Varian Krylov

by Hurt

  Now and then he'd thrust hard, driving his cock in deep, hold himself there, and pulse into her with tiny thrusts taking him that little bit deeper, over and over, knowing he was pressing against her clit each time, Her little noises were turning into whining moans, and she kept shutting her eyes tight, then opening them and panting when he'd back off, denying her climax.

  Fucking delicious.

  But a little too easy. For her. She needed more than a fuck and another climax from him. A hundred enticing ideas buzzed his brain, intensifying the thrill of every thrust as he pumped his hips rhythmically between her thighs. She was close. Her body tense and quivering as it sought him, every exhaled breath a needful moan.

  He stopped. Drew back. Let his cock, throbbing in protest, slip wetly from her cunt. He stood there, looking down at her.

  As the silent seconds dissolved, her look of surprise transformed to consternation, and then embarrassment. Reclining there, her legs still spread for fucking long, humiliating seconds after he'd stopped fucking her, her cunt exposed, open, swollen, vivid and wet.

  "Get up."

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  He didn't bark it like an order, like some guy playing at being dominant. He just said it, softly. She stood. He put his hands on her shoulders and, without a word, turned her away from him, then closed in on her until the fronts of her thighs were pressed to the edge of the table, and his groin was pressed against her ass.

  She was already breathing differently. Bending his own body forward he began forcing her down, onto the table. Her resistance wasn't slowing him down much.

  "Wait!"

  He didn't wait. Using the weight of his body to hold her down, and his arms to bend her unwilling elbows, he forced her forearms down to the surface of the table. Bent over that little bit more, her body offered him easy access.

  "Wait!" Her voice was louder this time, and had the catch of a sob in it. "Don't do that! I don't want you to!"

  Her body struggled to twist, to roll over underneath him, but the geometry of skeletons was against her. Wrenching her neck around she was staring up at him, over her shoulder, eyes and mouth open wide with fear. His smile didn't seem to reassure her.

  Feeling a sudden driving urge to taste her skin, he raked his claws up her back, into the wild mass of hair at the base of her skull, baring her nape, descending on it open-mouthed and hungry, sucking and biting until she whimpered. When he looked, gooseflesh covered her arms and neck.

  "You don't want me to what?"

  "Please. Galen, please."

  "You don't want me to what, Vanka?"

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  "No anal."

  "Never done it?"

  He reached down with both hands, palmed her muscular, round cheeks and spread her.

  "No!"

  "You've never let a guy fuck you in the ass, Vanka?"

  "No."

  "How do you know you won't like it?"

  Beneath him she writhed violently, trying to shake him off, but he only had to put a little more of his weight on her, and she was practically immobilized. Leaning on her like that, it was hard, getting his hand down, around the base of his cock, but he managed without giving her too much wiggle room.

  He felt her give up. Resign herself. It was in her tense, unbreathing stillness.

  With one hand closed tight over her wrist, and the other wrapped around the base of his shaft he brought the swollen head of his cock against her opening, and with one slow and fluid movement of his hips he drove the entire length of his cock into the warm, slippery grip of her cunt.

  "You tell me," he breathed behind her ear, "if you change your mind."

  Beneath him the body he'd made rigid with terror softened and breathed. The girl inside was back. Still sheathed to the hilt, he stood up.

  "Now," he said, pressing down gently on the small of her back, "arch your back a little more, and stick your ass up a bit."

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  It surprised him when she did it. Her trust had to be pretty low at this point. But, then again, that was the point of her being with him at all, wasn't it?

  Beginning to move inside her, to fuck her slowly, but deep, with the force of rolling waves, he looked down to take in the delicious view of her ass, the hills of her two cheeks rising full and round, sweeping down in admirable curves to a deep, tempting cleft between and sleek plains of back, thighs, disappearing over the horizon of her hips.

