Chapter 19
MILA
I can’t stop looking at the dress.
Silk, the color of weak tea. Cassia left it in my closet last week with a small smile.
Nights of reaching for his belt. Nights of his gentle hands stopping me.
“Drugoy noch’yu.” A different night.
Tonight.
I put the dress on. It slides over my skin, cool and soft. The chain sits against my throat underneath. I brush my hair until it’s smooth.
I don’t look at the mirror. I know what I look like in this dress. That’s not why I put it on.
The folding knife stays on the dresser.
The hallway is quiet.
My heart is beating in my throat the whole length of the hallway. The wood doesn’t creak under my feet. I’m glad for that.
I reach his door.
It’s open an inch.
I don’t stand in the doorway. Not tonight.
I push it open and walk in.
He’s in the chair by the window. The Pushkin is open in his lap. White shirt, black pants, watch on his right wrist. The sleeves are rolled to his elbows. The lamp casts shadows across his face.
He looks up.
He sees the dress.
He sets the Pushkin down slowly. His hands are very steady. His face doesn’t change.
He stands.
I cross the room.
I cross all the way to him. I don’t wait for him to reach for me first.
I put my left hand on his chest over the shirt. Slide it up to the side of his throat. Then to his face. My thumb on his cheekbone. My fingers in his hair at his temple.
The heat of him burns through my palm.
His hands stay at his sides.
Low. The first thing he says.
“Ty uverena?” Are you sure?
I don’t answer with words.
I nod.
He closes his eyes for one second. When he opens them, his hands rise slow and find my hips.
“Mila.”
I kiss him.
His mouth opens under mine. His tongue against mine. His right hand goes to the back of my head. His left stays on my hip.
I pull back.
I reach for the buttons of his shirt.
I pull the shirt out of his waistband. Start at the bottom button. Work my way up. My fingers don’t shake.
He stands very still and watches my hands.
The shirt opens.
His chest is lean. Hard. There’s a scar on his left ribs, small, raised, the length of a knife blade. There are scars on his shoulders I’ll ask about later. Maybe. Maybe I won’t ask at all.
I trace the rib scar with my thumb.
He doesn’t flinch. His skin is warm under my hand.
I push the shirt off his shoulders. He moves his arms just enough to let me take it. I drop it on the floor.
I put both hands on his chest. His heart is racing under my left palm.
He hasn’t touched me yet. Not since his hands found my hips.
“Your turn,” I say.
Barely a whisper. But I said it.
His eyes go dark.
He brings his hands to the back of the dress.
His hands shake.
The zipper comes down slow. The sound of it fills the quiet room. He catches the dress at my elbows. Lets it fall to my waist. The bra is soft, no underwire. Sofia knows what bodies need.
He brings his hands to my ribs.
“Mila.”
“Da.”
The bra unhooks. He slides the straps down my arms. Slow. Asking with his hands.
He drops the bra on the floor.
I push the dress over my hips. It pools at my feet.
I step out of it.
I’m in nothing but the chain.
He doesn’t look down my body. He looks at my face.
“Krasivaya.” Beautiful.
He sits on the edge of the bed.
He pulls me toward him by my hips.
I step between his knees. He’s at eye level with my chest. He puts his mouth on the chain. Then on the place under my jaw where the violin lives. Then on my collarbone. Then lower.
His mouth on my breast.
His tongue on my nipple.
I make a sound.
He stops. Looks up at me.
I push his shoulder back.
He goes. Lies back on the bed. Watch on his wrist. Pulse at his throat. Naked from the waist up. His belt is still buckled. The dark line of hair below his navel disappears into his waistband.
I climb onto the bed.
I straddle his thighs.
His right hand grips the sheet beside my hip. White-knuckled. His left hand finds my hip and rests there. Light. Not pushing. Not pulling.
I reach for his belt.
“Mila.”
“Not stopping me tonight,” I say.
My voice is rough.
He closes his eyes. Breathes out hard.
