21. Lila
Lila
Sleep has been a problem since the fire.
I close my eyes and smell smoke.
I open them, and the dark ceiling of the bedroom feels like I’m back in the stable. The horses scream. Heat snakes over my body. My palm itches where the blisters formed and popped.
It’s been two days, and I haven’t left the house. Haven’t left my bedroom. The fire exhausted me. The lack of oxygen sucked every ounce of energy from my body, and I’ve done nothing but sleep and recover.
And now, it’s too much. I can’t sleep.
I don’t bother with shoes; I just need to move. I pad down the dark hallway, past the guard station at the bottom of the stairs, where two of them see me, nod, and go back to watching the screens on their phones.
I open the door to step onto the back patio. It’s odd there isn’t a guard, but I assume he’s making the rounds or something. I’m safe.
How many times do I say that to myself each day?
The grounds are lit by low landscape lighting that makes everything look soft and inviting. An ethereal glow lights up the blue pool water. It’s too inviting to resist. I won’t dive in, just soak my feet.
I'm halfway to the pool when I see him.
The outdoor bar is at the far corner of the terrace.
It’s built into the landscaping and strung with Edison lights.
A soft blue LED strip runs under the bar.
Maksim is sitting on one of the stools with his back to me, forearms on the bar, and a glass in his right hand.
He's not doing anything. Not on his phone, not talking to anyone.
Just staring into the darkness beyond the lights. I watch him for a few seconds. He’s never this still. He’s always moving, talking to someone. He came to me the other night. Neither of us said anything about it, but he was there. He held me against his hard body.
I don’t know if that was for his benefit or mine. I’ve never been held or cuddled and rarely hugged. My mother wasn’t an affectionate person. Knowing what I know now about her life, I can’t help but think she might have resented me. Because of me, she had to run.
She died because of me.
I almost go back inside. He needs this. I’ve seen him smile, fight, and rage, but never sit in a moment. I don’t want to disturb him.
But I cross the patio.
He hears my footsteps, stiffens, and turns.
"Couldn't sleep?" I say.
"No." He turns back to the bar. It’s not quite an invitation to sit, but it’s not a rejection, either. "You either?"
“I’ve been lying around for almost two days. Can’t do it anymore.”
“Want a drink? Might help you sleep.”
Or make me cry. I’ve seen what alcohol does to people. They cry. They get emotional. Or they get violent.
“No,” I reply.
We sit in the quiet for a while. I hear the soft neighing from the horses across the property. Nocturnal creatures move through the trees and bushes. It’s peaceful. I understand why he chose to sit out here, and I don’t want to disturb his peace with conversation.
He finishes the amber liquid in his glass. Normally, I’m very alert around any man drinking. But Maksim is different. I sense his control. More importantly, he makes me feel safe.
"What are you thinking about?" I ask softly.
He sighs. "Nothing useful."
I look out at the pool, and the light moving on the water.
“Feeling okay?” he asks.
“I’m fine.”
“Not what I asked. You’ve been through a lot.”
“I’m okay. Really. What about you?”
He shrugs.
“How’s your brother?”
I know nothing about this man. I want to learn. He is my husband, after all.
“My brother thinks I’m making a mistake.”
I don’t flinch. “With me.”
“Nikolai is suddenly acting like he’s my therapist.”
That makes me smile. “You mean he thinks there is a reason you collect rejects?”
He turns to look at me. “You’re not a reject.”
“I’m not a therapist either, but even I can see you have a savior thing going on. Me. The horses. The women who work for you.”
He looks into the empty glass. Will he refill it? I don’t know how much he’s had, but I don’t want him drunk.
“He thinks I’m saving you and the others because I couldn’t save my mom.”
I have a thousand questions, but I hesitate to ask. I don’t want him to stop talking.
"Is he right?" I finally ask quietly.
His eyes stay on the glass, and a long moment passes.
“She was the only person in that house who was kind. Good. Someone should have saved her.”
I think about my mother. She was a lot of things, but kind is not the word I would choose.
“Mine wasn’t,” I say quietly. “Kind, I mean. She was brave.” I pause. “But not kind.”
I look at his hands on the bar. His right hand still holds the empty glass. His left rests flat against the wood, and the black diamond on his ring finger catches the blue light from underneath the bar. Without thinking about it, I put my hand over his.
Just that. Just my hand on his.
He looks down at it.
And when he turns to look at me, his eyes are raw. Full of pain and sadness, unguarded for once. All I can think about is how much he’s helped me.
Who helps him?
