I still feel like I’m dreaming as I move toward the door. Everything is happening in slow motion, like the air is a thick viscous substance that must be waded through carefully. Yet, all too soon I am at the door, turning the knob, pulling it open.
Nicolai stands before me, taller than I remember, his face stern, his eyes clouded and rimmed with dark circles—probably a reflection of my own eyes. He’s holding a breakfast tray in front of him.
Stepping to the side, I open the door wider so that he can carry it on through.
“In here or on the terrace?” he asks, his voice tightly controlled.
“The terrace.”
He carries the tray out onto the table on the terrace and unloads it. Yogurt, honey, fresh fruit, pastry, a carafe of strong smelling coffee, orange juice. After arranging everything, he turns to leave.
“Join me,” I say, pointing to the extra chair.
“There is only enough food for one.”
He won’t meet my gaze.
“Nicolai. Join me.”
From the tension along his jawline, I know he’s gritting his teeth.
“Please.”
Finally he sits, though he turns his chair so that he’s facing the ocean instead of me.
Before bringing anything up, I start in on breakfast, because my appetite is back.
Oh my God. The pastry is delicious. Light and flaky with chunks of chocolate baked inside, mmm. Europeans know how to make breakfast pastry. So good. I lick my fingers and catch Nicolai watching with a tortured expression.
Like a shithead with a sick urge to cause more pain, I flick my tongue along my lips in search of errant chocolate.
As if the sight is too painful, he closes his eyes and turns away.
His hand is curled into a loose fist on the table and I can see the discolored and swollen skin of his knuckles. “How’s your hand?”
He opens and closes his fist but doesn’t answer my question. “About last night...”
“Nicolai, I’ve been thinking—”
“I’m sorry—”
We’re speaking simultaneously so I shut up and listen.
“I should never have asked...” His words trail off. “Please forgive me.” He stands. “I need to get back to work.”
“Stay.” I channel my inner Alander.
It works. He reluctantly sits back down.
“Do you still want my help?”
His body goes very still. Slowly he turns and meets my gaze. “Are you offering your help?”
“Maybe,” I say enigmatically, taking a spoonful of yogurt and letting it slide deliciously down my throat. I regard him, tapping the spoon against my lips. “So, do you?”
As if his expression isn’t tortured enough, his voice sounds strangled when he answers, “Yes.”
“Okay. Here’s the deal. I’m going to give you a choice.”
“A choice?”
“Yes. Two options. Would you like to hear them?”
He nods slowly.
I set my spoon down. “One. We go inside and have sex right here, right now. Wham bam...” I wipe my hands against each other as if there’s dirt on them. “It’ll be messy, clumsy, awkward...but it’ll be out of the way and you won’t be a virgin anymore.”
I notice the movement of his Adams apple as he swallows. “And the other option?”
“I teach you how to make love...properly.”
His gaze takes on a fierce intensity. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” I say, moving an errant strand of hair out of my eyes. “I teach you not only about making love, but how to do it...with proficiency. You’ll learn how to please a woman, and in the process, you’ll gain that experience you want. ”
“How long will that take?”
“A lifetime.” I grin. “But seeing as I’ve only got a week, it’ll take a week.”
His shakes his head from side to side as I speak. “Why are you doing this?” he asks.
Oh, the million dollar question, ladies and gentlemen. Why am I doing this? It’s my turn to shake my head. “I’m doing this because...because...I can’t not do it.”
Beneath his sweeping lashes, he regards me, waiting. What is he waiting for? Does he think I’m making fun of him? Does he think this is all a joke?
I do the only thing I can do, I go back to my breakfast, dipping a strawberry into my yogurt and sucking it off before taking a bite.
He clears his throat or groans, the sound is somewhere in between those two things. “So, my choice is I can have sex that lasts a few minutes or sex that lasts a week?”
“Yes.”
“It’s not really a choice, is it?” He stands and I have to shield my eyes against the sun in order to look up at him. His expression is serious, like the fate of the world rests on his overly broad shoulders. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until after he starts speaking.
“Of course it is.”
“No, it’s not. When I make love, Tessa—even that first time—I’m going to do it right.”
Chapter Five
My smile reaches from ear to ear. Of course he’s right. There is only one right choice, but I’d be a liar if I said there wasn’t part of me that didn’t want to get things over with now. A little sloppy-teenage-style sex—Oh lordy!—before spending the rest of the week refining his skills. But, the reality is, sloppy sex is awkward. I want this to be fun for Nicolai. Unlike most of us, I want him to look back at his first time with satisfaction.
“Right,” I say, all business now. “Before we get started, we need to go over the ground rules.”
He sits. “Ground rules?”
“Like you said, if we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it right.”
“O-kay. So, what are these ground rules?”
“First of all, you have to follow all of my instructions.”
“All of them?” Nicolai’s lips curve up at the corners.
“Yes. Even if what I’m asking you to do sounds...strange. You need to trust me, okay?”
“I trust you.”
“Secondly, you need to pass one lesson before you can move on to the next.”
