Chapter 20 #3
He moved a little deeper. The fullness spread through me, strange and intense, and I held his gaze while I adjusted to it.
“You’re very patient,” I said unsteadily.
His mouth moved. “Don’t be fooled.”
I looked at him properly then. At the tension in his jaw, the effort in his arms. His breathing was as uneven as mine.
“Oh.”
He bent to kiss me.
“Yes,” he said against my lips. “Oh.”
I smiled, and some of the tension left my body. We stayed like that for a moment, close and quiet, before I asked him to move again.
He went slowly. Each time he stopped, he waited for me; each time I was ready, I told him. Finally he was fully inside me, and I could feel the warmth of his hips against me and the extraordinary fullness of him.
I touched his face.
“I love you.”
His expression changed. Even now, after all the times I had said it, the words could still get past everything he used to protect himself.
“I love you too.”
He kissed me. I held him there, and when he drew back and moved again, I kept my hand against his cheek.
“I love fucking my wife’s ass,” he said, his voice rough against my mouth.
The words sent heat through me. I pulled him back for another kiss, and he began to move.
Slowly at first. I needed the time to find the pleasure inside the unfamiliar sensation, to learn the way my body answered him. Then I felt it, deep and insistent, and my fingers tightened in his hair.
“Like that.”
He kept the rhythm. I could hear our breathing, the small sounds I couldn’t seem to help making. His hand found my clit, and the familiar touch joined the fullness in a way that made my hips lift.
“Daniil.”
He watched my face while his fingers moved. His other hand closed over my breast, his thumb and forefinger pinching my nipple, and I gasped.
The pleasure gathered steadily. I reached up and caught the headboard, needing something to hold while he moved inside me. His rhythm quickened. My thighs shook, and I felt him falter before he steadied himself again.
He was close too.
“Don’t stop,” I said. “Please, don’t stop.”
He didn’t. His fingers kept their rhythm, his cock moved in my ass, and his mouth found my neck. I could feel the orgasm coming and had no room left for anything except him.
It moved through me slowly at first, then with a force that took my breath. I cried out, my body contracting around him, and his rhythm broke. He groaned against my neck and came, holding me close while we shook together.
I let go of the headboard and put both arms around him.
For a while, neither of us moved.
I could feel his heart against my chest. His breath was hot on my neck, his hair damp beneath my fingers. I held him until he could lift his head, then kissed his forehead.
“Wow,” I whispered.
He laughed weakly.
“Wow is right.”
He withdrew carefully, watching my face, and settled beside me. I rolled toward him at once. His arm went around my back.
“All right?” he asked.
“Very.”
He brushed the hair away from my cheek.
“Should I be worried that you’ve stopped arguing?”
“I’ve temporarily lost most of my vocabulary. Don’t get used to it.”
His smile spread slowly. I touched it with my thumb.
“You?” I asked.
“Much the same.”
I kissed him. There was no hurry left in either of us.
Eventually he went to the bathroom and came back with a warm cloth. He helped me clean up, then brought water and pulled the covers over us. I took a drink and passed him the glass.
“You too.”
He obeyed, which I found enormously satisfying.
“What?” he asked over the rim.
“Nothing. Keep drinking.”
He shook his head, finished the water and set the glass down. When he lay back, I tucked myself against him with my cheek on his chest.
His hand moved slowly along my back.
“I really do love the drawing,” I said.
He was quiet for a moment.
“I know.”
“You believed me?”
“Eventually.”
I smiled against his skin.
“You looked happy,” he said.
I lifted my head.
“In the chair. That was what I was trying to get.”
My throat tightened. I thought of him bending over the sketchbook, rubbing out a line and trying again, determined to catch something I hadn’t even known I was showing him.
“I am happy.”
His fingers stopped against my back. Then his arm tightened, and I settled closer while he kissed my hair.
The sketchbook was in the studio across the hall. My plans for the bathhouse were there too, stacked beside the pencils. Tomorrow I would have work to do. So would he. We would complain about getting up, and one of us would make coffee, and he would ask when I was coming home.
I wanted all of it.
“On Tuesday,” I said, “I’m drawing you.”
“Am I allowed clothes?”
“Absolutely not.”
His laugh moved beneath my cheek. I held him a little tighter, enjoying it.
“I love you,” I said. “I love our life.”
He found my hand beneath the covers and linked our fingers.
“So do I, Ksyusha.”
There would be more drawings. Some bad ones, probably. There would be Tuesday evenings and Sunday dinners, mornings when we lingered too long over coffee, ordinary days I was already impatient to share with him.
I kissed the hand holding mine and settled down to sleep.
My husband drew me closer. I went willingly, as close as I could get.