CHAPTER 19
Sasha
I’ve thought a great deal about Vaughn this week.
(Who am I fooling? All I’ve thought about this week is Vaughn.)
Waiting on the front stoop of my parent’s house for the car to pick me up, I’m grateful that I’ve had a week to process the changes in him…and time to determine what those changes could mean for us.
The truth is that as much as I tried to move on from my feelings for Vaughn, I never really did, and as long as he stayed alive in my heart, the chances of my finding happiness with someone else were slim. My love for him was always there—soft and silent, but strong—like a crocus hiding under the winter snow, waiting for the spring sun to shine again. Our timing wasn’t right six years ago, or last year in London, but now? Maybe, just maybe, it is.
Has he truly left the debauched, self-centered life of Ivan Stepanov behind?
If so, we might actually have a chance to build something lasting with each other, to continue a love affair that started years ago, and was cut down by circumstance before it could find firm footing.
My heart whispers that I must be cautious.
The changes in him after he first moved to Moscow were drastic and heartbreaking. And frankly, the way he behaved in London wasn’t much better. If he has made significant improvements in his character and lifestyle over the past year, I want to be sure they’re permanent before getting my heart broken all over again.
My mind drifts back to Fostering the Arts —to the way his eyes shone and sparkled when he told me about his plans. I felt so proud of him in that moment, so intensely relieved to see the man I fell in love with seemingly restored. I cried for much of my ride home on Saturday afternoon because sometimes hope hurts as much as pain.
I’m hopeful. For him. For me. For us. I feel so hopeful, it scares me. But I guess the bottom line is that I’m willing to risk my heart one last time for the happy ending I crave with him.
Vaughn and I traded a bunch of texts this week—mostly just casual check-ins. He texted hello every morning. I texted hello back. He told me about his progress on Fostering the Arts , the meetings he attended, his dreams for the project. When he asked me about my day, I highlighted the parts of my life that exclude my job at the Coffee Depot—babysitting for Sayaka and Greg, assisting Sayaka in creating a website for her new studio, helping my mother with Bubbie’s appointments, and reaching out to the Annapolis Ballet for an audition.
Yep. I did it.
I know that Annapolis isn’t New York, or even Washington, but it’s close to my parents, it’s a shorter season than that of a major national company, and it’s affiliated with the conservatory where I trained as a teenager. They got back to me quickly, too, and seem enthusiastic about my interest. I’m scheduled for an audition next week, and if all goes well, I might start dancing again as early as next spring.
As the car pulls over in front of a restaurant in Clarendon, I look out the window to see him standing on the sidewalk. In jeans, a white dress shirt, and sunglasses, he looks casual, but hot, and I have to remind myself not to get swept up in his world until I know my heart is safe.
He opens my door, offering me his hand.
“Hi,” I say, stepping onto the curb.
“You made it.” He pushes his sunglasses into his hair, grinning at me. “You look beautiful, Sasha.”
“You said casual,” I say, looking down at my flowy, white, silk halter top, skinny jeans and black slingback sandals. The silver bangles on my wrist clang together merrily as I readjust my purse on my shoulder.
“Thanks for meeting me,” he says.
I look over his head at the restaurant sign. Ambar.
“I’ve never been here.”
He holds the door open for me. “You’re in for a treat. It’s really good.”
Cumin, paprika, mint, coriander.
The mixture of smells makes my mouth water.
“Turkish?” I ask him as we wait for the hostess to seat us.
“Balkan,” he says. “So, yes, Turkish, but also, Greek, Albanian, Bulgarian…”
“It smells amazing .”
“Wait until you taste it,” he tells me. “What I love about this place is you pay one flat price and choose whatever you want to try on the menu. It’s the best.”
We’re taken to a booth by the windows and sit down across from each other at a white marble table. Overhead, a wooden lattice is covered with greenery and hanging pink flowers, making the entire room feel like a garden.
“Oh, Vaughn! It’s so pretty here.”
“I was hoping you’d like it.”
A busboy fills our water glasses and informs us that our server will be over in a few minutes.
“Do you want a cocktail?” he asks. “Or wine?”
He slides the wine list to me, and I’m enchanted by the way it has a separate page for the wines from each country—Serbia, Croatia, Slovenia, Greece, Bulgaria, and Moldova.
“I used to know a girl from Moldova,” I tell him. “She was kind. Smart as a whip and good with words. Anna.”
