10. Release
release
Tatiana
S ilence reigns for a long, fraught moment. Standing with his back against the hotel room door, Lash’s dark eyes are fixed on mine.
"Are you tired, Lovely One?" he asks, slipping the do-not-disturb sign on the outside of the door, sets the chain lock, and then stops in front of me,
"Yes," I admit, my eyes burning with exhaustion. "But I couldn’t sleep now if I tried."
He prowls closer to me, a faint smile curving the corners of his lips. "I know the feeling."
Desire burns in my belly, but other sensations clamor just as loudly, if not louder. "Lash, I—"
He takes my hands in his and walks backward, pulling me after him—to my surprise, we pass by the bed and make for the bathroom.
"I know what you need, Tatiana," he says. "A long, hot shower."
I groan at the thought. "That sounds like the best idea ever."
He grins. "You only have to decide one thing."
"And that would be what?" I ask.
"Do you want to shower alone, or would you care for company?"
"I wouldn't mind company," I murmur, feeling excited and shy and eager and hesitant all at once.
"I was hoping you'd say that." He takes my arms in his big, hard, strong hands. "Let me take care of you, Tatiana."
I lean my forehead against his chest. "Okay."
"Come." He tugs me by the hands to the bathroom. "Just relax, now. I will see to everything."
"What about you?" I ask.
He smiles. "I haven't forgotten what we talked about. But Solomon and I, and the others, we are professionals. We are used to this—long hours without sleep, endless travel, boredom on long flights, crossing time zones. You aren’t. Let me take care of you for now. There will be time for everything else later. We meet with the others at noon tomorrow."
I nod, my eyes burning, even though I also feel oddly wired. "I feel a little delirious."
"That is to be expected, after all the thousands of miles we have traveled in the last few days, especially considering all the stress and adrenaline." He brushes a thumb over my cheek. "Just let me care for you."
I nod, sighing. "Okay."
He helps me slip out of the ferry logo jacket—the hat I discarded in the junker car the moment I sat down; I hate wearing hats. Next, he kneels and unties my boots, loosens the laces, and helps me out of my boots and socks. My heart pounds with increasing vigor as he stands up and reaches for my shirt, I lift my arms over my head. He peels my shirt off, tosses it aside. Unzips my jeans, frees the button. Tugs them down, crouching to lift one foot and then the other to tug the legs free. Now I am shivering in front of him in a rather unsexy pair of black briefs and a white sports bra, goosebumps pebbling my skin, nipples hard, breath coming in short, nervous pants.
He twists the shower on and turns it to hot, and within seconds the stream is steaming.
He rubs my arms. "Cold?"
I nod.
He searches my face. “Nervous?"
I shrug, hesitate, and then nod. "I don't know why."
"There's nothing to be nervous about, sweet, beautiful, courageous Tatiana Juric. It's just you and me. Whatever you feel comfortable with and no more." His voice is gentle, his touch soft as he rubs my arms.
"I'm not nervous as in scared," I say, taking his hands in mine. “More nervous just because we're finally alone. Not nervous, I suppose, just…nerves."
Steam swirls in the small bathroom despite the drone of the vent fan. Lash slides his hands down my arms one more time, and then to my waist. Hesitates at my back, below my bra strap. His eyes meet mine, seeking my consent. My answer is to lift my arms—my breath catches as he peels the undergarment off, and my breasts ache, heavy and turgid, my nipples erect and sensitive.
He kneels in front of me, pressing kisses to my belly, my diaphragm. His hands caress over my bottom and then hook in the elastic at my waist. His beard is ticklish, and soft and scratchy at the same time. I cup his face as he slides my underwear off, leaving me naked and shivering and breathless.
“So fucking beautiful," he murmurs, almost to himself. He curses so rarely that it's almost shocking to hear it.
“You don't curse very often," I say.
He shrugs, sitting on his heels as he gazes at me, taking in my curves, my bare flesh, his hands raking up my belly to cup my breasts. "No, I do not."
"Why?"
A shrug. "Habit?" A frown. "It is more than that, I guess. My parents were devout Roman Orthodox Christians. They never cursed and were adamantly against me cursing. I suppose I choose not to curse as a way of honoring them, even all these years later."