Nicolai laughs. It’s the first real laugh I’ve heard from him since yesterday, and I love the sound of it. Deep and full. It triggers a response low in my belly and prompts an image of him fully naked and deep inside me. I pause to enjoy the fantasy...
He’s lying beneath me, his hands grasping my hips, holding me in place as I straddle him, taking him as deep as I can. He groans and his eyes roll back as a soft, ‘fuck, that’s good,’ slips past his lips.
“You sound like you’ve done this before.”
“What?” I shake my head. “Oh right.” My fantasy fades. “Well, not quite so formally.” I smile, wondering if he has any idea who he’s dealing with here.
Oh sure, I’ve played plenty of games with lovers, but it’s always been playacting. This is different. This is real and the more I think about it, the more excited I get. “If you really want to learn, you need to practice and you need to pass. Believe me, like most academic subjects, the art of love is cumulative. You need to understand the basics before you can move on to more...advanced techniques.”
I wonder if he’s imagining what the advanced techniques entail. I know I am. Right now. In my mind’s eye I see Nicolai in the mirror, positioned behind me, my hips firmly grasped in his powerful hands as he rams me from behind.
Oh God. I fan myself. How the hell am I going to last a week?
“Finally,” I say, once I have myself under a marginal amount of control, “And, most importantly...absolutely and unequivocally, no falling in love.”
Nicolai’s expression turns serious and he looks me straight in the eye, jaw clenched, eyes unblinking.
“We’re going to be engaging in some very intimate acts. I don’t want you to confuse what we’re doing physically with emotions. If you don’t think you can separate the two, it would be best if we don’t even start.”
He studies m
e for a few minutes before replying. His face is solemn and again he appears so much older than his years. If it wasn’t for last night’s debacle, I would never believe that this man is a virgin.
“I understand,” he finally replies. “You’re helping me. This isn’t love. No confusion.”
There’s a quality to his voice that makes me hesitate. Sometimes I take for granted that everyone can separate the physical from the emotional. Despite his old soul demeanor, Nicolai is young and I need to be sure he understands how this will work. “It’s important. Our relationship will end once the week is over and we probably won’t ever see each other again. You need to be clear on that.”
“Of course. I understand.” He nods but doesn’t smile.
“Good.” I finish my yogurt. “So, back to the matter at hand. A week isn’t much time for all I have to teach you. Shall we get started?”
He chokes.
It takes effort to keep my silly grin in check.
“Where do we start?” he manages to ask.
“It’s very simple. We are going to start at the beginning.”
“The beginning?”
“Yes. I am going to teach you how to touch.”
With a grunt he says, “Tessa, I think I know how to touch.”
“Really? Okay, touch me.”
“What do you mean, touch you?”
“You said you know how to touch. Touch me.”
“This is ridiculous.”
“Oh? Let’s review rule number one. You agreed to do what I say, no matter how silly it might sound. There is nothing offensive about my suggestion. I want you to touch me because I need to see what we have to work with, and, based on the fact you flinch every time I come near you, I’m thinking we don’t have much.”
He opens his mouth to refute my claims, but then closes it again. He runs his hand through his hair and looks around, desperately. “I’m not about to do it out on the balcony in plain view of everyone.”
“Not that kind of touching.” I wipe my mouth on a napkin and stand. “But, if it’ll make you feel more comfortable, we can go inside.”
He takes his time loading everything back onto the tray, but once he’s done, I follow him in, shutting the doors to the terrace behind me. After depositing the tray on the counter, he moves toward the sofa, but I stop him and point to the open door of the bedroom. He stands still, looking at that open door as if it leads to the gallows, not the bed where we will eventually make love. It is the very same expression he wore last night, only I was too drunk to recognize what it meant.
“It’s not sex, it’s simple touch, that’s all.” I motion with my head toward the open door.
Finally he strides through and sits on the edge of the bed, looking extremely uncomfortable. When I join him, I swear he moves away a couple of inches.
“Now,” I say, sliding closer, “Have you ever touched a woman before?”
He rubs his jaw. “I told you. I don’t have any experience—”
“I’m not talking breasts or pussy—”
He interrupts me with a strangled sound.
“Pussy,” I say again, watching him closely.
He does it again. A suppressed groan.
“Pussy.”
He rolls his eyes heavenward.
“Pussy.”
“You can stop now.”
“Don’t you like that word?”
“No. I mean, yes. It’s fine. I like it fine.”
“Then say it.”
“What? No.”
“It’s a nice word. Pussy. Say it.”
“Tessa. This is ridiculous.”
“You know what’s ridiculous? The fact you can’t say pussy.”
“I can say pussy. There. I just said it.”
Oh God, he did, too. And he said it with his lovely, deep British accent. “Say it again.”
“For fuck’s sake.”
“I like fuck too, but you don’t have a problem with that word. Say pussy again. I like how you say it.” I imitate his accent when I say the word this time.
“Jesus, Tessa.” But, he’s smiling now.
“Say it.”
“Pussy. There. Are you happy?”
I crawl up onto my knees. “Almost. Say it again, quieter.”
“Pussy.”
“Again, without rolling your eyes.”