“Let’s get a bottle and toast her,” he suggests.
When the waiter stops by our table, Vaughn orders a bottle of Moldovan Sauvignon Blanc and asks for two glasses.
“We’ll do the “Try Everything” option for dinner, please. Just bring a little of everything for us to try, okay? But this is important… nothing that comes to our table,” he continues, a glimpse of Ivan Stepanov accompanying this warning, “can be made with dairy. No cream. No milk. No cheese. No sour cream. No dairy . Understand?”
“Yes, sir. We take allergies seriously here. Thanks for letting me know.”
“Thank you for keeping my date safe,” he says, giving the server a satisfied nod. He slides his eyes back to me, no doubt noting the thoughtful look on my face. “What?”
“Shades of Ivan,” I say.
“How so?”
“You want what you want, and you ask for it.”
His lips purse a touch. “Is that okay?”
I remember how he was when I met him—head down, eyes to the floor, a man of few words, someone who didn’t deserve to make requests or have them met. It’s good that he has the confidence to speak up for himself now. That’s something positive he got from being Ivan Stepanov.
I tilt my head to the side. “You kept trying to tell me that Ivan wasn’t all bad.”
“And you kept insisting that he was.”
“You had changed so much, and in fairness, there was a lot I didn’t like. But I do like your confidence now.”
“Is that right?” he asks, grinning at me.
I don’t mean to, but I roll my lips inward, then lick them. My cheeks feel a little warm. I nod. “It is.”
“What else do you like?”
“I like that I can call you Vaughn again. You don’t seem to object anymore.”
“I don’t.”
“You did,” I point out. “In London.”
“To be frank?” He takes a deep breath and lets it go slowly. “I was trying to disassociate from the person I’d been from my kidnapping until the day Irina found me. I was trying to act like Vaughn Cigno had never existed. When I looked at myself through that lens—kidnapped and sold, abused and unloved, defeated and downcast—it made me feel such shame. Brutal, almost mind-numbing shame.” He winces before continuing. “I hated the very thought of him…until I met you in London and saw him through your eyes.”
This is so touching, I feel a lump fill my throat as my eyes fill with tears. That I could be an instrument of healing for him is so humbling, it makes me want to cry. And I have profound wells of sympathy, compassion, and understanding for what he’s saying.
But that part of me that’s trying to protect myself is skeptical. I want to be sure he’s not just flattering me, that there’s substance behind his words.
“To go from hating a large part of yourself to accepting it takes hard work,” I observe, taking a sip of water. “My insight alone wasn’t some kind of magic wand.”
“You’re right. You’re exactly right.” He nods. “I’m very much a work-in-progress, Sasha, and the truth is that this struggle to know and understand myself will likely be a lifelong challenge. But I started working with a great therapist last fall. He’s helped me to see that my life journey, which has been atypical to the extreme, means that my personality will be atypical, too. I’m a mix of little Ivan, Vaughn Cigno, and Ivan Stepanov. I’ll never be just one of them. I’ll always be an amalgam of all three.”
“That makes sense,” I say. “You go to therapy, huh?”
“That surprises you?”
“I like it,” I tell him. “I think it’s great.”
“I had to,” he says with a rueful chuckle. “I’ve been through a lot for one person.”
“I know.”
My heart opens and blooms, making space for him in all the nooks and crannies he hasn’t already claimed.
The server returns with our wine, two glasses and a sweating metal bucket filled with icy water to keep it cool. He pours a sip into one of the glasses.
“Do you want to try it?” Vaughn asks.
I shake my head. “You’re fancier than me. You try it.”
He drinks it, then urges the server to fill our glasses.
“For the record,” he says. “I’m not fancier than you. You’re a ballerina! That’s, like, the apex of fancy.”
“For the last five years,” I argue, “you were exposed to the very best of everything. And I’m guessing that despite your choice to move back to the states, your bank account followed you here from Russia, which means that you can still afford the best of everything.” I give him a look as I raise my glass. “That makes you fancier.”
He screws up his face as he clinks his glass against mine. “Agree to disagree?”
“Fair enough.” I giggle at him before sipping the cold, clean, citrus-y wine.
Over a dozen delicious dishes, he tells me about growing closer to his mother and sister while working with them at a non-profit that raises money for orphanages in Russia. I tell him how much I’ve missed the stage but share that I’ve got an audition in Annapolis lined up.
“Hey! That’s amazing!” he cries, his facing lighting up with admiration. “I’m so glad to hear it!”