"It's a simple but beautiful way of remembering them, Lash."
He smiles, standing up. "You are shivering. Get in, get warm."
"Not without you," I say. "I am not so tired that I don't want my turn."
“Your turn?" he asks, smirking.
"Yes, my turn. You've seen me in varying stages of nudity already, and I have barely gotten to see you shirtless. It's my turn."
He holds his arms out to the sides. "I am yours to command and control, in that case."
"Command and control, is it?" I say, feeling the rippling of desire surging through my body, searing away the exhaustion—temporarily, at least.
His only answer is to wait silently for me to decide what I want to do.
Shirt first, obviously. And my god, the man is ripped. Smooth brown skin wrinkled and rippled with scars telling the story of a lifetime of violence, and the heavy, lithe muscles of a trained predator. Anvil-slab pecs, brawny arms, thick, veined forearms, shredded abs. My mouth goes dry at the sight of him, all the moisture in my body traveling south.
He kicks off his boots and socks, and then I open his black jeans, lowering the zipper. The organ I had such a woefully brief encounter with springs into the V of the opening, pressing against the fabric of his underwear. I help him out of his jeans; such is my impatience to see all of his glorious body nude that I can't wait for him to toe off his jeans before I shove his black boxer briefs past his hips.
The cock that is revealed leaves my sex aching with anticipation—it's the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Long, thick, and straight, straining, veins standing out…
"Lash, my god," I whisper. "you're incredible."
He seems uncomfortable with my praise, only shrugging in response. "Tatiana, I—"
I step into the shower, hissing as the scalding water streaks onto my shoulders—I adjust it to a temperature living creatures can withstand. Once it's piping hot but tolerable, I move under the spray and pull Lash in after me. He closes the curtain, and now the world shrinks down to just the two of us, the stream of hot water, and our naked bodies.
Nerves, fear, exhaustion, everything fades. All that matters is him.
Greed for his body surges through me; I twist so he's under the stream, freeing his hair from the ponytail and then running my hands over his shoulders and down his pecs.
"Tatiana," he murmurs. "I am supposed to be taking care of you."
"You are," I answer, letting my hands slide down his waist to cup the hard bubble of his ass. "This is what I need. Giving me what I want is letting you take care of me."
He snorts. “That's not exactly what I meant."
I shrug. "I know what you meant. And that will happen. Eventually."
"Eventually?" He echoes, making it a question.
"Eventually." I step closer, so the tips of my breasts brush his chest, and I loosely clutch his cock in both hands. "I have other plans first."
He throws his head back at my touch, groaning. "Tatiana, fuck."
“Talk to me, Lash."
He hisses when I stroke his length. "I…It has been a very long time since I was with anyone."
"You've been celibate ever since…then?" I ask.
"Yes." There's a whole world of emotion in that one word.
“That's okay," I tell him, leaning into him to steal a kiss. "I'll use your own words, Lash—just relax and let me take care of you."
"How did the tables get turned?" he asks.
"I told you—giving me what I want is taking care of me. I enjoy being taken care of, Lash. I like letting you meet my needs. But I have other needs, and right now those are front and center."
"It is hard for me to be selfish," he says.
"Then don't think of it as being selfish," I respond, stroking him again. "Think of it as…as giving through receiving."
"That feels a bit convoluted." He opens his eyes and watches my hand slide down his length. "God, Tatiana. The way you touch me."
"What about it?" I ask, using a hand-over-hand stroke to make him dip at the knees, groaning.
"It feels so good." He grunts, then, bucking into my hand. " Too good."
"No such thing as too good," I tell him. "Just enjoy it. You said you were mine to command and control? Well, this is what I want. I want to touch you, Lash. I want to feel your body. I want to watch you lose control. I want to make you feel so good you forget everything."
He dips at the knees as I slowly caress his length, now one hand and then two, now pumping and then twisting at the top. "Tatiana, fuck. I…god. Oh—god."
"What, Lash? Tell me what you're thinking."
"It feels so good I almost feel guilty."
I touch my forehead to his, whispering. "Lash, you're allowed this. It's okay to want it. It’s okay to let yourself have it. It's okay to let yourself have me .”
