Chapter 13 #2
Mine’s professional-grade, with everything from butterfly closures to burn dressings, not the drugstore kind with a few band-aids and antiseptic wipes. When you spend your days with five-year-olds wielding scissors, you learn to be prepared.
When I return, I place the kit on the coffee table and kneel beside him.
He tracks my every move, taking in my kit with obvious amusement but not saying a peep.
I open the betadine spray. “This might sting a little.” I’ve uttered these same words to countless children in the last few years.
In the chair, Kolya remains still, his posture rigid. He’s almost alien in my cozy living room, like a wolf in a dollhouse. His dark clothes, still dusted with glitter from the craft store disaster, stand out against my colorful throw pillows.
Delicately, I raise his hand, flipping the palm down to examine the damage. His skin is warm, calloused, and scarred.
These hands have experienced and caused violence.
The splits in the knuckles aren’t too deep, but they’re still bleeding. New wounds over layers of scars. “You should have hit him with something other than your bare fist. Less damage to your hand that way.”
Kolya snorts. I spray the betadine, which foams orangey brown, over his damaged skin.
“You’ve done this before.” A statement, not a question.
“Kindergarteners are basically tiny drunk people. No impulse control and poor motor skills.” I dab the excess betadine with a cotton ball. “I’ve bandaged more injuries than some ER nurses.”
His skin is hot under my fingers as I apply antibiotic ointment and wrap gauze around his knuckles. I secure the gauze with medical tape, then sit back on my heels to examine my work. “There. Not too tight? You need to keep your circulation—”
“A bunny.” His rumble vibrates through me.
My head jerks up. “What?”
He lifts his hand and skims his bandaged knuckles over my cheek, his whisper-light touch at odds with the carnage inflicted by those same hands.
“How can you be real?”
It’s less of a question for me to answer and more of an observation that cuts straight through me.
I can’t stop staring at him, certain he can hear my thundering pulse. His eyes are dark, bottomless pools I could drown in if I’m not careful.
Too bad I’m not feeling especially cautious at the moment.
He surges to his feet in one fluid motion and pulls me up with him. The first aid kit scatters across the floor, cotton balls and wrappers flying.
I should be terrified. I should run. Instead, I melt.
His body is a solid wall of muscle pressed against mine. One hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head back and exposing my throat. “You’re a big fucking problem.”
His mouth crashes down on mine.
Not a kiss. Eradication. Hard and hungry and punishing.
He tastes of violence and control, and I meet him with a desperation I didn’t know I possessed. My hands clutch his shirt, tugging him closer as I attempt to climb inside the heat of him.
He breaks the kiss only to drag his mouth down my throat, scraping his teeth against my pulse point. I gasp, the sound embarrassingly needy. His bandaged hand—the one I just tended—comes up to grip my jaw, holding me steady. A possessive, unmistakable claim.
“Kolya.” I pant, not even sure what I’m asking for. More? Less?
Everything?
He walks me backward until my legs hit the edge of the couch. His body cages mine, his lethal grace aimed solely at me. The glitter clinging to him glistens in the light as he moves, tiny stars against the darkness of his clothes, his skin, his eyes.
This man hurts people. Destroys them. I should be terrified.
But Kolya is the alarm clock I never knew I needed. In his presence, sleepwalking through life is impossible.
When I’m with him, I’m awake and alive and yearn for more.
His mouth devours mine again, swallowing whatever words might have formed on my tongue. Consuming me.
Robbing me of everything I have and demanding more.
I give myself willingly.
My body arches into his, seeking more contact, more of whatever this dangerous game is.
He growls against my lips. “Mine.”
I nearly come undone from that alone.
And even in this madness, even though every rational part of me should protest, my deepest, darkest part responds with a resounding yes.
My world tilts.
I fall back onto the cushions.
The couch catches me with a soft whoosh of air, and Kolya follows, one knee sinking into the fabric beside my hip to trap me.
He is the shadow that devours my house whole, eradicating every bright corner and safe space I’ve meticulously created.
His eyes bore into mine with an intensity that strips away all pretense, all the walls I’ve built around myself since that night on the island.
That lethal stillness returns, but he’s not searching for threats. He’s concentrating on my face, studying every nuance of my expression. Memorizing me. I’m a puzzle he’s determined to solve. His gaze is so direct, so unwavering, that I couldn’t glance away even if I wanted to.
Otherwise, I prefer to take my time. See how far I can go.
The memory shoots a pulse of liquid heat between my legs.
How far will he go? How far do I want him to go?