“I want to dance again. I miss it like crazy.”
“Your hip’s okay? You won’t hurt it?”
“It’s in good shape. I had to re-audition for the MBT back in January, and my choreographer said I was strong enough to get back on the stage.”
“But you decided not to?” He leans forward, his eyebrows furrowing. “Why? Why didn’t you go back to work in New York? That was your dream.”
“After Bubbie’s heart attack,” I tell him, “my priorities changed. I love my family more than anything, and I felt like I was missing out on holidays and birthdays and all the good stuff. I didn’t want to be so far away from them anymore.”
“I get that,” he says.
“Do you?” I ask. “All evidence to the contrary. Your family’s in Moscow.”
“No,” he says gently, reaching for my hand and holding my gaze. “My family’s right here.”
“What do you mean?”
“A lot of people define family by the people they’re related to by blood. But for most of my life, I didn’t know them. For me, family is the people who make you feel like you belong, whether you’re blood related or not.” He gulps softly, lacing our fingers together like he did the summer we fell in love. “You loved me and accepted me just the way I was. And later, in London, when you saw what I’d become, you fought for the parts of me I was losing. You’re my family, Sasha.” His voice is a whisper, raspy with emotion, when he adds, “I belong with you.”
His eyes, stormy gray and so earnest it aches, tell me that every word he’s saying is his truth. I draw his hand to my lips and kiss his skin, closing my burning eyes and praying that I’m not making a mistake by believing in him all over again. When I open my eyes, he’s staring at me, his gaze so steady and so full of love, it makes my heart stutter.
“I want to believe everything you’re saying.”
“You can,” he tells me simply, kissing my knuckles tenderly. “If you give me a chance, I’ll prove it to you.”
“I think you’re a little crazy,” I tell him.
“About you? Да, котенок .” Yes, kitten.
My breath catches. My heartbeat speeds up. I want to be alone with him. Now.
“I’ve missed you, Alexandra” he says, his voice gruff and low. “Do you…are you in a rush to get home?” His eyes, dilated and urgent, scan mine. “I’d love to show you my apartment. The view’s amazing, and the vodka’s cold.”
Between the two of us, we’ve just about cached the bottle of Moldovan wine. I’m not sure I want anything else to drink.
But I want him.
I want him so badly, it hurts.
“Let’s go,” I whisper.
His eyes flare with heat, laser focused on mine as he reaches out and grabs the arm of a passing waiter. “Check, please.”
***
Vaughn
My apartment’s only two miles away, but it’s getting dark and raining when we leave the restaurant, so I grab us an Uber. We sit silently, side by side in the back seat, looking out our separate windows. I don’t know what’s going on in her head—not exactly—though I’ve been with enough women to know what longing looks like.
For my part, I’ve never felt anything in my life as strong as my desire for her.
I tell myself not to expect anything.
I tell myself we’re going to move at her pace.
I tell myself that if I fuck this up, I may never get another chance to show her how fucking much I love her.
I tell myself—
My hand has been laying flat on the seat between us, and I feel her hand cover mine. I spread my fingers, so hers can slide in between. She curls them around mine, and I tuck mine under hers. My heart thunders, pumping faster, blood sluicing all through my body but especially to my cock, which longs for harbor inside of her.
I close my eyes and try not to think about making love to her, try not to think about what it would feel like, for the first time in my life, for lust and love to intersect. I clench my teeth together and picture old ladies with yellow teeth, and my sisters, and my mother, and a dirty bathroom with a crusty floor.
And thank God, by the time we reach my apartment building, my below-the-waist swelling has gone down.
(For the moment.)
We break contact as we each exit out of our own doors, walking side by side into my apartment building.
“Hello, Mr. Stepanov!” says Jerome, the desk attendant.
“Hey, Jerome.”
“Well, well.” His dark eyes slide to Sasha. “This is a first.”
“This is Sasha Collins. Sasha, Jerome.”
Jerome offers her his hand and a thousand-megawatt smile. “Hello, Ms. Collins! Welcome to the Weslie.”
“Thanks. But it’s just Sasha. Nice to meet you,” she says, answering his smile with one of her own.
He looks back at me. “Oh, I like her!”
“Glad to have your approval,” I say, rolling my eyes at him. “Any packages?”
“No, sir. All quiet tonight. You kids have fun, now.”
“Thanks, Jerome. See you later.”
