He reached with his free hand toward her face, and she froze, heartbeat leaping into action. The sudden flood of warm energy in her veins was, much to her own delight, nothing but anticipation. This was the something that had bothered her all day. She’d wanted this. Maybe that made her petty and foolish, what with war looming over them, but she wanted it all the same. She thought the war might have made it even more important than it already was.
Lightly, carefully, he caught a stray wisp of damp hair she’d missed in her braid and tucked it behind her ear, the callused pad of his thumb rough when it brushed the delicate skin there.
In a low voice, he said, “It does matter. I don’t want you to think–”
“I don’t.” It was hard to swallow suddenly, throat thick and dry. She had to wet her lips before she could talk, and the air fluttered in her lungs. This was almost more frightening than staring down a wolf in the forest – no, she knew it was. “You asked if I wanted to come with you to Petrograd.” She bit at her lip, because this was hard, but she knew she had to be the one to make the move. After what had happened to her, he wouldn’t be the one who pushed her. It had to be her decision, her want. “If it’s alright, there’s something I want to find out first.”
He edged in a little closer, breath warm against her face, smelling of tooth powder. He’d hoped, then, he’d wanted this. Wanted her. His breath was nothing like the rot and onion stink of the men who’d violated her. He wanted to please her, because he wasn’t a monster. He was handsome, and awkward, and nervous, and he wanted her – and she wanted him.
“My roommate’s not in,” she said, and he smiled.
“Alright, lead the way.”
~*~
Unlike the subterranean bunks he and the boys had been given, Katya had a narrow little white-washed bedroom with a window that overlooked the compound’s yard. There were two cots with green army-issue blankets and lumpy pillows. A table in the corner with an oil lamp. Katya went to light it while he shut the door – no lock, pity – and took off his coat, hung it up on the peg where her own jacket and hat waited.
The lamp cast a warm puddle across the floorboards, a golden, hazy glow over the cots that left the corners shadowed, but would give them enough light to see. Enough light for her to know that it was him, and not one of the tormentors from her nightmares.
Shit, should he do this? Was he callous and selfish? Did she even really want to…
She came back to him, nerves writ clear in the little wrinkle between her brows, but her steps sure and confident. She was a soldier after all, he reminded himself, and she wasn’t going to shrink and cower, walking right up to him and tilting her head back so they faced one another. She was shaking, though, even as she tried to smile.
He rubbed at her upper arms; her skin was still damp from the shower, and her shirt clung to her. He felt a chill move through her, and he moved to her shoulders, trying to chafe some warmth back into her.
“We don’t have to,” he said.
“I know,” she said, softly. Her dark eyes were the color of a perfect cup of tea in the low light, wide and glittering. She pressed her teeth into her lower lip and left it damp and plump. Little wisps of hair kept coming loose from her braid as they dried, tender curls like a halo around the crown of her head. “But I want to. I’m not afraid of you.”
She should have been, and he wanted to tell her all the reasons why. But she was a smart girl, who knew exactly what he was, and she’d probably already guessed why this was a bad idea. There’s blood on my hands, he wanted to tell her.
But there was blood on hers, too. And that knowledge – the memory of the pistol kicking in her hand, the spray of blood across slushy snow, the Nazi scout going limp – was the thing that finally tipped the scales and allowed him to acknowledge how desperately and viciously he wanted her.
No, he’d never courted anyone, because he’d never wanted to. He’d always known, deep down, that women were afraid of him.
But Katya wasn’t.
His hands slid up to cup the back of her head, and he kissed her.
She sucked in a quick breath through her nose and went still a moment.
Nikita pulled back a fraction, lips brushing against hers when he spoke. “Has anyone ever kissed you before?”
“I…” Her teeth were chattering. “Not…not like this. Not when…”
Not with any intent behind it, then. Chaste schoolboy kisses.
