Varian Krylov (7 page)

He got in first, putting his foot up on the edge of the tub, keeping his bandaged knee high and dry. She came in after him, perched in front of him, let him pull her back, against him, slowly relaxed enough to let herself soften into his embrace, her back pressed to his chest. There was an easy silence between them as he lazily combed his fingers through her hair, his touch working in concert with the heat of the bath and her physical and emotional exhaustion, making her wonderfully drowsy.

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The sound of their small movements in the water was pretty. Now he was washing her back, and the texture of the cloth, the feeling of his hands, his finger, rubbing into her tense muscles seemed like the best feeling in the world. Too worn out to think about it too much, she vaguely wondered how a man who could have her so on edge—so afraid—at times, could make her feel so comforted. So safe.

"Your back is so pretty," he sighed, sounding near sleep himself.

"Is it?"

She wasn't being coy. No one had ever told her that before.

"Mmmm."

The cloth was gone. Now she just felt the tip of his finger wandering over the soap-slick surface of her back. Strangely, she felt like crying. But she didn't.

Later, when they were in bed and she was almost asleep, curled up like a fetus in the bend of his strong body, all their skin bare, save where gauze and tape covered, he whispered.

"Vanka."

"Mmmmm?"

"Tell me something?"

"Mmmm hmmm."

"Earlier, when I had you bent over the dining room table . . ." he was speaking very slowly and quietly, ". . . when you begged me not to fuck your ass, and I held you down, were you scared I was going to sodomize you?"

"Yes," she breathed. She'd been terrified.

"Will you tell me the truth, Vanka?"

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"Yes."

"Did you want me to?"

"Yes."

Yes.

He kissed the crown of her head, pulled her a little closer, and sometime later she fell asleep.

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Chapter Two

This was ridiculous. She was ridiculous. Just ring the fucking bell.

Why had she come? Icy regret trickled over her. What did she think she was doing?

So they'd fucked. That didn't mean she was welcome to just drop by any time, like a treasured friend. She had an idea, gleaned from girlfriends and guy friends, that there were plenty of men out there who wanted nothing less than to find some girl they'd done on a one-night stand lurking on their porch. And those were regular guys. Galen was . . . well, Galen Ross. A goddamned movie star. If every woman he'd fucked started lurking around his front door, he'd have to flee the country.

Even if he was home, even if he was alone, even if he was glad to see her, what did she think was going to happen? Nothing very nice, that was certain. She'd thought about it, over and over. He'd taken it easy on her, the last time. She was afraid to guess how he'd interpret her coming back to him now.

She wasn't going to ring. He wasn't there, anyway. She was suddenly glad.

Relieved. Back to the car. Back home. To sanity. Reality.

She turned and stepped and almost collided with him.

"Vanka," he said softly, to the accompaniment of her shrill, gasping inhale.

Her heart felt like it was being slammed repeatedly between two bricks. She backed slowly away from the expanse of chest filling her field of vision, until, looking up, she saw him looking down at her with an inscrutable expression.

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"Right here in the neighborhood. Weren't you even going to ring? Not very friendly of you."

How freakin' long had he been standing there, watching her pathetic hesitation?

"I was afraid I'd be disturbing you. Just dropping in like this."

"It's true, I do usually appreciate a phone call ahead of time. I'm not big on unannounced visits. But then, you didn't have my number, did you? And it's not like I'm listed."

Fine. She got it. If he'd wanted her around, he'd have given her his number, told her he wanted to see her again. Not like the guy was shy, afraid of rejection.

"Want to come in?" His mouth curved in an endearing smile as he fished a key from his pocket.

Inside, the first thing he did after turning off his alarm was to scribble out his number on a piece of paper, rip it from the pad, and hand it to her with another anxiety-melting smile.

"Now you'll have no excuse for hanging around by my front door, not knocking."

He didn't ask for her number, and for some reason, she didn't offer it.

"Vodka tonic? I actually have limes today."

"No, thanks." It was four o'clock. Maybe he was an alcoholic. Or thought she was.