"I've denied myself emotional peace and physical pleasure for so long, it's hard to remember how to feel otherwise."
"You start by trusting me."
He trembles. "Tatiana…"
"Call me Tati."
His breath comes in short, gasping pants. "Tati…I…oh—Tati, I can't—"
"Feel it, Lash. Enjoy it. Let go. Give me you. All of you." I nibble at his earlobe, breathing the words in his ear. "Let go for me, Lash. Just let go."
He sags backward, and I turn us so his back is to the wall, the spray hitting my back and bottom as I press him against the wall of the shower. He pulses in my hands, and his hips push into my touch—he's close.
"Tati—Tatiana…oh god."
I nip his lower lip, and he turns his face to mine and then we're kissing, and he demands my tongue and thrusts into my hand.
Fuck, I want him inside me, but I know it's been so long he won’t last much longer; besides, I’m not on birth control, and the condoms are in my bag back in the bedroom. He needs this first release now, with no expectations, no pressure to perform.
Just pure pleasure.
A reminder that it's okay to want—to have.
He groans, and the groan turns to a growl, and he thrusts into my fist.
Almost.
"Come for me, Lash,” I whisper in his ear. "Show me. Let go."
I feel his knees buckle, and his hands wrap around my ass and dig in hard, gripping me as he reaches his climax. He's grunting through gritted teeth, driving into my fist.
"Oh god, Tatiana—" he gasps. "I'm coming—I'm coming. Oh god, Tatiana…Tati…"
He spurts a thick, hard stream of cum over my hands as I stroke his thick, pulsing length with both hands; another stream jets out of him, this one splashing onto my belly and his.
I drop to my knees and the shower stream beats hot on my back and shoulders. I rake my fingernails down his chest and wrap my lips around his cock, and he shouts in shocked ecstasy as his next spurt sluices into my mouth and down my throat—I take as much of him as I can, and he groans, growls, his hands clutching the back of my head.
I moan at the taste of him, running one hand up his torso, relishing the hard furrow of his abs and the powerful solidity of his chest. My other hand wraps around his base and I pump him hard and fast, and he sags, dipping at the knees as he unleashes another hot salty stream of cum.
I let him pop free of my mouth, rise to my feet, and stroke him, nipping and nibbling kisses to the corner of his mouth. He huffs gruffly, nearly collapsing as his knees try to give out.
When I can milk no more of his release from his slowly slackening length, I let him go and turn him beneath the shower stream.
He tilts his face up the water, eyes closed, luxuriating in the heat, a contented, sated smile on his face.
He allows himself that for a moment or two, and then his eyes snap open, and a hungry grin blossoms on his features. "My god, Tatiana," he whispers, awe in his tone. "That was…"
"Just the beginning," I finish.
"Indeed. Just the beginning. Now, my sexy, beautiful Tatiana, now it is my turn."
And again, he surprises me. His strong, clever fingers do not find my tender, sensitive flesh, his mouth does not find my aching nipples.
No, instead, with exquisite tenderness, he washes me. He frees my hair of the braid, tips my head back, and rinses my hair, using the detachable wand to thoroughly rinse any stray glass shards from my scalp. After carefully running fingertips over my scalp to ensure the glass is gone, he shampoos my hair, kneading and massaging my scalp, lathering the thick glossy length of my black hair. He rinses it, works conditioner into it, and then gently but thoroughly scrubs my body with the bar of soap. He takes his time, not just lathering me with the soap, but using it as an opportunity to learn and caress my body, to memorize my curves.
In some ways, this is more intimate than sex.
I soak in the hot stream and close my eyes, giving myself over utterly to the worshipful way Lash's strong, callused, gentle hands carve over my curves. They cup and weigh and squeeze my breasts; roll and pinch and twist my nipples until I gasp; they grip and knead and pet my ass; they slip down my thighs and palm over my calves and scrape up my hipbones. He massages my back and shoulders, slides soapy hands with slow, reverent affection up my belly and over my breasts again, hungry, greedy eyes roaming, devouring.
"Lash…" I whisper. "I need you." I grip his beard and tilt his face to mine, moving my lips on his as I murmur. "Please."
