CHAPTER EIGHT #2
My fingers pulse against his with all the force of a butterfly’s wings, and the near undetectable sensation keeps growing.
I clench my teeth and steady my breathing—up and down, up and down, until I lose track of time.
The sensation compounds until my core is throbbing, inching closer to the edge.
Then, in an instant, I dig my heels into the bed and slowly push his hand further down between my thighs as the shock rolls through my body, my muscles contracting at the mere thought of him touching me.
I clench my teeth, trying to stay still while I ride out the orgasm in silence, in this dark cave on a mountain while he sleeps right next to me. My heart pounds as I focus on my breathing, my muscles relaxing by the second. Until, finally, I open my eyes. The room is still dark, still silent.
With a humiliating combination of satisfaction and utter shame, I let out a breath and roll away from Sergei’s arm, no longer concerned whether it wakes him up. The movement makes him stir, but only to roll his head back and forth once before calming again.
And that’s exactly what I need to do, too—calm the fuck down again.
●●●
The next thing I know, I wake up to the faint glow of morning light behind the curtains and an empty space next to me.
I remember Sergei saying he was leaving early to go into work.
I hope his building is still standing and free from damage.
I don’t know whether the storm was that bad, but still, that would really suck to deal with.
Kind of like when a storm blew through last spring and the dead tree next to my driveway fell on my car and I didn’t discover it until I was already late for a conference.
And just as I’m reflecting on my empathetic virtues, I suddenly remember what happened last night with abject mortification.
Did I really do that?
And what’s more, was the feeling of Sergei Mikhailov’s arm on my hip seriously enough to send me into fits of ecstasy?
To be fair, it was his hand on my—
Stop it!
Consumed by shame and humiliation, at least I have some time to come to terms with it before having to see him again.
After I get up and get ready for the day, I’m reminded how considerate Sergei is despite his stoic demeanor.
I’m buttoning my red flannel shirt when I spy a plate on the dining table with what looks like crepes and sliced strawberries with jam on top.
Where did he even get halfway decent strawberries this time of year?
There’s also some kind of layered concoction in a dish next to it that resembles a parfait and looks absolutely heavenly.
My mouth is watering. As if I couldn’t feel any more like a skeeze.
After breakfast, I pour a second cup of coffee and join Edie on the sofa to read for a while.
I could get used to this new routine; breakfast laid out as soon as I wake up, a fresh pot of coffee, and the wood burning stove keeping the house toasty while I gaze out the floor to ceiling windows to a winter wonderland.
But before I can open my book, my phone starts buzzing.
My mom.
We’ve been texting since I got here, but I should’ve known she can’t go more than two days without hearing my voice.
I like talking to her—it’s our thing—but I can’t deny that I’ve enjoyed the solitude and the change of scenery.
It’s also been a relief not to receive any more unsettling texts from Caleb.
Maybe after his asinine man-tantrum, he got it all out of his system.
“How long have you known this guy?” my mom asks after I give her a full update, including the roads being blocked and the unknown airport status.
“His name is Sergei. And I met him when I arrived last week. But it’s fine, everything’s kosher.”
I’m the one that turned out to be a total perv.
“You should send me a picture of him.”
“Why?” I snicker. “So you have something to give the FBI if you don’t hear from me again?”
“No, but that’s a good idea. I was going to ask if he’s cute.”
There it is, my mom constantly on the lookout for a potential mate for me.
“Yes, he’s cute. In a Lord of the Rings crossed with Witcher type of way.”
“He looks like a hobbit?”
“No! He’s a giant Russian man.”
“Does he speak English? If not, that could work to your advantage.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know how argumentative you can be sometimes. You might get along better if he can’t understand what you’re saying.”
“Rude,” I sneer. “And yes, he can speak English. Just don’t hold your breath for him to smile on command.”
Promising to keep her updated on my travel plans, I finally settle in for a relaxing morning.
I don’t even realize that three hours goes by before I decide to return to the kitchen to find something for lunch.