Suddenly, all the distance between them was gone. His fingers sank into her hair, curved to the back of her neck, and his mouth brushed against the corner of her mouth as he spoke.

"I've been wondering if you'd be back. And what it would mean, if you came."

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She knew she should speak. Even knew what she had to say. But she was silent.

But when he grinned, like he'd read her thoughts, whispered something about her not being there for tea and sympathy, and slipped his hand up under the hem of her skirt and, with nothing more than an accidental, incidental brush of his hand against her thighs on the way up, began delicately fondling her over the crotch of her panties, she felt an exhilarating, nauseating fear that somehow overshadowed all the dread and weakness she'd felt at the hospital earlier that day as they'd tugged the whisker-like sutures from the delicate, almost translucent skin of her breast.

Fuck, her body loved him. Such a presumptuous touch, as if by returning to his house she'd promised that her body was his to do with as he liked. Such a tiny touch, so light, just over her underwear. But already her body was promising her a delicious climax, if he'd just do that for a few more seconds.

He took his hand away. The throb in her sex amplified, growing more intense, more insistent, pleading for more attention. And he just stood there, gazing at her with his smirk and his amused eyes. Fuck, he was practically laughing at her. She didn't need this shit. What she needed was a good fuck, not his self-aggrandizing head games.

Fine. She could dish it out, too. See how he liked it. She flashed him a “you're gonna get it now” smile and led him over to his sofa. Unlike that first time, a few nights before, he let her undo his belt and his jeans, let her rub his hardening prick through the snug cotton of his briefs. Her sex pulsed more and more insistently as she stroked his hard length, cupped and gently squeezed the soft roundness below, the fine details of him vague under the fabric. When he was good and hard, she slid his shorts and jeans 63

down to his knees and playfully shoved him down on the sofa. He grinned up at her, his eyes descending with her as she went down on her knees with a teasing grin.

It wasn't like last time. No little taunting touches, light licks with a soft wet tongue.

This time she sucked his hard prick right into her mouth, taking him deep, working her lips and tongue over him with all the hunger he'd put into her with his tormenting caresses of her sex. His scent, his taste familiar, now. His stomach and thighs flexed and twitched, and as her lips felt the tickle of his dark curls he let out a growling groan that was almost as arousing as his touch had been. Slowly she slid the grip of her lips back over the hard length of his shaft, letting her tongue wipe back and forth against the underside as she went, until just the fat smooth head of his prick remained in her mouth.

She cupped his balls in her hand as she savored the taste and feel of him, cradling the dome in the undulating curl of her tongue, then winding it round and round the girth of him, exploring the texture of the surface—different from all other parts of the body--with the tip of her tongue. Then she plunged him again to the back of her throat, pulling on him again and again with an eager, sucking pressure, reveling in the pleasure she read in his throaty groans.

Wiggling her hips as she sucked him, she could feel how slippery wet her needful sex was. Maybe she could have waited, but she didn't want to. She slid back, letting his prick pop from her mouth, and looking up at Galen with her cockiest grin, reached into her purse, extracted one of the condoms she'd bought that morning, ripped the wrapper open, rolled the latex sheath down the length of his hard-on, and stood.

Fuck, she wanted to feel him inside her. Watching him watch, she hiked the sides of her skirt up, caught hold of her panties, slid them down her legs, and off. She 64

straddled his thighs. He was breathing hard, watching her face. To guide his eyes, and to see for herself, she looked down as she lifted the front of her skirt, baring her sex. It looked so pale next to his inflamed prick, vivid even through the snug sheath of latex.

Feeling bold, nasty, wanting to prove something—to herself or to him—she reached between her thighs and, using two fingers, spread herself open, baring the deep pink of her inner folds.

Except for sliding his hands up under her skirt, resting his warm palms on the tops of her thighs, he didn't touch her. Panting, he just watched. Waited for her.

She shifted her hips forward, and pressed her moist, open sex to the underside of his erect prick. Watched her delicate folds embrace him, then hide as she raised herself, inch by inch, her sensitive nerves stirred as she rubbed her sex along his shaft.