I kiss him. My mouth finds his, and warmth moves through me before I understand what I've done.
He goes still for a heartbeat.
Then his hand turns under mine. His fingers close around my hand, and he kisses me back, slowly, like he has all the time in the world. He traces his thumb over my knuckles, and I feel the sensation travel up my arm, into my chest, and down to somewhere that has never been touched.
I didn't know it could feel like this. Wanted. Safe. Like something opening instead of closing.
I pull back just enough to breathe.
His eyes search mine. His thumb stills on my knuckles, and something in my face strips the careful control from his. I see a question in them he won't ask.
“I want you to be my first.” I’m surprised by how confident I sound.
“I’ve thought about it. I’m not scared. I’m not doing it because of the Albanians, or because it makes strategic sense, or whatever the hell you said that night.
” I feel a smile pull at my mouth. “I’m doing it because I want to. I’m choosing to.”
He looks at me for long enough that my stomach drops. I've misread this. He doesn’t want me. He doesn't want…
Then he’s off the barstool, holding out his hand.
I look at his open palm in the soft light.
I can reject it. Walk away with my virginity intact.
I take it.
He leads me inside without a word. We climb the stairs, and I listen to his footsteps, then mine behind them. My legs are steady. I don't know why that surprises me.
We're at his door. We step inside, and he closes it behind me. The room is dim and quiet, and it feels right. He turns on a single lamp on the nightstand.
Then he faces me. “We can stop,” he says. “Anytime. For any reason.”
“Okay.”
He reaches up and pushes a piece of hair back from my face, trailing his fingers along my jaw.
“You’re not afraid,” he says.
“I didn’t say that.” I turn my face slightly into his hand without meaning to. “I’m terrified. But I want to be terrified of this instead of everything else for a while.”
He smiles, then his forehead drops to mine. His hands frame my face. My hands find his waist.
“I don’t know what to do with you,” he whispers. “You’ve upset the balance in my life.”
“Bad or good?” I whisper.
“I don’t know yet.”
He kisses me again, his tongue sweeping inside my mouth. I taste the whiskey. On him, I like it.
He takes his time. He’s impossibly gentle. Maybe too gentle. Every time I tense, his hands slow. Every time I make a sound, he stops and checks my face. He’s patient. Watching. Waiting.
At one point, I pull back and look at him, flushed and overwhelmed, but I need more.
“Still okay?” he asks.
“Yes,” I breathe. “Stop asking. I want to do this. I’m not fragile.”
He smiles. “Message received.”
He pulls me back in, and the gentleness is still there, but something underneath it has shifted. He kisses me deeper, one hand sliding into my hair, the other at the small of my back, pressing me flush against him. I feel how much he wants this. He wants me.
His mouth moves to my jaw and my throat. I tip my head back and let him support my body with his. I give myself to him.
He walks me backward toward the bed, slowly enough that I don’t stumble. When the backs of my knees hit the mattress, he lowers me onto it.
He reaches behind him and pulls his shirt over his head. I’ve seen him without it before, but not like this; not with permission to look. To touch.
He comes down over me, bracing his weight on his forearms, and kisses me again. Slower this time. His hand traces down my side and then under my shirt. He pushes it up while he continues to kiss me. His thumb brushes over the underside of my breast.
I gasp, but he doesn’t stop. Good. I want this. And then my shirt is up, and cool air brushes across my bare breasts. He breaks the kiss and pulls the shirt over my head.
He goes up on one elbow and looks down at me.
“You have no idea how fucking beautiful you are, do you.”
How many women has he looked at like this? Women who know what they're doing. Do I even compare?
"You're perfect, Lila. Every inch."
He says it like he can read my mind. Like he already knows exactly where my head just went.
He presses his mouth to my collarbone, my sternum, and the soft skin below. His stubble drags across my sensitive flesh. I feel it everywhere. When he reaches my stomach, I flinch, but his hands tighten briefly on my hips to settle me.
“Relax, voinitsa.”
“What’s that? What did you call me?”
His soft chuckle pushes his hot breath across my belly.
“Warrior,” he answers.
And then, he’s pulling down my shorts and panties.
His mouth returns to mine. He’s watching my face, not my body, and there’s something steadying about that.
“Still with me?” he murmurs.
“Yes.” I force my muscles to unlock. “Yes, I’m with you.”
His fingers find their way between my thighs. “There’s so much to teach you,” he whispers. His fingers brush between my legs before he gently grabs my thigh and opens my legs. “I’ll be slow. Gentle, but I know you, Lila. Once you see how good it feels, you’re going to be a wildcat.”