  And her back. Damn, he loved her back. The soft contours of her muscles were in fine relief, now, as she held herself up on her forearms. The lone, defined hill of a single vertebra, pressure-pale, at the apex of her spine before it dropped down and away with her lowered neck. The dramatic sweep of wheat-hued skin up from the twin smooth planes running parallel on either side of her spine, up and over her shoulder blades. Her shoulders, her trapezius muscles. The way they flexed as her body took the shock of his thrusts.

  He could have gone on like that, standing over her. Fucking her. He could get himself off that way, no question. Hell, he could probably get her off like that. But it felt cold. He felt far away from her. He wanted her close. Wanted her heat, the feel of her skin against his. The feel of their bodies trying to fit together.

  He sank down, slid his forearm under her, curved his fingers against her ribs, his other arm supporting him, mirroring her arm supporting her.

  Now he could see her face. Now that he could watch, he was ready. Instead of those long, sliding, friction-making strokes, he sank into her, until his hips were crushed right up against her ass, and, holding her down, holding her against him, he pumped 54

  into her, breathing, grunting, panting. And with every jolt of his hips she groaned, whimpered, desperately sucked in fresh air each time he knocked a breath out of her.

  He watched her. At first, she looked fortified. Like she was willing her body to endure an assault. But then, little by little, thrust by thrust, she let her guard down, let herself be soft. It wasn't pain. It sounded like pain. Looked like pain. But it was something else. Her lashes were wet again; the corner of her lip was tugged down, her eyes shut tight. And the sound, like a wail of pain, swelled and died and rose again. She was cumming. Crying and shuddering, loud and violent.

  It seemed like he'd been holding on forever. Delaying over and over again, each time he'd been close. Now, finally, he let the feeling of her—the grip of her cunt on his cock, her body quivering, hot and strong beneath him—the sound of her groaning out her climax, the startled, overwhelmed look in her eyes overtake him. His own orgasm ricocheted through him so powerfully he called out her name, once, like you'd call the name of someone lost in a dream as you woke.

  "Vanka."

  He whispered it, now that they were done. They lay there for a long time, panting, their breaths slightly out of phase, his sounding with hers, passing, lagging, catching and passing again. Her cunt felt with excruciating sensitivity the slow progress of his cock as he pulled out. Then he pulled her up with him as he stood.

  She felt weak. Physically. Drained. Euphorically exhausted. It seemed she was inert, that every movement her body made was directed by his. He'd stood her up. Now he turned her to face him, lifted her chin so he could see her face. Stare through her eyes, as he had earlier. Read her thoughts. He gave her what seemed to be a 55

  questioning smile. Then he pulled her against him, and put his arms around her. His body was so warm, felt so strong. Gentle and safe. Not at all the way he fucked.

  When he let her out of his embrace, he took her hand and led her back, through the bedroom, into his obscenely swank bathroom. He flicked the light on, and she caught sight of their reflections in the mirror, and felt suddenly, sickeningly more vulnerable than she had for the last hour, through all he'd done to her. Weird, seeing her naked body so close to his, as she stood there staring back at herself, her whole body reduced, in that moment of perception, to a raw, frightening nakedness, and a white square of gauze covering part of one breast.

  Behind her, he put his hands lightly o
n her bare shoulders, looked with her at their mirror images, smiled, kissed her neck, then turned and dipped out of the frame of the mirror as he opened the tub faucet. She, her mirror image, was alone for a moment.

  Overcome suddenly by embarrassment, then panic, she forgot the mirror. A familiar sensation demanded all her attention.

  "Galen."

  "Hmmm?" He looked up at her from over his shoulder as he held his hand under the gush of water shooting from the faucet.

  "I think the condom broke."

  He looked down and looked back up at her with a funny little smirk.

  "I don't think so."

  He rose to his feet and turned to face her. He was still somewhat hard, and the condom was still on, and she could see a mass of whitish fluid collected at the end of it.

  Transfixed, pulled between revulsion and a kind of admiration, she watched him remove 56

  the condom from his penis, pinch off the end, and squeeze the tiny whitish balloon he'd formed.

  "Looks watertight to me," he said, carefully scrutinizing how the tip was bearing up under the pressure.