He waves us toward the elevator, turning to greet the next couple entering the building.
I press the call button for the elevator.
“He’s a character.”
“He came with the building,” I say.
She clears her throat. “What, um…what did he mean?”
“Huh?”
“What did he mean by, ‘This is a first.’”
The elevator doors open, and we step inside, leaning side by side against the railing at the back of the tiny box. I glance down at her, but she doesn’t return my gaze.
“I don’t have a lot of friends over.”
“Oh.”
“And besides Cordelia, who’s my assistant and very happy with her girlfriend, you’re the first woman who’s ever come up to my apartment.”
Her face whips up, her eyes nailing mine. “Is that true?”
“It’s true.”
She stares at me, seeking further clarification.
“I haven’t been with anyone,” I tell her. “Not since the night we danced at Lara’s.”
Gasping softly, she lifts her chin, her eyes skating to my lips and holding there for a long pause. I reach for her, snaking my arm around his waist, leaning my head to hers, about to—
The doors open.
“Are we here?” she asks, jerking her head away from me.
I get a mouthful of hair instead of her lips. “Yep.”
She steps off the elevator, and I follow her into the hallway. I punch 72742 into the keypad, and the door to my apartment unlocks.
“Is this the penthouse apartment?” she asks, preceding me into the entry hall of my apartment, which has been decorated monochromatically in white and silver.
“Yeah.”
“Are you serious?” Her eyes grow as big as saucers, and she grins at me. “I’ve never been in a penthouse! I want to see it!”
For a moment, our sexual tension is eased as she kicks off her sandals and takes off down the hall. She finds the quarter staircase that leads to the living room, and I hear her checking it out with a loud gasp of appreciation. I toe off my shoes, too, chuckling softly as I follow her. I love the fact that she’s in my space—her enthusiasm and excitement are contagious.
I meet her in the living room, which is two-stories high, with white and gray marble floors, a white marble fireplace, white sofas and armchairs, and a large, low glass and chrome coffee table. But the pièce d’résistance of the room is the five double-height windows, two of which have sliding doors on their lower halves, leading to the balcony outside.
“Are you kidding me?” she demands, spinning around with her arms outstretched. “This is so beautiful!”
“It’s a great view,” I acknowledge.
She runs to the windows and stares at the lights of D.C., which are brighter and brighter as the sun goes down. The black shapes of buildings silhouetted against an orange and lavender sky.
“The Kennedy Center,” she breathes, tapping on the glass. “It’s right there.”
I stand just behind her. “Yep.”
“Where we met,” she whispers, more to herself than to me.
I’m about to reach for her when she turns back to look at me. She scans my face, her expression loaded, but she doesn’t say anything. Suddenly, she darts around me and runs so quickly up the stairs to the kitchen, I barely have time to turn and follow before she’s already up the stairs.
“Wow!” she crows from the railing. “Nice kitchen! But it has no smell. You don’t cook much, huh?”
I guess it’s a rhetorical question because she continues upstairs to the top floor of the three-story condo.
It’s a merry chase, since I know, as I assume she does, where we’re going to end up. I take the stairs from the kitchen to the top level two at a time. There’s a hallway at the top of the stairs, and at the end of that hallway is my bedroom.
That’s where I find her, standing in the doorway, her back against the doorjamb, staring at my bed in the center of the room, and the floor to ceiling windows beyond.
I lean against the doorway across from her, staring at her , because nothing in this three-million-dollar penthouse can compare to the view of Sasha Collins standing in the doorway of my bedroom.
She turns to face me, her brown eyes wide and clear and her cheeks rosy.
“I love you,” she says.
I’m not expecting it, so it knocks the wind from my lungs, and I gasp softly. “W-What?”
“The night you left D.C.,” she says, “you told me you would love me until the end of time.”
“I meant it,” I tell her. There’s no more than four feet between us, but I’m cautious about closing it. Follow her lead, move at her pace.
She has been staring into my eyes, but now she glances at my lips for a pregnant moment before sliding her gaze slowly back up to meet mine.
“I felt it, too. Love. For you,” she says, her words slow and deliberate. Suddenly, she winces. “But…but, I didn’t say it.” I sense that this is a regret she’s been holding onto, and that it’s a relief to correct it. “I felt it, but I didn’t say it.” She takes a deep breath, then exhales slowly. “Now I can.”
“Say it again.”
“I love you.”
I step toward her. “Again.”
“I love you.”
Another step. “Again.”