I exhale sharply, gripping the sheet as one of his thick fingers works inside me. He watches my face, adjusting and learning. And then, he’s touching a spot that has my body shuddering.
“That’s it,” he says. “Feel it, Lila. Let go.”
His fingers rub that spot over and over before two fingers push inside me. The sensations are overwhelming. A pinch and then pleasure. More stretching, but I barely notice because he keeps rubbing the same spot.
“Oh—” My hips roll up toward him involuntarily. He keeps going.
When I finally come apart, it catches me off-guard, a sharp crest and then a slow unraveling. My body jerks and spasms. He stays with me through it, gentling his touch as I come down, and pressing his mouth to my temple.
"There she is."
I’m still catching my breath when he shifts over me. He holds himself above me, braced on one arm, his other hand smoothing my hair back from my face.
I look up at him half in a daze. “That’s just the beginning, princess.”
I moan, my eyes closing. “I’m not sure I’ll survive the end.”
He chuckles. “You will.”
He moves forward slowly. I feel the pressure and stretch of his thickness invading my body. I tighten involuntarily, and he stills.
“Breathe,” he says quietly.
I breathe, and I have to see what’s happening. I lift my head and shove at his chest. “Oh no, buddy, that isn’t going to work.”
“Lay down, Lila.” His voice is gruff. I look up and see him clenching his jaw.
“Maksim, seriously. That’s not going to fit.”
“You’re ready for me, princess. I’ll make sure of it.”
I’m about to argue with him when he moves, and my head drops back on the bed. There’s a sharp sting between my legs, and then I’m so full.
“Breathe,” he says.
“You didn’t wait,” I say.
“Ripping off the Band-Aid.”
He doesn’t move, but the stinging subsides. I raise my head again, and yep, he’s inside me. His body jerks, and he pushes deeper inside me. A sound of pleasure escapes his throat.
“Oh fuck,” he groans. “Don’t do that.”
I look up at him. “What?”
“Don’t look at me fucking you. It’s too much.”
“Too much good?”
He closes his eyes. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“Is it done?” I ask. “Did you… you know…”
He scoffs. “Fuck no. Keep looking at me inside you, and I will be done.”
“Oh.” I consider that and lie back down. “So, should you, I don’t know, fuck me?”
“Lila.”
The man sounds like he’s going to die.
And then he pulls out just a little. When he slides back in, a wave of ecstasy washes over me. Oh. Oh yes. I’m definitely going to like this.
He moves, giving me time to adjust. The discomfort doesn’t disappear, but it becomes something different. Something good. His forehead drops to mine. His breath is unsteady. "You have no idea what you're doing to me."
I know he’s holding back. For now, I think that’s the right move.
I bring my hands up to his back and feel the flex of muscle as he moves. I pull him closer and lift my hips. He makes a low sound against my neck.
He’s moving faster. My body doesn’t feel like my own. Warmth and tingly sensations run up and down my spine. I drag my nails lightly down his back without meaning to. He shudders and presses his hips harder against mine.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
“Don’t apologize,” he says roughly. “You feel so fucking good that I’m trying not to lose my mind.”
I do it again.
His control slips a notch. His pace shifts faster and harder. I gasp and arch into him, digging my fingers in. He groans quietly with his face pressed into my hair. I feel him everywhere, right to the edges of my fingertips and the tips of my toes.
When the next orgasm crests, it rolls through me slowly, wave after wave. I hold onto him through all of it with soft whimpers escaping my mouth.
He follows not long after, his body going still and taut above me, my name barely audible in his exhale.
I can’t move. I don’t want to move. I like him on me. In me.
He lifts his head and looks at me. His hair is a mess. He looks human in a way I’ve never seen him.
“You okay?” he asks.
Sore. Flushed. Undone.
“Yeah.” I smile.
“Good, princess.”
He rolls to the side and gets out of bed. I hear water running, and then he returns. He’s holding a washcloth. When he puts it between my legs, I automatically close them.
“Lila,” he warns.
I stop and allow him to wipe away the evidence of what just happened. He leaves the bedroom again. I hear the toilet, sit up slowly, and reach for my shirt.
“No,” he says. “You’ll sleep in my bed. Naked.”
I should argue, but I don’t want to. I want him to hold me. I just gave him the only thing that’s ever been mine to give.
We climb under the blankets, and he wraps his body around mine. He kisses the side of my head. “You’re mine now, voinitsa.”
I’ve never been anyone’s. I didn’t think I wanted to be someone’s.
But I want to be his. I feel wanted. I’ve never felt that.