on how to read her. “Do you want to have sex with me, Naomi?”

“Of course. I don’t need sex, exactly. But I’d like for you to put your mouth between my legs. And I’d like to feel your penis inside me. I think that would feel good based on prior empirical evidence.”

My hands return to grip her tightly. “Naomi, you must be aware that I am not a good man. Are you certain you want to have me touch your body in such an intimate fashion?”

“Because you kill people? It seems like the people you kill need killing. Like those guys on the train? They would have killed us so it makes sense for you to shoot them first. You shouldn’t feel bad about that.” She tosses her stick to the side and blows on my brows lightly. “Don’t touch your eyebrows. The mascara needs to dry. It looks good, though.”

“Does nothing unsettle you?”

“Are we back to the killing or something else? And yes, I was upset when you said you would kill my brother or my parents. Was that a joke? I don’t get jokes a lot of the time. I mean, I understand them obviously because I’m brilliant, but I don’t get why they are funny.”

“It was not a joke. You should know that before we have sex. I would kill anyone who stood in the way of what I wanted.” I hold her securely, her covered sex against my growing erection, because I don’t want her to edge away even though I’m a danger to her, even though I do not like to be touched, even though I know that I’m losing my mind.

“Oh.” Her mouth makes a perfect oval at this sound.

An oval that I’d like to plunder with my cock. The pressure is building inside me. I can feel it pushing at every nerve ending, rising to the top of my skin. Behind my pants, my cock hurts.
I’ve
gone without for a very long time
, it reminds me insistently. “You need to be aware of this so that you can make the decision. Tonight we lie down on that bed together, and I will need to have sex with you. If you do not wish for this to happen, tell me now.”

She’s silent for a moment. “I want to have sex with you, too, but I don’t want you to kill my family. I don’t really care if you kill anyone else. Wait, kids. I don’t want you to kill any kids. Maybe no one under the age of twenty-five. Also, the elderly. I think those people should be able to dictate the terms of their own death to the best of their ability. So like, no one over sixty-five.”

I choke back my laughter. “Anyone between the ages of twenty-five to sixty-five would be sanctioned targets.”

She nods. “That’s the best I can come up with on the spur of the
moment. The list might change. Oh, and Regan, Daniel’s friend, should be off your list.”

I tuck the top of my hand inside her waistband to anchor her on my lap and use my other to trace her fine features. I notice her eyebrows are starting to lighten as the makeup she’s applied has begun to rub off. “The parameters you have suggested have already been violated. There are killers who start at the age of ten. All they know is violence. They rise from their beds to kill and they dream of killing at night. And for some, killing is the least of their hated tasks. Sometimes going out and taking a life means avoiding more objectionable things at home.”

“What could be more objectionable?”

“Many, many things.”

Her brow furrows and then clears. “You don’t want to talk of those things? Are they related to why you don’t like to be touched?”

“Those things should be buried,” I say, not really answering her. “After we have sex, we will sleep. We will then continue on to seek out the Madonna. Once that task is completed, you will go to Lake Ladoga, where my
dacha
is, and wait for me.”

“Why?”

“It is dangerous now, Naomi. You saw the men on the train. I do not want you hurt.”

She stares at my cheek and with visible effort tries to meet my eyes. There’s a blue flash and then they slide away. “You care about me.”

Because I am so attuned to her now, I hear it—a longing that she might deny experiencing. Voice low, I admit, “I do but that is dangerous itself. Do you understand? When a man like me cares for someone, that person becomes a target. They can use you to make me do things; they could hurt you just to hurt me.”

“How long will I wait?”

How long are you willing to wait?
I do not answer her, for I’m too desperate. The need to taste her, to have a physical communion with her is too great. Instead I draw her mouth down to mine. When her small tongue darts out to rub against my lips, I feel only pleasure. I’m emboldened and open my mouth to receive her. She invades me. Her hands come to clench my face and her sex rubs against my hardness.

I did not realize she is as hungry as I until her small mouth devours me, all sharp teeth and wicked tongue. Her pressure pushes me backward and I fall, allowing the bed to catch me. Her fingers pluck at my shirt and I wrest it off.

She whimpers when the contact between our mouths must be broken, but hurriedly removes her top as well. We shove at our buttons and zippers and clothing until it is just her smooth, silky body against my rough, scarred one.

I know I am not worthy of the gift she is to give me—the gift of her body, the gift of pleasure—but I am a bad man and I will take it. But in return, I will bring her to the precipice of ecstasy again and again. There will be no delight she wants that will go unfulfilled.

I could stay here forever with her in my arms in this dilapidated hotel room on this well-used mattress. I have never felt as good in my life before. Not when I killed my father. Not when I sent my sister to Cambridge. Not when I seized control of the
Bratva
. Naomi wanting me, kissing me, making love to me is the pinnacle of
good
in my life, and I do not want to let her go.