His hands reach for the hem of my blouse, and I brace myself, waiting for him to rip it off in one violent act. Instead, he gathers the fabric slowly, his eyes locked on mine as he slides the shirt up and over my head.
The deliberate restraint devastates me more than any forceful action. He drops the shirt to the floor, and I ache to know how controlled those hands will be once they start truly touching me.
His attention dips below my neck, and my cheeks flush. I skipped a bra—my blouse’s built-in cami was enough support for a quick shopping trip—and now I’m stripped from the waist up for his viewing pleasure.
His hand hovers over my navel before his eyes snap back to my face.
A silent directive passes between us as he taps the button of my jeans.
“Off.” The command doesn’t allow for argument.
My fingers fumble for a second before I obey, pushing the jeans and my underwear—plain pink cotton, nothing special—down my hips.
I kick them away, hoping he doesn’t notice the damp spot.
Now I’m completely exposed to his predatory appraisal. Naked while he remains fully clothed.
A thrill spirals through me at the power imbalance, curling heat below my navel.
He stares without putting a finger on me.
The silent moment stretches out, endless and excruciating. I resist the urge to cover myself. I know he’d only move my hands, maybe even pin me down.
Maybe I’d like that.
I’m trapped by his attention, my skin burning from his scrutiny. My breasts, my stomach, the curve of my hips, the space between my thighs. His reverential gaze—bright with a raw hunger—transcends mere lust.
He leans back, creating space between us. With a slow, deliberate, spell-binding motion, Kolya spreads my knees wide.
He bends forward and pulls my hips closer to the edge of the couch.
My breath hitches in anticipation.
His eyes hold mine, refusing to let me hide, even as he lowers his head. He tastes the inside of my thigh, his tongue a brand on my skin in his upward journey.
He finds me immediately, his mouth hot and demanding against my core. Painful pleasure zaps through me.
Enough to make me yearn for more.
I gasp at the overwhelming sensation, dragging him closer despite myself.
His tongue flattens against me in long licks, then circles exactly where I need him most. He knows what he’s doing, reading my body’s responses with devastating accuracy.
He maintains a relentless rhythm, devouring me as I buck and convulse. His hands keep my thighs open, preventing them from crushing his head as the rest of my body jumps and writhes.
His mouth. His tongue. How can anyone be so good at this?
So good, he might destroy my pussy. Is this torture or foreplay? Either way, I can’t look away or hide.
I’m coming undone beneath the mouth of a dangerous man who’s claimed me as his own.
He’s watching me.
Not my body, but my reactions, my unraveling. He’s consuming me, piece by glorious, terrifying piece. Learning what makes me gasp. Moan. Shatter.
And all the while, he remains silent and unmoving aside from his mouth on me, his hands splayed firmly on my thighs.
A robot programmed to reduce me to a babbling mess.
My head falls back, and my eyes flutter shut as the pleasure builds to an unbearable peak. “Kolya!” His name is torn from my throat as my world fragments into sensation.
He holds me steady as I convulse against his mouth. After I ride out the aftershocks, I slump into the scratchy couch cushions, panting. My body becomes liquid, like I’ve melted into the fabric of the sofa.
For the second time, I’m toast, and he hasn’t even come once yet.
When I manage to lift my head, he still has that same intense focus. Primal possessiveness and a satisfaction that goes beyond the physical flare in his eyes.
He rises with that fluid grace that should be impossible for someone his size.
Without him to support me, I nearly slide off the couch.
Then he sits beside me as if on a throne, with his legs parted and his expression a mask of dark hunger. One hand rests on his thigh. His posture and the slight tilt of his head all serve as a silent invitation.
The other hand brushes a strand of hair from my face in an oddly tender gesture.
I maintain eye contact for a long beat, my heart still racing from my orgasm. I could walk away now and ask him to leave so I can return to my carefully constructed life of kindergarten lessons, craft projects, and boring men who wax poetic about lawnmowers over dinner.
Or I could choose him.
Choose the danger and the darkness and the brutal aliveness I experience in his presence.
Slowly, deliberately, I sink to my knees between his parted thighs. I’m going to start evening the score.
He watches, radiating with approval and need. When I reach for his belt, his abs tense beneath my touch.
I’ve never wanted to please someone the way I want to please him. Not out of obligation or fear, but because for the first time, I’m making a choice that’s entirely my own. Not dictated by trauma or a desire for safety or what a good teacher should do.
I’m choosing the danger. The mistake. This man.
And as I gaze up at him from my knees, I realize I’ve never felt more powerful.