He uses the wand to rinse me off and shuts off the water. He steps out, opens a towel, and I step into it. Wrapping it around me, he dabs, scrubs, and pats me dry, all while dripping wet himself.
Brusquely drying himself, he drapes the towel on the edge of the tub and turns to me.
He takes the towel from me, tosses it aside; I shiver, but not from cold—I'm flushed with anticipation, shaking with barely restrained desperation for Lash.
He scoops me up and carries me into the bedroom, places me on the bed, and crawls up after me. His hair is long and black and glossy and damp; his skin is flushed with desire; his eyes dance and glint with arousal. He hovers over me, and his mouth finds mine. I gasp into the kiss, and then cup the back of his head and mewl softly when his tongue carves through my mouth and dances with mine.
"Lash," I whisper again, saying his name as a prayer, as a plea.
He kisses my chin. My throat. My breastbone, and the tender path between my breasts, and then my belly.
"Oh god, please," I whisper, letting my hands rest on his damp head, guiding him to where I so badly want him.
He gives me what I want, the soft friction of his beard against the tender silk of my inner thighs delicious and heady, his tongue hot and clever against my clit. I moan and whimper, bucking my hips to ride his mouth, and his powerful hands drive up my thighs and cover my breasts. Climax rises inside me, a hurricane of sensation centered on my core, and I cling to Lash as it builds and builds. He seems to know my body as if it were created especially for him, slowing his touch when I need a break, renewing his fervor and speed to bring me back to the edge, slipping two curling, questing fingers inside me when I need that touch, need something inside me.
"Lash!" I cry, as orgasm swells and rocks through me. "Oh god, oh god, Lash!"
He guides me through it, tongue swirling and probing, fingers driving and sweeping. I come and I come, riding a wave of climax that leaves me screaming and shaking, weeping and trembling.
My purse is on the bedside table—when he finally allows me to quake down from the peak of climax, I grab it and rummage blindly in it until I find the string of condoms. I rip one free, tear it open with my teeth.
Plucking the ring of latex from the package, I grip his erection and caress him until he groans and his hips begin to buck. I roll the condom onto his thick length and then pull him toward me.
"Come here,” I murmur, "make love to me."
He twists, his hard, muscular, broad body levering over me. I open my thighs for him, curling my legs around his ass and pulling him close. Reach between our bodies and find his hardness waiting for me. He braces his hands beside my face, long black hair a shampoo-scented curtain. His dark eyes blaze with emotion, searching me.
I fit him to my entrance, and my mouth drops open, quivering as he spreads my sex apart with his thick cock. "Lash," I whisper. "God, yes."
Raw emotion ravages his face, and I don't need him to explain what he’s feeling—he wears it openly for me, letting me see everything: need and desire, desperation and hunger, fear and nervousness, sadness, even; love.
"Tati," he breathes. "Tatiana."
I meet his gaze and let the pure joy I feel wash over my expression. "Lash."
His eyes shimmer. "Nicolae," he whispers. "I think perhaps Lash can return to the shadows whence he came."
"Nicolae," I say, rolling my hips in small circles with him notched just barely inside me.
"Nico," he breathes, eyes squeezing shut, a tear slipping down one cheek, disappearing into his beard. "Let me be your Nico."
He is laying his ghosts to rest. Burying the past. Stepping into the future.
I tilt my hips, taking him fully inside me. "Nico," I whimper, my own eyes shining wet and locked on his. "Nico. My Nico."
He groans, burying his face between my breasts. I hold onto his head and meet his thrusts, and our bodies move together in a union of joy and ecstasy. His thrusts grow faster and harder, and I cry out each time he drives home inside me, and I clutch at his ass with my legs, holding onto his head with both hands as he arches and bows his spine with each ravaging thrust. He lengthens above me, and my legs fall apart and I draw my heels up against my ass and accept with eager panting cries the hard, fast, driving wonder of his cock as it fills me, withdraws, fills, withdraws.
"Tati," he growls. "Come with me."
I fit my fingers to my clit and circle, and my cries grow desperate. "Nico! I'm going to come, Nicolae. I'm going to—right now."
“Tati,” he gasps. "Tatiana, oh god, oh god, Tatiana!”