And while I’m munching on a plate of fruit and some of the leftover soup from last night, it occurs to me that I should probably do something nice for Sergei since he let me crash at his house, going on 48 hours with no end in sight.
I glance around the room, still gloriously silent.
I guess cleaning for him is futile because every room is already spotless.
And cooking him dinner would just be performative because the man can already cook.
However, his house is completely devoid of holiday decoration.
Brett’s house looks like the North Pole threw up, but Sergei’s might as well be the President’s Day Sale at IKEA.
Then again, do Russians celebrate Christmas?
I suddenly realize I’m completely ignorant of Russian customs and holidays.
Maybe secular Christmas is safe, mixed in with wintry decor.
I have no idea when Sergei will be home, but I need something to do and I’m also trying to avoid thinking too hard about what happened last night.
But it’s not like he has any craft supplies…
It’s alright, I like a good challenge and I have the time to get creative.
When I look out the window, I realize that I have an entire mountain of foliage at my disposal.
After procuring a pair of kitchen shears from the drawer as well as some twine, Scotch tape, printer paper, and aluminum foil, it looks like I have all the supplies I need for a very minimalist, Northern Christmas decorating fest. Now I just have to muster up the gumption to go out in the snow.
The crisp air jolts me to life as it hits my nostrils and rushes into my lungs.
Thick grey clouds float across the sky, laced with a vibrant blue.
Sunshine bursts through the cracks every so often, making the snow glimmer as I trudge to the edge of the yard.
I need some small pine branches I can cut with the shears and easily bend into wreaths and garland.
Gazing around, I still as a clearer view of the mountain comes into focus.
It was snowing so hard when I arrived here that I couldn’t see more than 10 feet in front of me.
But from my vantage point in the yard, the trees break and give way to an amazing view of the mountains across the valley with their jagged snowcaps reaching for the sky.
I’m so mesmerized that I have to remind myself why I’m standing out here in the snow. Finally pulling myself away, I continue on toward a pine with thin branches jutting off the trunk. Searching for a few wispy cuttings, I start laughing to myself.
Maybe if I’m trapped here long enough, I can convince Sergei to bring one of these trees into the house to decorate.
Settling on three branches filled with needles, I finish snipping them and tuck the shears into my coat pocket.
But as soon as I turn around, there’s a snap somewhere in the trees that gives me a start.
I whip around, eyes darting over the terrain.
A branch in the distance bounces up and down ever so slightly, but then everything goes still.
I’m in the mountains. There are animals in the mountains.
Granted, even if there’s an elk or moose wandering around, I don’t necessarily want to run into it while gathering craft supplies. I head back to the house, shaking out the branches to make sure the needles will stay put. But as soon as I reach the porch steps, I freeze.
The door is ajar.
I hesitate and look down at the prints in the snow, or what’s left of them.
Some of the prints are mine, other’s Sergei’s, all scuffed around together at this point.
Then I see it; the edge of a different print that doesn’t look like the other two.
There’s no snow, melted or otherwise, inside the door, so I follow the prints along the porch until they disappear around the corner.
They’re big, with long strides, and they definitely weren’t there when I came outside.
Seconds later, I dart inside the house, slam the door, and lock it behind me.
My heart is pounding and there’s a rushing through my ears as pure adrenaline shoots through my body.
I force myself to check all the rooms, which takes all of 10 seconds, before returning to the living room.
Suddenly, all these windows don’t seem so lovely anymore.
Instead, now I feel completely exposed, just like I was standing out there cutting tree branches.
I’d rather it be a moose or elk that was hanging around compared to what left those prints.
I’m not from here and I’m not a mountain woman.
I don’t know what made them, but I’m also not going to ignore how unsettled they made me.
I pull the long curtains over the windows, casting the great room into shadow.
I should call Sergei. I should tell him what’s going on.
But what is going on?
I don’t even have his phone number, which is probably just as well. What would I even say?
Sergei, when are you coming home? There are prints outside the door and, oh yeah, I can’t really describe them.