Me, a man who loathes touching, who loathes sex, wants nothing more than to lie between this precious woman’s legs and sink into her soft flesh. I want her to embrace me and all my vileness until I am cleansed by her acceptance.

“I like your germs.” She moves down my chest, tonguing me everywhere. I did not realize my neck was sensitive or that bones were pleasure receptors. She bites my flat nipples and moves down to my stomach, where my cock bobs its head in greeting.

“It’s more than six inches,” she says, pausing for a moment in her exploration to take in my size. I’m well endowed and have been since a boy. It is why I was picked for certain purposes. Those images threaten to imperil my time with Naomi and resolutely I shove them down into the dark recesses of my mind.

“It is,” I admit gravely. “Imagine how much friction I can generate against your G-spot. I can fill you up and stroke every tiny centimeter of your sex. But not until you are wet enough. Touch yourself, Naomi. Are you wet enough for me, or do you need my mouth?”

She reaches between us and slides at least one finger, maybe two, inside her cunt. Her lack of inhibitions is incredibly erotic. One day I will drape her in a floor-length silver fox and nothing else. Her legs will be lashed to the arms of a chair and I will sit fully clothed as she brings herself off. As her orgasm approaches I will kneel between her legs and drink her essence until every cell in my bloodstream is coated with her.

“I’m pretty wet,” she says, holding her fingers up for inspection.

I bring her hand to my lips and suck her juice.

Her eyes widen. “That was filthy.” She looks scandalized and titillated at the same time.

I hand her a condom. “Put it on and take me inside your body. I am your servant in this.”

Her expression is studious and intense as she opens the package and rolls the condom down over my aching flesh. Even that small, innocuous touch makes me flinch. My hands curl into the
comforter and I restrain myself from flipping her over and pounding into her like an animal, like a boy with no finesse.

My cock looks obscene under the nearly clear rubber of the condom. The head is nearly purple and hugely engorged, but Naomi does not hesitate. Taking me in one hand and pressing her palm against my chest with the other, she rises on her knees and positions my cock at her wet entrance. She eases the tip in. My eyes are riveted on our connected flesh. Slowly, she descends and it feels . . . as if I am dying. Her wet, hot cunt opens and embraces me. I may never rise from this bed.

“Is this good, Vasily?” she asks, a little breathless, a little unsure.

“Too good,” I answer. “I have never felt better in the whole of my life.”

She leans forward, bracing herself on my chest. “Is my weight too much? I don’t want to touch the sheets, but your body is okay.”

Again, I swallow an inappropriate laugh. “
Nyet
. Press harder. I like it rough,” I admit. When she doesn’t flee, I tell her, “Dig in with your claws. Mark me with your teeth. Make me yours, Naomi. Make me yours.”

NAOMI

The last time I had sex was nothing like this.

Before, the boy pushed into me and pressed his weight on top of me, until our skin was touching everywhere. He sweated and grunted and got germs all over me. It was a horrible memory, and turned me off of sex for good.

Or so I’d thought. But everything with Vasily is different. I don’t mind when his skin touches mine. I don’t mind when his mouth touches my mouth and our saliva mixes. I don’t even mind when his penis, sheathed in latex so he won’t get semen on me, pushes and pushes into me so hard that it hurts a little. He’s very big and the position we’re in doesn’t really allow me time to get used to his girth. One moment he’s at my entrance, and the next, he’s in me so deep that I’m aching inside and things are stretching.

A small whimper escapes my throat and I wiggle on top of him a little, trying to get comfortable. My position is precarious; the only place I can put my hands is on his chest, otherwise I will be touching the filthy blankets. My knees are pressing onto them as it is; I’ll have to shower once we’re done. I probably shouldn’t be thinking about the bed, but I’m trying to distract myself from the enormous wedge that is Vasily’s penis pushing inside of me and making all of my body stretch in response.

“How does it feel, Naomi?” Vasily’s voice is thick with his accent, a sure sign he’s distracted. His eyes are sealed shut, though, and his hands clutch at my waist to hold me in place.

“Why are your eyes closed?”

“You feel too good. I am trying to keep control. It is . . . difficult for me.” He presses his forehead to mine. “I do not wish to hurt you.”

Oh. I consider this with another test wiggle. “Your penis is stretching my vagina several inches and causing slight discomfort. You might be so long that you’re hitting my cervix, but I’m not entirely sure what that would feel like.”

In response to this, he groans as if pained. “Keep talking, Naomi,” he rasps. “Tell me more.”

I study his face, looking for cues. I’m not sure if he’s having fun with sticking his penis inside me. I was wet from the excitement of it, but now that he’s in me, I’m not sure that I’m still enjoying things. I feel . . . crammed full.