  She was more embarrassed than ever, now.

  "Can I have a minute alone, please?"

  "Need the toilet?"

  "No, I . . ."

  Damn, she was an idiot. She should have just said “yes.”

  "What's the matter? Is it getting messy down there?"

  Well. Now she wanted to kill him. At least that was how his words were making her feel. But his voice was so mellow it almost soothed, and his expression just seemed

  . . . warm. She just stood there, struggling for what to say, what to do, as he poured some rose-colored liquid under the faucet and a white foam hillscape began advancing across the flat, gray plane of water. Then he swiped a washcloth from one of the cupboards, perched on the edge of the tub, and dipped the cloth into the steaming, sudsy water.

  "It's just sex, Vanka."

  He reached out and hooked a hand behind her knee and coaxed her forward, toward him.

  "We just fucked. Why should your body's reaction to that be such a big deal?"

  She couldn't believe she was letting him do this. The slight roughness of the hot, wet cloth felt good as he slid it up the inside of her calf, past her knee, up, along her 57

  inner thigh, gently massaging as he went. He looked up at her with a strangely sweet smile as he dipped the cloth back into the foamy tub, and did the other leg. Only the vaguest notion that she'd normally feel utterly humiliated at being cleaned up like this by a lover penetrated the euphoric haze his touch was working over her. But she gasped and jumped, suddenly, vividly awake as the rough, hot cloth brushed against her sex.

  She wanted to pull away, but the gentle curve of his hand at the back of her knee closed hard, held her there. Then he kissed her, so softly, so sweetly at the front of her thigh, then her hip bone, then on the soft, ticklish flesh just inside, and rubbed her gently with the cloth. Fuck. It felt really, really good. She sighed as she gave up fighting, let go of wanting to fight, of the idea that it was weird. Then she whined a little as she felt her sated, exhausted body suddenly charge back to life. She'd have fucked him again, right then, if he'd asked her.

  Instead, he stood, tossed the washcloth into one of the sinks, grinned like he knew just what she was thinking, and gave her a tiny kiss on the lips. Then he turned off the faucet.

  "Between my knee and your incision, this'll be a bit of a trick. But a bath sounds nice, doesn't it?"

  He got in first, putting his foot up on the edge of the tub, keeping his bandaged knee high and dry. She came in after him, perched in front of him, let him pull her back, against him, slowly relaxed enough to let herself soften into his embrace, her back pressed to his chest. There was an easy silence between them as he lazily combed his fingers through her hair, his touch working in concert with the heat of the bath and her physical and emotional exhaustion, making her wonderfully drowsy.

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  The sound of their small movements in the water was pretty. Now he was washing her back, and the texture of the cloth, the feeling of his hands, his finger, rubbing into her tense muscles seemed like the best feeling in the world. Too worn out to think about it too much, she vaguely wondered how a man who could have her so on edge—so afraid—at times, could make her feel so comforted. So safe.

  "Your back is so pretty," he sighed, sounding near sleep himself.

  "Is it?"

  She wasn't being coy. No one had ever told her that before.

  "Mmmm."

  The cloth was gone. Now she just felt the tip of his finger wandering over the soap-slick surface of her back. Strangely, she felt like crying. But she didn't.

  Later, when they were in bed and she was almost asleep, curled up like a fetus in the bend of his strong body, all their skin bare, save where gauze and tape covered, he whispered.

  "Vanka."

  "Mmmmm?"

  "Tell me something?"

  "Mmmm hmmm."

  "Earlier, when I had you bent over the dining room table . . ." he was speaking very slowly and quietly, ". . . when you begged me not to fuck your ass, and I held you down, were you scared I was going to sodomize you?"

  "Yes," she breathed. She'd been terrified.

  "Will you tell me the truth, Vanka?"

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  "Yes."

  "Did you want me to?"

  "Yes."

  Yes.

  He kissed the crown of her head, pulled her a little closer, and sometime later she fell asleep.

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  Chapter Two

  This was ridiculous. She was ridiculous. Just ring the fucking bell.

