ROMAN #2
I stop in the middle of the corridor.
No.
For a second, I think I’m imagining it. My mind reaching backward the way it has been doing too often since the lunch, since the pier, since I looked at a little boy and had to force myself not to think too clearly.
Then the melody comes again, fuller this time, and I know exactly what it is.
The song from Moscow. The one we danced to.
I follow the sound down the hall and up the smaller staircase toward the back of the house.
The music leads me to a sitting room I haven’t seen before. Smaller than the front rooms. Warmer. Bookshelves, low lamps, a fire burning down to embers, and in the corner, a black grand piano.
Katerina is sitting on the bench with her back to me.
Her coat is gone. Her hair falls loose over one shoulder. The room is dim enough that the cream of her sweater and the pale line of her neck stand out against the dark wood and the black lacquer of the piano.
She doesn’t hear me at first. Or maybe she does and chooses not to stop.
The melody falters only when I step farther in.
Then she lifts her head and sees me reflected in the piano’s gloss. Her hands go still on the keys. For one second, neither of us says anything.
Then she turns on the bench, eyes wide, face flushed from either the fire or the music or the fact that she was just caught reaching backward with me.
“What are you doing here?”
I shut the door behind me. Then I turn the lock.
The small click is enough to make her stand at once.
“Roman.” Her voice is warning and breath at the same time.
I walk toward her slowly.
She takes one step back from the bench, then another. “You can’t just—”
“Yes, I can.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
She shakes her head. “No.”
“No what?”
“No to this.”
I stop directly in front of her. Close enough that I can smell her shampoo, the faint clean scent of her skin, the little spike of fear and want that rides under both.
“This,” I say, “is you playing our song in a locked room.”
Her face flushes deeper. “It’s not our song.”
“Then why are you shaking?”
“I’m not shaking.”
I lift one hand and slide my knuckles along the inside of her wrist. The tremor runs straight through her.
Katerina inhales sharply. “Roman.”
“Tell me not to touch you.”
She says nothing.
I take the silence and move closer, until the piano presses into the back of her thighs and there is nowhere left for her to go but into me.
“Tell me you don’t want this,” I say quietly.
Her mouth parts.
I can feel the answer in her before she gives it. In the way she leans a fraction toward me instead of away. In the way her hands hover near my chest, uncertain whether to push or hold.
“Katerina.”
Her eyes lift to mine, furious and bright and helpless in exactly the way that undoes me. “You’re here to see my sister. You’re courting her for Christ’s sake.”
“I’m not,” I say truthfully. “I came here to see you. She was just an excuse.”
She starts to pant, her eyes locked on me.
“Tell me you don’t want me,” I murmur.
She swallows. “You know I can’t say that.”
That’s all I need.
I catch her face in both hands and kiss her.
My mouth takes hers hard, and she answers me instantly, hands fisting in my shirt like she hates me for giving her what she wanted.
Let her hate me.
Her mouth is soft and angry and familiar in a way that makes my whole body tighten. I kiss her deeper, and she gasps into it, arching against me before she can stop herself. I pin her there between my body and the piano, one hand sliding down to her waist, the other tangling in her hair.
She moans when I bite her lower lip. The sound goes straight to my cock.
I drag my mouth from hers and down the side of her neck. She turns her head without meaning to, giving me more skin. I take it. Kiss. Tongue. Teeth. Just enough to make her knees soften.
“This is a bad idea,” she breathes.
“You already said that once.”
“You remember everything.”
“Only what matters.”
My hand moves down her back, over the curve of her ass, then around to the front where her skirt clings to her thighs. I slide my palm up slowly until I feel the heat between her legs through the fabric.
She’s already wet.
I laugh once against her throat.
She shudders. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Sound pleased with yourself.”
“I’m not sounding pleased.” I press my fingers harder between her thighs and feel her jolt. “I’m being pleased.”
“God, I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
I kiss her again before she can argue, and this time I take my time with it. I let her feel every inch of it, the slow drag of my tongue, the way I open her mouth and keep her there until she’s breathing through her nose and clutching at me like she might actually fall if I stepped back.
Then I do step back. Only enough to look at her.
Her lips are swollen. Her hair is a mess. Her chest rises too fast beneath the sweater. She looks wrecked already and I haven’t even touched her properly.
I want to ruin her.
I push her gently but firmly back against the piano and sit her on the edge of it.
She stares at me, breathless. “Roman—”
“Spread your legs.”
She hesitates.
I slide my hand back up her thigh, under the skirt this time, pushing the fabric with it. “You know what happens when you keep hesitating.”
“What?”
“I get impatient.”
That should make her dig in.
Instead, she opens for me. Slowly.
The sight of it nearly finishes me on the spot. Her thighs parting over the polished black edge, her skirt riding up, the little lace panties between us already damp where I touch them.
I slide one finger over the wet patch and her whole body jerks. “Yes, my sweet, do you feel this? Do you feel my fingers?”
She grips the edge of the piano behind her. “Please.”
The word hits me hard.
I hook my fingers into the sides of her panties and pull them down her legs. She lifts her hips without being asked. Good girl. I get the lace past her knees, then her ankles, and toss it aside.
She’s bare for me on the piano.
Red-cheeked, breathing hard, trying not to look ashamed and failing only because she still thinks wanting this much should cost her something.
I sink to my knees in front of her.
Her eyes go wide. “Roman.”
“What?”
“You don’t—”
I drag one open-mouthed kiss up the inside of her thigh.
Her back arches instantly.
Then I do it again, higher.
And again, until I’m close enough to feel the heat of her, to smell how wet she is for me, to hear the little broken sounds she’s trying to swallow.
“Tell me to stop,” I say against her skin.
She doesn’t.
I spread her with both hands and put my mouth on her.
She cries out.
No slow tease. I lick her in one long, deliberate stroke and feel her thighs tense around my shoulders. She tastes exactly like I remember and better because now there are four years of frustration in my mouth with her.
I lick her again, slower this time, then circle her clit with my tongue until she starts shaking properly.
“Roman—”
I suck her clit into my mouth.
Her hand slams into my hair.
Good.