I feel him release inside me, his thrusts wild and rough, and I come through it, weeping and whimpering and wailing as wave after wave of orgasm washes over me, slashes through me. My hips tip and tilt, drive and circle as I come, desperately thrusting against him.
Slowly, we drift down the other side together, panting and sweating. Lash—Nicolae—gives me his weight, resting his face against my breasts as I roam his shoulders and back with my hands.
"Nico," I breathe.
"Tati…" He whispers, his voice shaking and fraught. "Tatiana, I…" I hear throat-shredding raspy hoarse agony in his voice. Wonder. Embarrassment.
I push at his heavy shoulder, and he rolls to his back, turns his face away from me. I lean over him and kiss his cheek. He doesn’t respond, but his shoulders lift and fall, and then shake.
"Lash—Nicolae. Look at me, please." I cup his cheek, the one pressed into the pillow away from me.
He growls, gruff and harsh, a ragged negative. "A moment."
"No. No." I straddle him and crush my body against him, take his face in my hands and force him to look at me. "Nico. It's okay . You can trust me with this, too.”
"I am unmanned, Lovely One." His voice is so ragged it hurts my heart to hear, shredded as if he swallowed razor blades.
"No, my darling." I don't know where the term of endearment came from—I am not one to use such terms. "You are a man, and men feel things. Men have emotions—strong ones. Feeling them and letting others see them is not weakness. It is not unmanly."
"I do not know why I am…" he shakes his head, unable to even say the word.
"Crying, Nico. You are crying, and it is okay." I turn his face to mine. Kiss his cheeks, and taste salt. "It is okay. Do you really think I would reject you for crying? That I would stop being attracted to you? Do you think me so weak and shallow that a strong man showing emotion after such beautiful vulnerability would turn me off?"
Slowly, he turns his face to mine, wet eyes cracking open as he fights for breath, for calm. "No—no. But, I…" he shakes his head, sighing. "I don't know."
"Talk to me, Nicolae." I sit on his belly and hips, the slimy cold wetness of the condom against my buttock—I barely notice and care even less. "Tell me why you weep."
"Catharsis," he says, using the Croatian word rather than English—I don't think I would have known what the English word meant. "I…it’s also sadness."
I wipe at his cheeks with my palms. Kiss them. Kiss his eyes, softly, delicately. "Tell me," I whisper.
"I…I have clung to Ileana's ghost for so long. Clung to the grief. The anger. Thoughts and dreams and plans for revenge. I vowed I would not cut my hair or beard until Roberto Pugli was dead by my hand. But you…" He sits up on the bed and now I am sitting on his thighs, facing him; he caresses my shoulders, my cheeks, and brushes my damp hair away from my cheeks. "You changed everything. Changed me. Has it even been a week? I don’t know—time has distorted since I woke up in that Zagreb Hangar. I thought I would be lost without revenge to drive me, but I…letting Major Neufeld take the case and bring him to justice according to the courts of law rather than the law of the sword…I feel free."
I swallow hard. "I have said before that I was worried you would feel I was taking something away from you."
"You did. I was holding onto an anchor chain, and the anchor was hurtling to the bottom of the sea, taking me with it. You pried my fingers from it and showed me the surface. Helped me swim upward. And now I can breathe. Now I can see the light." He cups my face in both hands. "Tati, I…" a shake of his head, his eyes watering again. "I have also had to let go of Ileana. Of Leander and Leonora. I have not been living—I have been wandering the earth as a half-ghost, one foot in the grave with them, waiting for the chance to kill Pugli and join them in Heaven."
"Oh, Nico," I whisper, a tear slipping down my cheek.
He catches it with his thumb. "No, Lovely One. Do not weep. They are not gone—they wait for me in Heaven, or wherever and whatever comes after this life. They…" He touches a closed fist to his chest. "They live on with me. I remember them. I love them. But I…my Ileana would want me to live. She was jealous of my love while she was alive. If I spoke to a beautiful woman, she would be jealous, even though she knew I was loyal to her and in love with her. But you asked me what she would say if she could give me a message from the grave, and I know now what she would say. She would tell me to choose life. To choose love."