“I love you.”
I pull her into my arms—chest to chest, heart to heart—her face tilted up to face mine.
“I will love you until the end of time,” I promise all over again. It’s both an echo of our past, and a vow for every day ahead that she allows me to share with her.
She smiles, then laughs with such unrestrained joy, it surprises me. I hold her tightly in the doorway of my bedroom, scanning her upturned face, my own lips tilting up into a smile, and my heart bursting with so much tenderness for her, I almost can’t bear it.
When she stops laughing, I realize that her eyes are filled with tears.
“Kiss me,” she says softly, the words on the cusp of a sob.
“ Душа моя .” My soul , I tell her, I call her, I pledge to her, and I ask from her.
“ Да. Моя душа ,” she answers me. Yes, my soul.
My lips touch down on hers, soft at first, respectful and almost tentative. Our reunion has been such a long time coming, I am brutally aware of wanting to do everything right. But then she moans, her lips vibrating against mine, and chemistry, with all of its urgency and hunger, takes over. Heat. Passion. Lust. I open my mouth over hers, our tongues meeting in a reunion as joyful as her laughter, and as poignant as her tears.
Reaching for her backside, I lift her slightly and she hops up, locking her ankles around my waist as I explore her mouth, sliding my tongue against hers over and over again as I walk us toward the bed. I stop when the backs of my knees touch the mattress.
Her hands, wound around my neck, slide forward to cup my cheeks. She unlocks her ankles and slides down my body. Reaching blindly for my shirt, she pulls it from the waistband of my jeans. I bunch her silk top at the hem and lift it over her head, which forces our lips apart.
With my shirt untucked and her top on my floor, we stare at each other, breathless and panting, lit only by the lights of Washington across the river.
Permission , I tell myself. Ask for it now before you go any further on assumptions.
“Sasha,” I murmur, my voice rough as gravel. “Tell me what you want.”
“You,” she says, tilting her head to the side. Holding my eyes, she reaches behind her back to unfasten her bra. The straps droop down her arms. “All of you. Everything. I want us.”
Gently, reverently, I pull the straps down her arms, watching as they slide from her fingers to the floor. Sitting down on the bed behind me, I reach for the button of her jeans, flipping it open, then pulling down the zipper. She rests her hands on my shoulders as I skim the denim over her hips. She kicks it aside.
All that’s left is her panties. I loop my fingers into the elastic and tug until they pool at her feet.
“Sasha,” I whisper, leaning forward to press my lips to the naked softness of her tummy like a man at prayer. I close my eyes and lean my forehead against her skin, breathing deeply. “I love you. I’ve never loved anyone but you. I never will.”
She breathes irregularly, gasping softly. Overwhelming emotion. I know because I feel it, too. Reaching for my cheeks, she cradles them tenderly, forcing me to look up at her.
“Your turn.”
I pull my shirt over my head and toss it onto the floor, then stand up before her to unfasten my jeans. I hook my thumbs into the elastic of my boxer briefs, and dispatch both at once. Fabric slides down my legs, pooling at my ankles. I step from them. We are both naked.
She leans forward, pressing her sweet, soft body against mine, and holding me in her embrace. She turns her head so that her cheek rests against my chest, over my heart. I wrap my arms around her, swept away by the press of her breasts, the plains and valleys of her back beneath my fingers, her bare feet brushing gently against mine.
That’s when I realize we’re dancing.
Naked in the half-light of a summer night, we step rhythmically on the cool marble of my bedroom floor, our bodies flush, our arms holding each other tightly. We sway gently, barely moving, learning the feel of one another, getting used to each other.
“You had to know that we would dance,” she says, looking up at me with a sweet, small smile. “When we finally made it here.”
“I didn’t,” I say, smiling back at her.
“Everything two bodies do together is a dance. This is going to be ours.”
She places her palm on my forearm and slides it up, over contours of muscle, until it rests on my shoulder. Another hand slides up my back and loops around my neck, her fingers curling against my skin. She arches her back to the rhythm in her head, pushing her breasts, with their pebbled points, into my chest. My cock, which is hard and throbbing, is pillowed by the soft, cropped curls between her legs.
She takes my hand, pulling me onto the bed with her. Lying down on her back, she urges me over her, and I follow her lead, straddling her hips as I lean down to kiss her. Her eyes close as I slide my lips to her chin, to her throat, to the soft skin behind her ear. She whimpers softly, reaching for my face, to demand my lips on hers again.