And his face is tight, his eyes shut, his lips drawn back in a rather feral expression. I’d say he looks upset, but I’m a poor judge of these things. He’s in danger of losing control, he says. Am I doing something wrong? I’ve studied sex a great deal and I don’t
want to seem like an inexperienced idiot. I debate with myself, and then decide to show Vasily just how much I know.

“The largest penis on record was thirteen and a half inches and over six inches in circumference,” I tell him. “I don’t think you’re quite that big but you’re definitely in a top percentile. You feel extremely large inside me.” I shift my hips a little, still trying to get comfortable.

“
Da
, like that,” Vasily hisses and his hands tug at my hips, lifting them, and then thrusting me back down on his penis. The length of him pushes in and out, causing an intense amount of friction between our bodies.

A noise escapes my throat that sounds embarrassingly like a squeal, and his breath hisses out again, repeating the motion. My palms dig into his chest and I try to move my hips with his hands, since it’s obvious that’s what he wants.

His big penis pushes into me again, his movements jerky and harsh, and the initial discomfort I felt from his entrance is going away. “My vaginal walls must be stretched to accommodate you now,” I tell him. “A vagina can stretch because the walls are pleated like an accordion. I imagine my pleats are rather straightened at the moment—”

He thrusts into me again. This time, I gasp and slam my palms against his chest, startled by the rough movement. He keeps distracting me every time I try to talk, and it’s starting to annoy me. I slap a hand on his chest in irritation. “Are you listening to me, Vasily?”

“I hear every word, Naomi. Your sweet lips move like a temptress, and your voice fills my ears as a siren’s. Your words are making my cock ache for you,” he says, and he opens his eyes and lifts
his head to gaze down at our bodies. As he watches, he lifts my hips again and slides me back down on his length. “Does that feel good, Naomi?”

His sweet words are easing my irritation. “I’m not sure. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

He shifts on top of me. “If it was good, you would tell me. Am I hitting your G-spot?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never hit my G-spot.” But now I’m curious. “How can you tell if it’s being triggered?”

“You would know,” he tells me and holds me as he sits up, his muscles flexing. He gets to his feet, holding me in place, and I cling to his neck. “Wrap your legs around me, Naomi.” I feel vulnerable as he moves, as I feel one step from falling off of him, but he’s a man with a purpose. One hand clasps my back and I clench my legs tight around him.

“W-what are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer me, just leans over and rips the blankets and sheets off of the bed. I hold on to him like a spider monkey, wondering at the strength he must have to hold me like this. When he’s satisfied, he looks at me again, and straightens. “I am going to put you on the bed, Naomi—”

“No,” I say. “It’s gross! Think of the germs—”

He doesn’t listen, just pushes me down onto the mattress and then his weight is on me, his big body covering my own. He’s still adjusting things, and grabs a pillow—a filthy, filthy pillow—and shoves it under my hips.

“Vasily, I’m touching the bed,” I whimper, and slam a hand against his chest. “I don’t like this.”

He ignores my protests and begins to thrust into me again, his movements slower and more precise, and he watches my face to see
my reaction. When I’m still making distressed whimpers of unhappiness, he leans in—which causes his penis to push even deeper inside me—and whispers, “I read a study where the mattress is the cleanest part of the bed.”

“It . . . it is?” His hips swivel against mine.

“
Da
,” he growls, and his hand goes to the back of one of my legs, pushing it backward until my knee is almost pressed to the mattress. It tilts my hips even more. His mouth nuzzles mine, a surprisingly tender gesture given his savage movements. “It is always covered, you see. No one ever lays directly on mattress.”

This has a curious sense of logic to it, and some of my panic subsides. “I’ve never heard—” I lose track of what I was saying as his cock pushes into me again and everything feels different. Intense. Like I stuck my finger in a light socket. “What was that?”

“That was G-spot,” he says, voice thick. “Do you want to feel it again?”

“I’m not sure.”

“That is not a no,” he tells me, and rolls his hips as he thrusts again. His penis saws into me at a peculiar angle, and it seems to rub up against something inside me that jolts with nerve endings when he does. I whimper again and my nails dig into him. “It’s so . . . much.”

He growls low in his throat, like the wolf he claims to be. “Show me,” he says, brushing his lips over mine. “Show me how much you are feeling.” And he begins to stroke into me again, picking up a rhythm, and every motion seems to rub against my G-spot in a way that is so intense it’s almost frightening—if it weren’t for the fact that my legs were twitching and my entire body was lighting up in response.

I want to share this intensity with him, but I don’t know how.

Mark me with your teeth. Make me yours, Naomi. Make me y
ours.

The words roll through my mind, and I immediately discard them. He knows I need people to be literal with me, because I don’t understand metaphors. But he’s watching me so close, his eyes glittering, and he pushes into me hard again.

