23. Ariel
23
ARIEL
My nipples could cut glass.
We’ve been down here for an hour and I’m already wishing I’d never rebelled against Sasha’s bedrest instructions in the first place. “Under my covers” sounds like a really nice place to be right now.
If nothing else, it’d be less tense. Sasha and I are sitting in the pool of light from his flashlight—which, conveniently enough, is growing dimmer and dimmer with every minute that passes.
“Kosti is supposed to get new batteries,” he explains with a grimace.
“Perfect,” I chirped back. “What wonderful timing for them to die.”
It is actually nice in one sense, which is that darkness is gradually swallowing up his face. The less of him I can see, the better, seeing as how the Hungry Hungry Hormones I’d been so eager to work out upstairs seem intent on sticking around.
And they sense prey.
Or predator, rather. Because Sasha Ozerov, shirtless in the dark, is the kind of thing that does hunting all on its own.
“You’re shivering,” he notes suddenly.
I cup my hands over my chest so he can’t see proof that he’s one hundred percent on the money. “Am not.”
His shirt hits my lap before I can protest—still warm from his body. We’re on the mountain all over again, but this time around, there’s way less glitter to amuse myself with.
“Don’t,” he says when I try to hand it back. “The babies need you warm.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You’re stubborn, is what you are.”
“Takes one to know one.”
But I still shift uncomfortably. Turns out a thin, silk bathrobe is not ideal attire for crouching in dank cellars. Who knew? I’ve never felt more exposed.
Well, that’s not entirely true. I once wore a basically invisible bikini to drive a man I knew a little bit crazy. That involved a pretty fair amount of exposure in its own right.
The memories crop up, bit by bit, and my internal heat goes up a degree for each one. On the plus side, I’m no longer quite so cold. On the downside, I’m now much, much more turned on than I was before.
Problematic.
“Okay, new pastime for our indefinite imprisonment.” I clap once, the sound swallowed by musty air. “Let’s play Two Truths and a Lie.”
“Are we on an elementary school playground?” he drawls.
“Actually, we’re stuck in a cellar, in case you hadn’t noticed. And if I have to sit here and listen to you breathe for the next six hours, I might go cuckoo. Just indulge me. Please.”
Sasha sighs. His flashlight-cast shadow rears against the opposite wall. “You’ve lost your mind.”
“And you’ve lost the ability to say no. I’ll start.” I shift on the cold concrete, the robe riding up my thighs. “One: I set my seventh grade science fair project on fire to avoid presenting. Two: My first kiss was in a jump castle. Three: I used to steal my mom’s Vogue magazines to sketch wedding dresses in the margins.”
“The science fair,” Sasha decides immediately.
“Wrong.” I bite my lip to keep from smirking. “Mrs. Townsend’s classroom probably still smells like burnt poster board.”
His eyes narrow. “The wedding dresses, then?”
“Not that, either. Mom thought the pages were haunted,” I admit. “Dozens of disembodied gowns floating in her perfume ads.”
“A jump castle, then.” Sasha’s scoff warms my neck. “How romantic.”
“‘Stupid’ is a better word. Your turn, tough guy.”
He leans back, muscles flexing. “One: I killed my first man at fifteen. Two: I once nursed a stray puppy back to health. Three: When I was fourteen, I stole my father’s vintage Lada and drove it into the Neva River.”
I study his face for a minute. “The puppy’s a lie.”
His smirk glints in the dying flashlight beam. “What gave it away?”
“The part where you’re not secretly a Disney princess.”
“Pity. I’d look good in a ballgown.”
My turn again. I tuck hair behind my ear, pulse thrumming where my thigh touches his. “One: My college boyfriend proposed with a Ring Pop at a Waffle House. Two: I tried dating other men while I was pregnant, just to prove I could move on. Three: I’ve never been in love before you.”
Sasha’s flashlight sputters. His voice is a strained croak. “The Ring Pop.”
“No,” I say sadly, confirming what he already knew. “French guys just don’t do it for me.”
“Is that the only reason, Ariel?”
We’re working with the barest of gleams now. It’s just enough to see his outline in this windowless cellar and no more than that. “No. It’s not. I couldn’t move on because, even when I hated you, even when I cursed your name… I still missed you, Sasha.”
He swallows and nods. “My turn again, right?”
My throat feels too tight to answer, so I just nod right back.
“One.” His breath flutters against my collarbone. “I’ve dreamed of you every night since you left.” Closer now, lips skating my temple. “Two. I read every article you ever published.” Closer still, teeth at my earlobe, heat blanketing every inch of me. “Three. I’ve slept outside your door every night this week.”