  Why had she come? Icy regret trickled over her. What did she think she was doing?

  So they'd fucked. That didn't mean she was welcome to just drop by any time, like a treasured friend. She had an idea, gleaned from girlfriends and guy friends, that there were plenty of men out there who wanted nothing less than to find some girl they'd done on a one-night stand lurking on their porch. And those were regular guys. Galen was . . . well, Galen Ross. A goddamned movie star. If every woman he'd fucked started lurking around his front door, he'd have to flee the country.

  Even if he was home, even if he was alone, even if he was glad to see her, what did she think was going to happen? Nothing very nice, that was certain. She'd thought about it, over and over. He'd taken it easy on her, the last time. She was afraid to guess how he'd interpret her coming back to him now.

  She wasn't going to ring. He wasn't there, anyway. She was suddenly glad.

  Relieved. Back to the car. Back home. To sanity. Reality.

  She turned and stepped and almost collided with him.

  "Vanka," he said softly, to the accompaniment of her shrill, gasping inhale.

  Her heart felt like it was being slammed repeatedly between two bricks. She backed slowly away from the expanse of chest filling her field of vision, until, looking up, she saw him looking down at her with an inscrutable expression.

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  "Right here in the neighborhood. Weren't you even going to ring? Not very friendly of you."

  How freakin' long had he been standing there, watching her pathetic hesitation?

  "I was afraid I'd be disturbing you. Just dropping in like this."

  "It's true, I do usually appreciate a phone call ahead of time. I'm not big on unannounced visits. But then, you didn't have my number, did you? And it's not like I'm listed."

  Fine. She got it. If he'd wanted her around, he'd have given her his number, told her he wanted to see her again. Not like the guy was shy, afraid of rejection.

  "Want to come in?" His mouth curved in an endearing smile as he fished a key from his pocket.

  Inside, the first thing he did after turning off his alarm was to scribble out his number on a piece of paper, rip it from the pad, and hand it to her with another anxiety-melting smile.

  "Now you'll have no excuse for hanging around by my front door, not knocking."


  He didn't ask for her number, and for some reason, she didn't offer it.

  "Vodka tonic? I actually have limes today."

  "No, thanks." It was four o'clock. Maybe he was an alcoholic. Or thought she was.

  Suddenly, all the distance between them was gone. His fingers sank into her hair, curved to the back of her neck, and his mouth brushed against the corner of her mouth as he spoke.

  "I've been wondering if you'd be back. And what it would mean, if you came."

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  She knew she should speak. Even knew what she had to say. But she was silent.

  But when he grinned, like he'd read her thoughts, whispered something about her not being there for tea and sympathy, and slipped his hand up under the hem of her skirt and, with nothing more than an accidental, incidental brush of his hand against her thighs on the way up, began delicately fondling her over the crotch of her panties, she felt an exhilarating, nauseating fear that somehow overshadowed all the dread and weakness she'd felt at the hospital earlier that day as they'd tugged the whisker-like sutures from the delicate, almost translucent skin of her breast.

  Fuck, her body loved him. Such a presumptuous touch, as if by returning to his house she'd promised that her body was his to do with as he liked. Such a tiny touch, so light, just over her underwear. But already her body was promising her a delicious climax, if he'd just do that for a few more seconds.

  He took his hand away. The throb in her sex amplified, growing more intense, more insistent, pleading for more attention. And he just stood there, gazing at her with his smirk and his amused eyes. Fuck, he was practically laughing at her. She didn't need this shit. What she needed was a good fuck, not his self-aggrandizing head games.

  Fine. She could dish it out, too. See how he liked it. She flashed him a “you're gonna get it now” smile and led him over to his sofa. Unlike that first time, a few nights before, he let her undo his belt and his jeans, let her rub his hardening prick through the snug cotton of his briefs. Her sex pulsed more and more insistently as she stroked his hard length, cupped and gently squeezed the soft roundness below, the fine details of him vague under the fabric. When he was good and hard, she slid his shorts and jeans 63