Oh. Oh, God. He was on fire, suddenly. He was just another stupid lust-filled man in her life, but she’d never been kissed properly, not by anyone, and he could give her this. This could be a first for her, something good and warm that only he could give her.
“Shh,” he whispered. “Tell me if you don’t like it.” And kissed her again.
Just a gentle press of lips at first. Butterfly touches. And then a little firmer. Tilting his head. Flicking the tip of his tongue along the seam of her lips.
She relaxed by degrees. A little jolt of surprise, then an exhale, then a sigh. And then she was softening, relaxing, leaning into his chest.
He looped an arm around her waist and pulled her in closer. Her hipbone was sharp and too close to the skin in his hand, but the muscles in her back were strong, flexing beneath his forearm as she stood up on her toes and circled her arms around his neck.
And then her mouth opened on a quiet sound of want that went straight to his cock, and his tongue slipped inside. Warm, wet, sweet. Her tongue moved shyly against his, and then it was no longer a demonstration, but a dance.
His fantasies of her had all been sordid, thrusting and clawing and tearing at each other. He hadn’t expected the perfect sweet torture of kissing her. He could have done it for hours and been a happy man.
Katya, though, wanted more.
Her hands landed on his waist and smoothed upwards, over his shirt, pressing against his ribs, and sternum, and pectorals, finding the contours of muscle and bone. She made a thrilled sound low in her throat when he nibbled at her lower lip.
“Is kissing always like this?” she asked, breathy and excited.
“No. Never.” He urged her lips wider with his own, curled his tongue against the roof of her mouth. It was sloppy, going frantic. Artless and heated.
She tugged at his shirt, trying to pull it out of his waistband. “Will you,” she gasped against his mouth. “I’ve never seen a man without his shirt, and you feel so good.” One hand made a pass across his chest again, found the hard button of a nipple and pressed.
“Yeah. Alright.” He felt a laugh catch in his throat. He should have known she’d be bold. “You have to stop kissing me first.”
She made a sound of protest, but pulled back. A little. Hands still clenched in the fabric of his shirt as he fumbled open the buttons and pulled the tails out of his trousers. Her hands came up to help push it over his shoulders, and then she was touching bare skin.
The breath left his lungs like he’d been electrocuted.
She sent him a questioning look.
“No, it’s good.” He was panting as he let the shirt fall to the floor and reached to pull her back to him. “It’s good, don’t stop.”
She didn’t. She traced his collarbones out to his shoulders, trailed fingertips down his arms, the bulge of his biceps, the raised veins in his forearms. To the knobs on his wrists. And back up, across his chest, nails tickling down the grooves between his abs so that he clenched up, trying not to be ticklish.
Katya bit her lip as she watched the play of muscle, and Nikita was so hard it hurt.
“You’re beautiful,” she said, awed, eyes coming back to his.
He twitched a crooked smile. “I think that’s my line.”
“Well, you are.” She pressed both palms to his stomach, and he wondered if she could feel the way his heart was beating there…and lower.
He cupped her face and pulled her into another kiss, this one almost pleading. Clinging lips and searching tongues.
Please love me. Please
want me.
Her fingers plucked at the button of his trousers. He didn’t help her, wanting her to take it at her pace, explore in the way that she was comfortable with.
The buttons came open one after the next, until his trousers slid down off his hips; he’d lost weight too, he realized, suddenly self-conscious of it. He’d love to blame it on the war, but it was just him, his jumpy stomach, his unwillingness to eat. And how dare he feel that way when Katya was bony-hipped from necessity? From lack of food and too many miles hiked in the woods?
But her hands kept moving, gentle and undemanding, not recoiling in disgust, as she pushed his shorts down, palms cupping his ass, briefly, on her way down.
Awkwardly, blushing a little, he toed off his boots and stepped out of the tangle of fabric, and then he was naked in front of her.
She took her time looking, hands sliding around to the front, her touch more curious than anything else. Maybe appreciative. She’d been used by men – abused by them – but had never had the chance to inspect one at her leisure. Again, he felt like he owed her this, that she deserved the chance to understand.