“Net. Net segodnya.”
No. Not tonight.
I undo the belt, the button, the zipper.
I look at his face the whole time. His eyes are dark. His jaw is tight. He’s not moving. Barely breathing.
I take the pants off him. Take the underwear off him.
He’s hard.
His cock is right in front of me. I haven’t seen this by choice in years.
I lean down.
I put my mouth on him.
Just the head. Just enough to taste salt and him.
He makes a sound like I’ve killed him.
His hand flies to my hair. Not pulling. Just holding. Shaking.
“Mila, bozhe moy.”
Mila, my god.
I pull back. Look at him.
His eyes are closed. His chest is moving fast. His cock is harder than it was.
The sound that came out of him. The shake in his hands.
I did that.
“You stopped me before,” I say. “Not stopping me now.”
I wrap my hand around him. Stroke once. Slow.
His hips buck off the bed.
“Fuck.”
I stroke him again.
“Ostanovis’. Ostanovis’ ili ya konchu pryamo seychas.”
Stop. Stop or I’m going to come right now.
I stop.
But I don’t let go.
“I’m on birth control,” I say. The words come out steady. I didn’t know I had that voice in me tonight. “Gia tested me when I came here. I’m clean.”
His chest stops moving.
“I’m clean too. Tested months ago. No one since.”
Months. I believe him.
“I’ve never done this without a condom,” he says quietly. His thumb moves against my hip. Once. “But if you’re saying I can have you like this.”
His voice goes rough.
“No barriers. Not because we’re careless.”
His jaw works.
“Because you came to me.”
“Ya tozhe,” I say.
Me too.
I lift up on my knees. Slide forward over his hips. Position myself over him.
“Posmotri na menya,” I say. Look at me.
He does. I lower myself onto him, slow.
I’m wet enough that he slides in. But he’s bigger than I expected and my body has to adjust.
I lower an inch.
Stop.
Breathe.
The stretch is real. Not painful. Just. Full.
He stops breathing.
His teeth go into his bottom lip. His hands on my hips don’t move but his knuckles on the sheet go white.
Another inch.
“Bozhe,” he breathes. “Ty.” God. You.
Every inch of him. Hot. Hard. Filling me.
I lower the rest of the way.
He’s all the way inside me.
I sit on him. Don’t move. Let my body adjust to the fullness.
The chain is against my throat. The window is cracked. I can hear cicadas. I can hear his breath. I can hear my own heartbeat in my ears.
His eyes are closed. He hasn’t let go of the sheet.
He says, through his teeth.
“Moya.” Mine.
He opens his eyes. Doesn’t take it back.
I tighten around him.
The sound that comes out of my throat is small, surprised.
His mouth falls open. The air punches out of him.
“Yesli ty sdelayesh’ eto snova, ya ne vyderzhu.”
If you do that again, I won’t last.
“Good,” I say.
I want him to not last. I want to be the reason.
I do it again.
He groans. His cock throbs inside me. The pulse goes through me.
“Ty ubivayesh’ menya.” You’re killing me.
I start to move, just a slow roll of my hips.
He makes a sound at the back of his throat. Raw. Hungry.
The friction is everything. I move on him easy.
I move again.
His left hand slides from my hip up to my breast. His thumb brushes the chain. He doesn’t move it. Just holds my breast in his hand while I ride him.
I arch into his hand.
“Tak khorosho,” he says through his teeth. “Ty tak khorosho sebya chuvstvuyesh’.”
So good. You feel so good.
I move faster.
His other hand goes to the back of my thigh. Open palm. He’s not pushing. He’s just holding me so I know where his hand is.
I lean forward. The chain swings. Hits his chest.
His mouth is below mine.
I kiss him while I ride him.
The kiss is messy. Open-mouthed. His tongue against mine. The want off him is real and desperate and stripped of every wall he keeps up.
He moves with me. Slow. Restrained.
“Ty mozhesh’,” I say into his mouth. “Ty mozhesh’ dvigat’sya.”