Something inside me snaps.

I reach out and slap him across the face.

We’re both stunned for a minute, and I worry that he’s going to get angry. Did I misinterpret him? But he only pushes down and captures my mouth in a savage kiss that ravages my lips and tongue and leaves me breathless. If he didn’t like my slap, he’s not indicating it.
Mark me with your teeth
, he told me earlier.
Make me yours
.

I am. He’s mine.

Vasily wants me to be rough with him. He’s definitely not being gentle with me, and it’s odd, but I kind of like how brutal he is. He’s not hurting me, but he’s not tender, either. His thrusts begin to move faster, his hips pistoning against my own on the bed, and the wild sensations continue to build inside me. I don’t know how to handle them—this is like the orgasms he gave me before, but deeper, more intense. He needs the intense, too, I think. My hands slap at his chest again, lightly, and then I dig my nails into his skin and rake them down his chest.

He groans, his nostrils flaring. “Yes, Naomi. Keep. Hurting. Me.”

His movements are going even faster, and he’s now fucking me so hard we might slide off the bed. But I don’t care—I’m getting into this. I want to hurt Vasily to show him how intense it feels to have him inside me, rubbing me in that spot that sets everything else on fire. My mind isn’t working clearly, or I’d tell him more sex facts.
Instead, I dig my fingernails viciously into his nipple and pinch at his smooth, tanned skin. I want to bite him but he’s leaning too far up. All I can do is slap and scratch and hiss at him in frustration as he continues to savagely pound me across the bed, hammering into that spot that’s making my entire body tight and tense.

I click my teeth at him, my own face feral with need, and he gets what I seem to want. He leans in and his mouth takes mine again, but when he pulls away, I bite down, hard, on his lower lip.

He groans and stiffens over me, and his brutal rhythm loses its cadence. “Don’t stop yet,” I yell in his ear. “I need to come!”

“Then come,” he snarls at me, and his fingers dig into my thigh as he brutally thrusts harder. It’s like he’s trying to go from my vagina to my sternum with each motion, but it feels better than anything I’ve ever felt.

Something elusive and delicious is building inside me and I focus on that, holding on to his neck and biting on his skin everywhere I can—his collarbones, his shoulder, his ear, his jaw, the tendons in his throat. “Not yet,” I tell him as I bite, and he continues to pound into me. “Not yet,” I tell him with each thrust, my voice growing louder as my pleasure intensifies. “Not yet!” I scream in his ear as I dig my nails into the dip of his shoulder and his movements grow even more ragged, more jerky, more violent with need. I slap at him wildly, fascinated by the growls I get in response, and how it makes him even more erratic.

And then it is there, blooming inside me like a supernova, and I scream, “Right there,” in Vasily’s ear even as I lock my body around him and dig my nails in, wanting to drag the moment out because it’s so good, and so overwhelming. I clench and clench and clench and it just goes on and on like my entire body has given itself over to this impossibly pleasurable feeling, and I begin to cry
because it’s so intense, I can’t even describe it. Over me, Vasily shudders and mutters my name in a thick voice, but I’m not paying attention if he’s coming or not, because little stars are dancing in the corners of my vision, and I watch them in dreamy bliss.

That was so good.

Something heavy collapses on top of me, and it’s Vasily’s sweaty body. He leans in and nuzzles me again, curiously tender after our savage lovemaking.

I squeal as his skin slides against my own, my revulsion for bodily fluids taking over again. “Off,” I yell, slapping at his skin again. “Vasily, you’re sweating on me!”

He obediently rolls off of me onto the side of the bed, lying there and panting, but his hand continues to clutch my arm, as if he needs to make sure I’m still there next to him.

That’s better, at least. I relax and return to my dreamy spiral of pleasure, my thoughts mellow. Postcoital endorphins, I tell myself. These are nice. “So what was that study about mattresses?” I tell Vasily.

“I lied,” he says slowly, eyes closed as if in contemplation. “Thought I would distract you.”

With a shriek, I get off the bed. He’s been grinding me into a mattress filled with bacteria? I can practically feel my body covered in staphylococcus and dust mites. “I hate you!”

“
Nyet
, you like me.” He’s smiling and he reaches out for me. His skin is livid with welts from where I got carried away, but he looks content. “Come back. We will have sex again as soon as I recover.”

“Don’t touch me,” I tell him. “I have to shower right now. I can’t believe you lied to me. You horrible, horrible
volk
,” I tell
him, and I’m practically bellowing at this point. I want to hit him again, but knowing that he finds pleasure in it makes me stay my hands. “Now I have to scrub myself from head to toe.”

I storm to the bathroom. It’s time for a cleansing shower at the maximum heat.