She pressed her forefinger to his navel, a fleeting touch that left him sucking in his stomach in helpless reaction. She smiled in response and trailed the finger down, following the trail of dark hair that led to the wiry thatch at his groin. She scratched her nails through it, and he made a helpless, wounded sound in response, cock jerking.
Then she wrapped her hand around him, and everything whited out a moment. A blinding jolt of sensation that rendered him blind, deaf, and stupid.
She stood up on her toes and kissed him again, smiling against his mouth. “You should see your face right now.”
He had no idea what his response was, but it made her laugh, and he thought that was the best thing he could have done.
~*~
She wasn’t lying to him: he was beautiful. A statue cut from marble, stark, and clean, and too thin in places, tense with hard muscle in others.
She thought it fitting: he looked cold – all the time, yes, with his removed stares and his guarded half-smiles – and here now, too, pale as fresh cream. But she already knew there was a warmth in his heart, the way he cared for his men, and when she touched him his skin was warm, too. Not a political machine, not a monster, but a man. One who’d stripped naked for her, made himself vulnerable, let her touch him while knowing she could crush him.
But oh, she didn’t want to crush him.
She stroked him, several slow pulls, root to tip, fascinated by the velvet texture of his skin here, the way he twitched in her hand. She felt a little cruel for torturing him like this, but she couldn’t believe the way he was letting her. Whatever lingering doubts she’d held about getting close to him were rapidly melting away in the face of his patience and trust.
She tightened her hand, a gentle squeeze, and he made a sound like he was in pain. She started to pull back, but his hand closed over hers, keeping her there, and he leaned in close, too close to see his face clearly, lips brushing hers, the want vibrating between their mouths.
“Can I touch you?” he asked, voice ragged.
She shivered. It was cold and lonely not to be touched in return. “Yes. Please.”
Her undressed her. Slowly, reverently. A part of her waited for the ripping and the pawing, and she shut her eyes against the memory, feeling only the gentle skim of his knuckles as he unbuttoned her shirt and trousers.
He rested his forehead against hers. “Are you alright?”
“Yes. Don’t stop.”
Her clothes hit the floor with a soft sound, and she stepped out of them, naked too now, shivering in the chill.
“Are you cold, I’m sorry.” His hands were warm and kind when they rubbed at her neck, her shoulders, chasing away the goosebumps.
It was…it was frustrating. How could a man be so patient? So careful and considerate? If he wanted her, how had he refrained from throwing her down on the bed and tearing open her clothes? How…
“Katya.” He eased back a fraction, lifted her chin with a crooked finger. When she met his gaze, his eyes were dilated, his expression a strange and open portrait of restraint and tenderness. “You’re waiting for me to attack you, and I’m not going to.”
Because the throwing down and the tearing of clothes wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.
She felt the pressure of welling tears. “But I’m just…” a girl.
“Perfect,” he said. “And I don’t deserve you.”
But he did. Because she wanted him. Wanting was the thing that made all the difference, and the heat flared to life inside her, hungry and insistent.
She slid her arms around his neck and stretched up to kiss him. Only this time they were both naked. Slide of skin against skin. Perfect, he’d said. Yes, it was that. She couldn’t think he was anyone else like this, get lost in her nightmares, because he was with her, stripped down and fragile.
“You can touch me,” she said between kisses. “You can – oh please. Touch me.”
And he did. Everywhere. Down her arms and down her sides, careful fingertips over the fretwork of her ribs. He cupped her breasts and she gasped into his mouth, arching into his hands. Touched her belly, her bottom. She was quivering all over by the time his hand slid between her legs, and then she jerked in helpless reaction.
His kisses grew sloppy and then tapered off. He let his lips trail across her cheek and jaw, and he tucked his face into her throat, breath wet and uneven against her skin as he probed at her sex with questioning fingertips. Can I? Is this alright? There had only ever been pain before, and she hadn’t known she would be so sensitive, so slick. That it would feel so good.