I can only shake my head and let tears fall. "I don't want to be selfish, Nico. But I am. I want you to love me."
"I do." He says it simply, with a shrug, clear-eyed and confident. "She would want me to love you. To let you love me. To be happy. To find joy again. To find pleasure." He exhales through pursed lips. "That is part of why I was crying. I felt guilty for a moment because it felt so good— too good. I have denied myself that connection with other humans since she died. Hugs. Hand holding. Sex. All of it. And then with you, it…we…" he swallows hard, shakes his head. "I let myself have you, let myself feel what I feel for you, and…" he trails off.
"You can tell me anything, Nico. Even if it is hard or uncomfortable."
He nods. "I know. You are strong and brave." He smiles at me, but it fades quickly, becoming an emotional, thoughtful, complicated expression. "I was young when I met Ileana. We were young and passionate. Our relationship was…very physical. I had other lovers or partners before her, but not many, and they weren't very good. With Ileana, it was magical. And I think that when she died, it was a very large factor in why I clung to grief for so long, why I refused to allow myself to even wonder what could be…" he pauses, sighs, and continues. "Was fear. Fear that…"
He can't seem to finish.
"That no one and nothing would ever compare to what you had with her," I finish, guessing at the rest.
He nods. "Precisely. How could it? How could anyone understand me the way she did? How could I ever feel such magical ecstasy with anyone else? How could I ever love anyone else? It seemed impossible, and futile to even wonder, to even try. It seemed too painful to even consider. I refused to entertain the possibility."
"But?" I prompted.
"But then you came along. You opened my eyes to possibilities. The ghosts of my past do not threaten you. I can show you my grief and it does not turn you off or overwhelm you. You softened my heart and breathed life into me. And now…" he rests his hands on my thighs, and then cups my bottom, and his eyes rake over my breasts on their way to piercing me, searing me. “You have shown me that I can feel that magic again. I wept because it was such a relief. I also wept with guilt, because it was…the pleasure I felt with you was as great as I remember. You are you, not her, and it is different with you in ways I cannot put into words. I just…I felt guilty for feeling such pleasure. It felt like a betrayal, almost. That I could move on. That I could find love. That I could feel such incredible pleasure with someone else."
"That is understandable," I say. "You are allowed to feel anything you feel, Nicolae, and I just…I suppose I hope you will share those feelings with me, whatever they are—good, bad, scary, exciting, complicated…everything."
He cups my breasts and lets them fall. Thumbs my nipples until they ache and I gasp. "I will, Tatiana. I will share myself with you."
I sigh, eyes closing at the pleasure of his touch. "Oh, Nico. Nico." I open my eyes and look deep into his. "Is it crazy? That I could love you already?"
He shakes his head. "I will not always talk about her this much, but…when I met Ileana, I knew I would love her. And I did. I knew I was in love with her within a few days of meeting her. I waited to say so for an embarrassingly long time because I did not know if she felt the same way. I told you, she took a while to come around to accepting me, and even longer to accept her feelings for me. But I knew." He touches my mouth, tracing the bow of my lips. "I only say this so you know that I believe you can love someone right away. The heart is a mystery, Tatiana. But that is my experience."
I close my eyes, sighing as he caresses my breasts, thighs, buttocks, face, arms—everywhere. "I want you again, already, Nico."
His lips touch my chin. My mouth—I tilt my face to turn the touch into a kiss. "Aren't you tired?" he murmurs.
"Bone-tired. But I won't be able to sleep until I am sated."
"And what will sate you, Lovely One?"
I grin, shrugging. "I don't know. Right now, the way I feel? Nothing. I need you, Nico. I fucking need you so bad it feels like madness."
"Then let me clean up and come back to you, and we will see what we can do about curing your madness."
I sling my leg away, slipping off of him. "Let me do it."
I strip the condom off him and take it to the bathroom, wrap it in toilet paper, and discard it. Wetting a washcloth with warm water and squeezing it out, I bring it to the bed and clean his cock. I toss the wet cloth into the tub, and by the time I return, he has fallen asleep.
I laugh to myself, and curl up on him, nestling against his chest. He curls an arm around me instinctively. I bring the blankets over us, and despite my claim from a moment ago, I fall asleep.