The flashlight gives one final whine and dies, submerging us in complete darkness. I feel Sasha shift beside me, his breath warm against my cheek.
“The second one’s a lie,” I mumble. “You don’t care about my writing.”
Sasha’s finger comes up to graze my chin. “I care about every fucking word that comes out of your mouth, Ariel. Even the ones that gut me. Maybe even especially those ones.”
Then his mouth finds mine in the darkness. It’s a messy kiss, fumbling like it’s the first time we’ve ever done it. When he pulls away, he stays close enough for our breaths to mingle.
“The others were true, too. I watch you sleep,” he rasps. “Count every breath. Memorize the way your lips part when you dream.” His thumb smears my ruined lipstick. “I missed you in my bones, ptichka. In the hollow places Yakov carved out.”
“I missed you, too,” I whisper. “Every damn day.”
His exhale shudders through me. “Then stop running from me.”
I feel trembly and insane all over. My fingers won’t stop shaking, not from cold, but from something else entirely. A chill that doesn’t have anything to do with temperature.
“Here’s three more,” I mumble. “I want you. I don’t want you. I don’t know how to be without you.”
I hear Sasha’s breath catch. “Maybe not everything is so easily divided into lies and truths. Maybe we’re just always meant to be messy and conflicted. Maybe… maybe we can make it work anyway.”
“Yeah,” I whisper back, fueled by stupid hope and midnight dreams and the romanticism that my mama carved into my bones, the same way Sasha’s father carved hate into his. “Maybe we can.”
This time, it’s me who kisses him.
He drags me into his lap, the two of us fused at the mouth, with my belly as a surprising new presence between us. “ Moya lyubimaya ,” he growls between kisses. His hands shove the robe up my thighs. “So fucking perfect.”
“Sasha, I?—”
“Shh.” He nips my jaw. “Just let me…”
His mouth closes over my nipple through the flimsy silk. I arch with a whimper. The rational part of my brain—the one that makes pro/con lists and swore to keep boundaries—drowns in a flood of oxytocin and poor decisions.
His hardness at my inner thigh is huge and impossible to ignore. I reach down to palm him, loving it, hating myself for it, wanting it all too badly to care about the difference between those things.
Sasha is right—truths and lies are all so jumbled up; how could people who were raised the way we were ever hope to figure it out? We just do the best we can with what we have and try to let our better sides win.
My better side wants this so fucking badly that I can’t tell it no. As a matter of fact, as Sasha’s hands slip up my thighs to cup my ass and grind me against him… as his kisses flare hot like streaking comets from one breast to the other… as he drags a finger across my aching pussy…
All I can say is “ yes.”
I fumble to free him from his pants. He’s huge and thick in my hand, velvety soft but rock-hard. He groans as I wrap my fingers around his base.
I raise myself up and line him against me. I shouldn’t— we shouldn’t—but I want to so, so, so?—
Then the cellar door opens.
“Ariel? Sasha?” Jasmine’s voice slices through the haze. “Why is there salad in the front?—”
Flashlight beams blind us.
We freeze—me half-naked on the shelves, Sasha’s hand shoved down between my legs, his lips glistening. Jasmine’s choked laugh echoes down the stairs.
“Well.” She clears her throat. “Glad to see you’re… bonding.”
Then she turns and shuffles away.
Sasha’s chest heaves against mine. Slowly, so slowly, he helps me to my feet. The robe slithers back into place. My dignity, however, remains in tatters on the cellar floor.
He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear. His hands shake. “Ariel…”
“Let’s just say, That happened, and then move on as if it didn’t.” I step back, hugging myself. The cold rushes in where his heat had been. “It’s better that way, I think.”
He watches me climb the stairs, each step heavier than the last. He makes no move to follow.
In the kitchen, Jasmine pretends to be extremely occupied with sorting groceries. Kosti whistles off-key as he takes another trip to the car to retrieve the rest. I beeline for the bedroom. Lock the door. Slump against it.
My lips still tingle. His taste lingers—coffee and guilt and want. Down the hall, the shower kicks on. I imagine him under the spray, one fist braced against the tile and the other wrapped around himself, water sluicing over the wounds we’ve given each other as he does what I should’ve done: burned away the lust before it got out of control.
The journal waits under my pillow. I pick up my pen and add to it.
Pros of Letting Sasha Ozerov Back Into My Life:
Kissing him feels like home, even when it shouldn’t.
When the floorboards creak hours later, I pretend to be asleep. Sasha’s shadow pauses at the foot of my bed. Then he turns and retreats back into the hallway.
I can tell by his footsteps, though: He doesn’t go far.