She spreads her legs, and I kneel between them, tracing a line down her chest and stomach with my lips. When I get to her hip, I stop for a moment and lean back, tracing the scar lines with a fingertip. There are several chaotic scars from the accident, then a long, straight, thicker scar in the middle from her surgery. They haven’t turned white yet. They’re still lavender and pink, still healing. I drop my lips to her flesh and rest there for a moment.
“They’re a little ugly,” she says softly, but she doesn’t sit up or stop me. She lets me touch and kiss these bruised parts of her beautiful body.
“They’re a part of you,” I tell her solemnly, my breath whispering across her skin. “I love them.”
“I wish I did,” she says. “But I’m still angry about them.”
I lean up to catch her eyes. “I wish I could’ve been there for you.”
She gives me a tiny smile, reaching for my head and tousling my hair with graceful fingers. “There’s nothing you could have done, Vaughn.”
“Still…”
I skim my lips back up, over her stomach, chest, and neck, kissing her tenderly when I return to her lips.
“I need you,” she says, bending her knees to make a cradle for me. “Please, my love. I’m ready.”
“Let me just get…” My eyes go wide. I stare down at her, a sick feeling making my stomach drop. “Oh my god! Sasha! I don’t have any condoms. I got rid of them. I don’t…”
Her face, which looks worried for a second, splits into a smile. “That makes me so happy.”
“It does? You don’t want to…”
“Oh, no, I do,” she says firmly. “I definitely want you to have sex with you.”
I groan softly, wincing as I calculate how quickly I can go downstairs, run to the nearest pharmacy and get back here. I push away from her. I need to get dressed.
“Wait!” she cries, grabbing my shoulders. Her eyes search mine gravely. “Have you really been celibate since last October?”
“A hundred percent,” I promise. “I haven’t even touched a woman. I swear it.”
“Well, that’s ten months for you, and I haven’t been with anyone since my accident, so that’s over a year and a half for me. Plus, I’m on the pill,” she tells me. “Besides, I trust you. You love me. You wouldn’t put me in danger. You wouldn’t hurt me, would you?”
“Never.”
“If you’re good to go, I am, too.”
Suddenly, instantly , my eyes burn.
They burn so painfully, I blink them for relief, and when it doesn’t come, I squeeze them tightly closed. After everything we’ve been through, the gift she’s giving me right this minute defies all words and makes my heart overflow with gratitude and love. She trusts me. I don’t deserve her trust, but she’s giving it to me anyway. If I was standing, the fierce generosity of her heart would bring me to my knees.
“Come to me, моя душа ,” she whispers, a tear sliding from the corner of her eye into her hair. “We’ve waited long enough for this.”
“You’re ready?”
She nods. “I love you. I want this.”
Still kneeling between her legs, I rub the tip of my erection over her clit before entering her slowly and carefully, gazing deeply into her eyes as I slide forward. She’s hot and wet, but tight from a year and a half of her own celibacy. When she winces, holding her breath, I stop for a moment, letting her adjust to my thickness and length.
“Are you o—okay?” I ask, my voice breathless.
She bites her lower lip and nods. “Keep going.”
I push forward, filling her completely, and she moans, her eyes closing as her lips stay parted. Her neck arches back. Her head presses into the pillow.
She is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
I lean forward, my chest over hers, and she locks her ankles on my lower back, holding me close. I kiss her lips and her throat, my hips thrusting forcefully now, faster and faster. She meets me with a passion all her own, her hips lifting off the bed, and her fingers curling into my shoulders when she cries out with pleasure.
My balls tighten at the sound, my own release imminent.
I lean down, my lips brushing her ear.
“I love you, Sasha. Я буду любить тебя до конца времен .” I will love you until time ends.
“ Я тоже тебя люблю ,” I love you, too , she murmurs weakly, the inner walls of her sex still spasming around my cock.
Her words are all I need to come. I explode in a series of throbbing contractions, shouting out her name as my body empties itself into hers.
Later, she sleeps in the harbor of my arms, her naked body molded to mine, her heart rate slow and strong, her breathing even and deep.
“ Навсегда .” Forever , I whisper. My soul. “ Моя душа.”
She snuggles closer, whispering softly in her sleep.
Doo-sha, ma-ya.
Doo-sha, ma-ya.
My earliest words finally have meaning, finally make sense, and have finally found their purpose. Sasha is my very soul, until the end of time.