He’s suppressing a smile when he whispers the word this time. It’s sexy and seductive and playful.
“Perfect,” I whisper back. My imagination takes over and I hear him, clear as anything, inside my head...
“Tessa, show me your pussy. I want to taste you...”
“Tessa?”
“Hmm?”
“Why are you smiling?”
“Am I?” I blink. “I guess I like the way you say the word. You know, I thought touching was going to be the first lesson, but it’s not. The first thing we need to work on is inhibitions. If you want to be a proficient lover, you have to get rid of your inhibitions; whatever they are. Words. Nudity. Asking for what you want. Asking what your partner wants. No guilty remnants of an Orthodox upbringing.”
“I didn’t have an Orthodox upbringing.”
“No, but this town oozes Orthodoxy. You’re surrounded by it. And whether you believe it or not, you’ve been told by the actions of your neighbors that you are an immoral being. It’s bullshit, Nicolai. All bullshit.”
I reach for him but there he goes, flinching again. I move closer, not letting his response deter me and I run my hand down his face. “You are a sensual, sexual being,” I say softly. “And that is something to be celebrated. It is not something to be ashamed of.”
As I touch him, his eyes remain open and he stares at the wall while he holds himself still as a statue. Obviously, it’s going to make more than a little speech to undo nearly twenty-two years of unconscious conditioning.
I thread my fingers through the thick curls on the side of his head. “Touch is the foundation of intimacy. It doesn’t have to be sexual, but how we touch conveys everything.” I slip my hand behind his head and stroke his neck around to his collarbones. “And it’s the very essence of pleasure.”
He exhales heavily when I drop my hand.
“I take it you haven’t done a whole lot of touching.”
“No,” he says.
“Okay.” I sit for a minute, trying to figure out where to start. I tap my lips and then look at my fingertips. An image of literature’s most celebrated lovers comes to mind, and the conversation about hands and lips and kisses that Romeo and Juliet have upon their very first meeting. A memorized section comes back to me. “And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss”. So, going up on my knees, I crawl closer to Nicolai and place my hands up, palms facing him. “Put your hands against mine.”
He does and I wriggle my fingertips against his. His hands are large, like the rest of him, his fingers long and expressive and there are callouses on his palms. “Our skin is our largest organ and all across it are nerve endings that both protect us and give us pleasure. This organ responds differently depending on where and how it’s being touched. Some areas are sensitive, some are ticklish, and some have very little feeling at all. The thing is, these areas can be different depending on the person.”
“Okay.”
“Touching someone new is like traveling to a new place. You get to explore a new landscape each time. It’s exciting because you never know what you’ll find.”
“You’ve traveled a great deal, haven’t you?” he says, the innuendo clear.
“I have.” I tilt my head to the side. “Does that bother you?”
He gnaws on his lower lip. “No.” His hesitation belies his words.
It’s okay, I understand. As much as Nicolai desires more than what life on Lesvos has to offer, he grew up in a very traditional location and he can’t help but retain traditional values. I’m sure it’s part of what makes this so difficult for him. But it’s also why he’s chosen me to be the person to teach him. He’s just going
to have to live with who I am because let’s face it, I’m not going to change.
“Can you guess where your nerve endings are most concentrated?” I ask as I press my fingertips against his.
“Hands.” He gives me a wry look while exerting pressure against my fingers. “And...genitalia?”
“Yes, there are concentrations of nerve endings in certain parts of our genitalia but it’s actually our hands and our lips that contain the highest concentration of nerve endings. It’s why we naturally explore one another with those parts of our bodies.”
He wets his lips, rubbing them against one another. I’m tempted to touch them...with mine, but based on his utter lack of experience, I don’t want to push him too quickly. Pulling my hands back from his, I say, “Rub your fingertips against your thumb. Like this.” I show him what I mean, gently rubbing each finger in turn with my thumb. “Experiment using different degrees of pressure.”
“Okay.”
“Now, tell me, which is your most sensitive finger?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”
“Use the edge of your fingernail. Stroke farther down on your finger.” I show him what I mean. “My index finger is the least sensitive. The tips of my ring fingers are my most sensitive. But lower, on my middle finger...” I close my eyes and stroke between the first and second knuckle. “Ah, this is the most sensitive part of my fingers.
When I open my eyes, Nicolai is watching me with a strange expression.
“Close your eyes. Try it.”
At first I think he’s going to defy me, but he doesn’t. He gives his head a little toss, closes his eyes and tries to copy what I’m doing. But I can tell that he’s not doing it right, he’s pressing too hard, like he’s trying to snap his fingers instead of stroke them.
“Like this,” I say, leaning forward to stroke the length of each of his fingers on his left hand. I do it to his right too, avoiding his knuckles where his hand is still swollen and bruised.
“Ah-h-h.” His eyes pop open. “The small finger. Definitely the most sensitive.”
“Good.” I say nodding. Then I take his hands and place them in my lap, palm up. “Is your hand okay?”
Seduction in the Sun: Adult Romance Box Set (9 Sizzling Tales with BBW, Billionaires, Bad Boys, and Alpha Males) Page 42
