Chapter 21 #2
"I'll trade you a bite of the pirozhki for a bite of the mac and cheese," I offered.
She looked down at her fork, already stuck in the pasta drowning in rich cheese sauce. Then nodded.
I picked up one of the warm rolls and tore off a piece, holding it to her lips. "Open."
It wasn't a request.
Her lips parted slowly, and I placed the bread on her tongue, my fingers brushing her bottom lip as I withdrew. She closed her mouth and chewed, her eyes fluttering shut as she tasted it.
A soft groan escaped her throat.
My cock stirred. Wrong time, wrong moment, but I couldn't help my body's response to that sound.
She lifted her fork to my mouth, a strand of cheese stretching between the silverware and the bowl. I leaned forward and let her feed me, the rich flavor exploding over my tongue.
Before she could pull the fork away, I wrapped my hand around her wrist, holding her steady so I could catch a drop of cheese sauce from the corner of her mouth with my thumb.
Her breath hitched.
I brought my thumb to my own mouth, sucking the sauce off slowly while holding her gaze.
Her pupils dilated, her lips parting slightly.
There. That was the reaction I wanted.
We ate in silence after that, but it was a different kind of silence—charged, heavy with unspoken things. I moved my chair even closer, our knees now pressed firmly together. Every time she shifted, I felt it.
When we had finished our meal, I carried her back to the couch and turned on the TV, handing her the remote. I settled beside her, my arm stretched across the back of the couch, my fingers occasionally playing with the soft strands of her hair.
She flipped through the channels before finding some American TV show about crooked politicians and their fixers.
"I love this show," she sighed as I brought out a bottle of rich Bordeaux and the Medovik.
"What do you love about it?" I asked. I would've thought a show like this would hit too close to home for her.
"The show has a lot of political drama, and every single character is flawed, but even though they make mistakes, they all do it for a reason.
The president has had an ongoing affair with his fixer, but he loves her.
He's made some poor political choices because of her, and she has pulled away, not wanting to hurt his career. "
"So you like that they're all dirty politicians?"
"All politicians are dirty," she said matter-of-factly. "No one is in Washington purely to help the little guy. The ones who say they are, are flat out lying. The politicians who actually want to make a difference stay at the state level or lower."
"So then, why do they do it? Why run for office? They can make more money in the private sector."
"Some do it for money. They may have a fixed salary that they take, but the insider information, the backroom deals, all of it grows their wealth.
Some do it for power, others simply for their egos.
These characters—these fictional characters—a lot of them are idealists, and when they make mistakes, it's not for money, it's for love.
I may disagree with what they do, but I can understand their motivation. "
I nodded for a moment, thinking about the way her mother looked at her, and I got it.
I set the cake down on the table and handed her a spoon. Then I poured the wine and gave her a glass. "If anyone asks about this, I will deny it."
"Deny what?"
I took my spoon and plunged it into the cake, taking out a massive bite and then closing my eyes as the flavors of honey and sweetened milk melted over my tongue.
She giggled, actually giggled, and the light, joyful sound lifted a layer of anxiety that I still didn't understand why I felt.
My hand found her thigh through the duvet, squeezing gently. She didn't pull away.
We ate and watched the show, not really saying anything. I kept my hand on her leg, my thumb drawing lazy circles that changed her breathing, deepened it.
By the time the credits rolled, the glasses of wine were empty, and what was left of the cake sat in its plastic box.
"Now what?" she asked.
"Sing for me." I didn't think about it. I didn't even know the words were going to come out of my mouth until they had. But that was what I wanted—I wanted to hear her beautiful, soulful voice again.
"I don't have my guitar," she argued.
"Sing anyway," I said.
"I don't know what to sing."
"Anything, just sing for me."
She closed her eyes, took a moment to think, then lyrics floated from her lips in a bittersweet melody filled with pain and longing. If I had a heart, it would break from her song alone.
I closed my own eyes, letting her voice wash over me. My hand tightened on her thigh, anchoring myself to this moment, to her.
I could almost hear the soft strums of an acoustic guitar behind her, and when the final note faded, I reached for her, my hand wrapping around the back of her neck as I pulled her in for a soft kiss.
She put her hand on mine and pulled away from my embrace.
I tightened my grip for just a second—a breath, a heartbeat—before forcing myself to let her go.
"Please don't," she whispered. "I can't take the back and forth."
"What back and forth?" I didn't let her go far. I pulled her into my lap and into my arms, holding her against me, feeling every tremor that ran through her small frame.
"One moment you're threatening to kill me, the next you're fucking me. I can handle that. The violence and the sex that go together. But then when you're like this, when you're tender and soft, I don't know what to expect. It's too much. It's too twisted and too fucked up. I just can't."
The desperation in her words hit me harder than I expected. Everything about her hit me in ways I didn’t see coming or know how to deal with.
She was right, of course. Sex complicated things, it always had.
Even meaningless sex.
The violent fucking that we had been doing was bad enough, but then these moments of tenderness added another layer of complexity that neither one of us could deal with.
Given everything that she had endured over the last two days, her plea was more than reasonable. And I stared into her tear-filled eyes, something inside me splitting open.
A muscle ticked in my jaw. My hands clenched into fists where they rested against her back, every instinct screaming at me to pull her closer, to take what I wanted, to remind her exactly who she belonged to.
I forced myself to breathe. In through my nose, out through my mouth.
Control. I needed control.
"Please, I just need to be left alone." She slid out of my arms and back across the couch, wrapping her arms around herself, making herself as small as possible.
The pain she was in wasn't the type of pain I put her in. It was not the physical exhaustion or even the physical pain that reminded us of the pleasure, or even the kind of pain that was used to teach a lesson.
It was the kind that left scars on your character, and still she bore them without letting them turn her bitter.
I stood abruptly, unable to sit still any longer. I paced to the window, then back, my hands flexing at my sides. The need to touch her, to claim her, to make her understand that she was mine—it was a living thing clawing at my insides.
I poured myself more wine with movements that were too controlled, too precise. The kind of control that came from years of practice restraining violence.
But I couldn't stay away.
I moved back to the couch, sitting at the opposite end. My hand found her ankle through the duvet, my grip firm but not painful. Just a reminder. A tether.
She looked at me with those wounded eyes, and I stared back, something shifting in my chest.
I couldn't leave her alone. I wouldn't let her suffer. Not when I could make her feel good.
I stood again, prowling toward her with deliberate steps.
Her eyes widened, and she pressed back into the couch cushions. "Darius—"
I caged her in with my arms, one hand on either side of her head, leaning down until my forehead pressed against hers. Our breaths mingled, and I could see her pulse hammering in her throat.
"No," I said, my voice rough, uncompromising.
"No?" she echoed, confused, afraid.
"No." I slid one arm beneath her knees, the other around her back, and lifted her against my chest. "You don't get to be left alone. Not tonight."
She emitted a weak sound of protest, her hands pushing halfheartedly against my shoulders, but her body was exhausted, wrung out from everything she'd endured.
I carried her toward my bedroom, her head falling against my shoulder in reluctant surrender.
"Where are you taking me?" Her voice was small, resigned.
"To bed, maya soloveyka. Where I can keep you safe."
"Safe from what? From who?"
I pushed through the bedroom door with my shoulder. "From everyone," I murmured, setting her down on her feet. “Except me.”