You can. You can move.
He thrusts up into me.
I cry out. Not pain, not fear. Pleasure.
The sound comes out of my throat. Loud. Raw.
I don’t care if the household hears.
He nearly comes.
His face breaks for half a second. His jaw goes tight. His eyes squeeze shut.
“Eshche,” he says. “Pozhaluysta, Mila. Eshche.”
More. Please, Mila. More.
I move faster.
He thrusts up to meet me.
His hand on my hip tightens. Fingers spread. Gripping me hard for the first time.
I’m so wet I can hear it every time I move on him. So can he.
“Ty tak mokraya,” he groans. “Ty tak mokraya dlya menya.”
You’re so wet. You’re so wet for me.
“Good girl,” he says. “My good girl.”
His voice lands low in my stomach.
I move faster.
He matches me. Thrusts up into me with a rhythm that breaks my breath open.
It’s building. Low in my stomach. Tightening.
“Niccolò.”
His eyes fly open.
“Say it again,” he says, rough, desperate.
“Niccolò.”
He groans.
“Ty szhimayesh’ menya,” he says. “Ya ne mogu... ty slishkom...”
You’re squeezing me. I can’t... you’re too...
I am squeezing him. My body is clenching around his cock and I can’t stop it and I don’t want to stop it.
I lean forward. Put my mouth to his ear.
“Ya khochu, chtoby ty konchil vnutri menya,” I say.
I want you to come inside me.
He makes a sound I’ve never heard him make, broken and raw, mine.
His hand goes to the back of my head. Fists in my hair.
“You first,” he says. “You come first. Then me.”
His other hand slides between us. Finds where we’re joined. His thumb on my clit.
I almost come just from that.
“That’s it.” He says. “Let me feel you come on my cock.”
I come hard.
My head goes back.
The sound that comes out of me is loud. Full-throated. Raw.
I don’t care if the household hears.
My body clenches around him. Tight. Over and over. Every pulse of it.
He grips my hip hard. Says my name.
“Mila.”
He swells inside me.
Then he says moya one more time and his face goes into my shoulder and he comes inside me with his teeth on the chain.
Hot. He’s pulsing. He’s filling me.
He’s shaking underneath me.
I hold him.
He’s shaking.
I’m not.
I bring his face up to mine. He’s breathing hard into my hair. I kiss his temple. My hand finds his back and stays there.
He shakes for the duration of a long breath.
Then he stills.
I don’t speak.
Neither does he.
He’s quiet for a long moment.
Then he shifts.
Lifts me off him carefully.
He slides out. The wet between my legs is his come and mine.
“Stay here,” he says quietly.
He gets up.
He crosses to the bathroom. Naked. The scars on his back visible in the lamplight. Three of them. I still don’t know where they came from.
The water runs.
He comes back with a warm washcloth.
I go still.
He kneels beside the bed.
“Can I?” he asks.
No one has ever.
I nod.
He’s gentle. So gentle. He cleans between my legs with the warm cloth. Wipes away the mess we made. The wet. The come. He takes his time. His hands don’t rush. His face doesn’t change.
When he’s done, he goes back to the bathroom. The water runs again. He comes back empty-handed.
He gets back into bed.
Pulls me against his side. My head on his chest. His right arm around my shoulders. His left hand spread flat on my stomach.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
“Da,” I whisper. Yes
He kisses the top of my head.
His hand stays where it is.
I hold onto him.
I let him hold me back.
His breath is slowing.
Mine is slow.
The window is cracked. The cicadas are at their late-night pitch.
I lift my hand to his face.
Trace the line of his jaw.
He closes his eyes.
“Spasibo,” he says quietly. Thank you.
I don’t ask what for.
I press my mouth to his shoulder.
“Moy,” I say. Mine.
His breath goes still.
He doesn’t say anything.
He pulls me closer.
I fall asleep on his chest with the sound of his heartbeat in my ear.