Then down. Then up again, until she was poised to take him in. She sank down, and his hard prick rose up inside of her, her sex slowly opening to receive the tender, curved head, trying to close over it as she moved, down, down, and the rest of his length rose, up, up, until he filled her.

When she was on top, like this, the tiniest movements brought her off. Just rolling her hips in a circle spanning all of a centimeter or two let her clit rub against him, let the inside of her feel him in the most delicious way. His soft hands glided over her thighs, rounded her hips, caressed her ass, but never suggested a change in speed or motion.

Just a connecting touch. She was close. She let him see, let him hear. Held his gaze, whimpered out loud. And then, still moving slowly, subtly, her climax bubbled up and spilled over. She went still to let her body feel the fading echoes, the diminishing spasms of the aftermath. In some ways, that was her favorite part.

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When her eyes focused, he was watching her so intently she felt herself blush.

He gave her a little smile, his expression sweet but perhaps a little sad. She didn't let herself wonder what that expression meant. She was here for a fuck, not some emotional drama. Let him pity her, write her off, whatever. His dick was still hard, inside of her. It was time to fuck him. Get him off.

She began to move. Not the way she moved for herself, but rolling her hips in undulating waves, rising high, crashing down, expelling the full length of him almost completely as she crested each swell before pulling him completely inside again. After her climax, the feel of him inside of her was a kind of pleasant pain, his hardness prodding her hypersensitized depths. It made her want to bounce up and down on his prick, ramming him into her, like throwing herself on a sword of sorts. But her masochistic drive was overruled by her desire to hold on to her control. Her power over him. So, slowly, she rolled on, wave after wave, taking in his arrhythmic breathing, the seeking look in his eyes, the tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth. She had him.

Until he had her, folded in his arms. Soft. Warm. Their chests pressed together through his long-sleeved T and her sweater. He held her close, dampening her motion, putting it all in slow motion. But, as she cradled his head in her arms, his face touching her face, his mouth open against her cheek, his breathing told her his climax was closing in on him. She rolled, forward and up and back and down and forward until his panting escalated, gained voice, swelled to wavering groans in her ear, until his long, thick body shuddered beneath her, until his fingers clawed at her sweater, balling two handfuls into the grip of his fists.

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She was preparing to dismount when he tightened the circle of his arms, pulling her tight against him. She felt his lips on her cheek in a single, lingering kiss, felt the swell of his chest with every deep breath as he slowly calmed. He held her there for a long time before finally opening his arms to let her go. But again, as she started to rise, he touched her—curved his hand around the back of her neck, coaxing her to stay. He was still inside of her. He smiled.

"That was lovely, Vanka," he sighed, still a little breathless. "But it's not what you came for. Is it?"

* * * *

"So, Vanka. Where's this David of yours?"

"David?" She didn't remember telling him anything about David.

"Number four?"

Ah, yes. Some lingering feeling of loyalty poked her with guilt, hearing a man she'd fucked twice refer to David as “number four.”

"He at home, waiting for you to get back from grocery shopping or work, or wherever he thinks you are?"

"That's a pretty opinion you seem to have of me."

"My opinion of you, based as it is on the little bit of time we've spent together, is quite high. Almost unprecedentedly so, as a matter of fact."

"And you think I'm cheating on someone?"

He grinned. “I have a question for you.”

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“Hmmm?” she hummed, guarded.

“Do you think a person can love, be in love with more than one person?”

“At the same time?”

“Yeah.”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“I get the feeling you've thought about this before.”

“I get the feeling you're a little shocked.”

“Maybe I am, a little.”

“People who have children can love more than one, can't they?”

“But that's not sexual.”

“No. But all relationships have the potential for jealousy—siblings and parents, friends, lovers. But outside of sexual relationships, most people expect that we'll all figure out how to cope with our needs and insecurities. With sexual relationships, people usually argue that it's biology that makes people possessive of their mates. It's about procreation. But a child's desire for the attention of her parents is about survival, too. But little children learn to accept their parents sharing their love with brothers and sisters. Some even learn to share their toys and Halloween candy.”