She dug her nails into his shoulders and made a wordless sound of encouragement.
His touch grew bolder, parting her folds, and she was throbbing there now, hot, and swollen, and even wetter. And then his thumb skimmed through her curls and found a place that –
“Oh,” she breathed. “That – God.”
“Can I…” he started, but was already dropping to his knees.
“What are you…Nik…you…”
He did it slow, lips skimming down the slope of her breast, her belly, warm puffs of air across her skin. And then he was on eye level with her sex. And then he leaned forward and put his mouth on her.
It was…
“Oh my God.” She widened her stance and clutched at his head, holding herself upright, keeping him there. It was shameless and she didn’t care, she just didn’t ever want it to stop.
His tongue. The faint rasp of stubble. His hands – clutching at her thighs, leaving little fingerprint bruises. Her fingers were tangled in his hair and she realized she was driving her hips forward in tiny little thrusts, chasing the rhythm he set. It was so good, so good, so good, a chant inside her head. She wanted more. Please, please, please.
She felt a slow, relentless pressure at her entrance: his fingers, two of them. The way was wet and he slid inside. No pain, only stretching, the wonderful feeling of being filled when she was so hungry for it.
He thrust into her with his fingers, and he closed his lips around that place he’d found before, and –
She came.
She closed her eyes and thought she might have fallen, might have fainted. A perfect, golden surge of pleasure, and she wanted to drown in it.
She was dimly aware of Nikita catching her around the waist, standing up, pulling her so she rested against him. He kissed her forehead and his mouth was slick.
He scooped her up and carried her to the cot. She was too tired to protest, her whole body pulsing with pleasure, the exhaustion a foreign and welcome kind.
She dozed, and came back to herself to find that she was warm and comfortable, lying beneath the covers cuddled up to Nikita’s side, his arms around her. She opened her eyes and found him watching her, something soft in his gaze.
“Oh,” she said, still too out of it to be properly embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”
/>
“Don’t be. That was wonderful.”
“But you didn’t…” The heat of a blush rose in her cheeks.
Her braids had come mostly loose. He pushed a stray lock behind her ear and leaned in, breath tickling as he whispered, “I still could, though.”
She shivered, and her sex, still damp and sensitive, clenched in helpless response. She reached up to cup the back of his head, his hair like heavy silk through her fingers. Hooked her leg over his hip and felt his cock, still hard, against the soft inside of her thigh, just shy of where she really wanted him. “Yeah, you could.”
They kissed for long moments, leisurely turning wet, heated. She loved his mouth, the way it moved against hers, the way he asked and then asked for more, never demanding, never forcing. It was exquisite, kissing him.
When he eased her onto her back, she was panting and ready, legs hooked around his waist. He touched her again, stretched her a little more with his fingers, and then there was the blunt pressure of his cock nudging in with tiny little thrusts. Easing into her. Slow. Careful. Inexorable.
It hurt, but not like all the violent times before. This was a sweet burn, and she clutched his ass and pulled him in closer. “It’s okay,” she whispered into his throat. “Come on, it’s okay.”
He groaned when he was fully seated, his body trembling above hers, head bowed, eyes shut and teeth gritted.
She felt so full. He was all the way inside her, and it was clearly killing him to hold back.
“Nikita.” She stroked his shoulders, his tense arms. His face. “You can move, love. I want you to.”
His hips kicked, an involuntary little movement, and she echoed it.
“Christ,” he moaned. “Oh, you feel so good.”
It had been a long time for him, and she didn’t know if it had ever been good - she wanted it to be, suddenly.
“Come on.” She skated her nails down his back. “Fuck me.”
That did it.
He dropped his face into her throat with an inarticulate sound and started to move, easy thrusts at first, and then harder. Surer. He pulled almost all the way out, and then plunged back in, filling her all over again.
White Wolf (Sons of Rome Book 1) Page 31
