Amour Amour

by Krista Ritchie

  I wrap my arm around my boobs.

  “God of Russia!” Hands are now shooting into the air.

  But Nikolai ignores them, his intensity all mine. He approaches the burly employee, and they switch glow necklaces. When Nik returns to me, he has a green one.

  “Awwww,” girls in the crowd actually make that noise, rooting for us.

  His gaze never leaves me as he snaps the new necklace around my collar. “There’s no confusion anymore, myshka.”

  I touch the necklace, wondering about his ex-girlfriend. I haven’t ever asked about her, but the deeper we go, the more I know I’ll have to.

  I can’t move past that gaze, the one that strips layers with rapid efficiency. It’s even more intrusive than the first time we met. Because he knows for certain what lies beneath the sheet.

  Then he kisses me soft, then harder, his tongue parting my lips. An ache tickles my throat, the drunken encouragements like a Greek chorus. Courage lifts my shoulders. It’s not from booze. It’s just from being near him.

  His breath warms my ear. And he whispers, “I choose you.”

  My heart pounds.

  He breaks away, fingers laced with mine, and his long once-over heats my core…and a lower place, clenching.

  The cheers are even louder than before. I look up and so many people have gathered. The sprinklers don’t shut off yet and everyone starts clapping to the beat of “Temperature” by Sean Paul, splashing water.

  “They’re excited—” he watches me absorb my surroundings “—because I’ve never done this with a girlfriend before.”

  Girlfriend. “I’m your girlfriend?” My smile is an uncontrollable one, where I can’t for the life of me restrain or hide it.

  He says something in Russian.

  I don’t have to wait for him to translate. He’s said this phrase so many times.

  You’re cute.

  I inhale strongly, a handstand competition. In a see-through dress. I can do this. I can. I know, for a fact, I can. However, I’m not sure if I’ll beat him. That’s the mystery.

  Quickly I climb back over his earlier proclamation. He’s never done this with another girlfriend. He’s sharing this with me, his spectacle, his after-show—that’s all him.

  He’s letting me experience his entire world.

  “Can she even push you over!” someone shouts.

  “Can you?” Nikolai asks me, his lips rising in an alluring smile.

  I can try. I rest my palms on his chest, beads of water still rolling down. And I take a runner’s stance and I try, with all my might, to shove him back.

  He’s a fortress.

  A laughing fortress. “Try harder, myshka.”

  “I am,” I retort, putting all my strength in my quads and biceps. My face reddens as I push, but I realize that he’s positioned his legs in a way that deadens my force. I breathe heavily and crane my neck up to him.

  He’s way too entertained by this. “Little mouse,” he says. “You can’t knock me back, even if you tried.”

  “Oooh!” The crowds collectively make the noise. I hear the jest that I missed the first time against him, all lighthearted.

  I catch my breath, my hands on my hips. “One day. I will. Even if it takes me years.” Years? It sounds like I’m assuming we’ll be together for that long. I open my mouth to clarify my slip, but he speaks first.

  “Even if it takes you forever,” he rephrases, his eyes bearing on my heart. “Are you ready?” He means for the handstand competition. But beneath his words there is so much more. Am I ready for a life with him?

  “Yes.” I nod, without hesitation. “I’m more than ready.”

  Act Thirty

  I lost.

  I can handle my liquor now. But I still can’t beat him. My arms gave out, and I had to drop. I picked a piercing. He picked my other nipple.

  Thankfully, though, he buttoned his black shirt on me before doing anything. I could tell it wasn’t just for my benefit. He didn’t want any of them to see my boobs as much as I didn’t want them to be seen.

  The Red Death shuts off the sprinklers about ten minutes before we head out, his hand on the small of my back, weaving through dancers.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to stay longer?” I ask him, my boob throbbing. He only did the bet with me. “I can wait at the bar—”

  “I’m positive.” He wraps his arm around my shoulders, as though to say I just want to be with you. I inhale a heady breath, his soaked button-down suctioning to parts of my body. I shiver, and we’re not even out in the cold yet.

  The red strobe lights stroke us, and as we near a staircase to the VIP area, I spot John. And Timo. I zero in on them, and my mouth instantly drops. John has Timo pressed against the wall, their lips touching, their tongues—it’s a make-out session that brings the heat back to this club. No parting, eyes closed, like no one is watching. Timo clutches John’s hair, their bodies welded together. And John drives the kiss deeper, more skilled than he lets on. They fit perfectly: their heights, their builds. On equal territory and footing.

  Nikolai abruptly stops, causing me to stumble back into his chest. He places his hands on my shoulders, steadying me, and I follow his gaze back to his brother. Nikolai wavers uncertainly behind me.

  If he could, he’d accompany his brother through every minor and major wreck of his life. But he can’t. Timo will fall whether or not Nikolai is there. But he has so many people that’ll help him stand back up if he struggles. That’s what matters.

  “He’s okay,” I tell Nik. If what John says is right—about Timo being promiscuous—then it’s probably better that he’s with John. And if Nikolai tries to split them apart right now, Timo will just run to someone else—someone not worthy of his attention.

  Nikolai stays quiet, contemplating the situation. Whether or not he should intervene. “The hardest part is not knowing,” he says lowly to me. I think I understand.

  There are moments that do not belong to us.

  Lives that we can only see fragments of, and as painful as it is to say goodbye to the whole picture, we’re not supposed to have it anymore.

  I imagine, for my parents, it was harder on them when I left for college. But it must’ve been so much worse when I moved across the country. It hurts them more than me. Just as this hurts Nikolai more than Timo.

  “Can you imagine that wherever he is, he’s happy?” I ask Nikolai.

  He nods a few times. “I’m going to try. I have to try,” he realizes. After another moment, he leads me away from them, through the club, towards the exit.

  And he lets his brother go.

  Act Thirty-One

  “Who is she?” I ask aloud, surprising myself. I snap off the green necklace, my bare feet cold on the bathroom tiles. He runs the tub while I tremble from the sopping button-down and chilled air.

  “Who are we talking about?” He unbuttons his slacks, distracting me as he steps out of them. Wearing only charcoal gray boxer-briefs.

  I train my eyes on his tattoo, the inked lines along the inside of his bicep that create trees. It distracts me from his cock.

  I open my mouth to say your ex-girlfriend. But the words stick. And I end up waving the green glow necklace in response.

  He nears me and I back up into the sink counter, aware of my littleness to his largeness. It’s not just the fact that he’s taller than me. It’s his broad build, his muscular frame. If he was Timo’s size—lean, less muscle mass, a bit wiry—I would feel like we went together better.

  But I’m very attracted to this, right here. In front of me. My speeding pulse, the tingles that prick along my arms, down my legs—it tells me so.

  He begins to unbutton his shirt that’s on my body. He’s already examined my movements, reading me. “It’s in the past,” he says, realizing what I’m speaking of.

  The gush of hot water, filling the tub, cuts through some of the silence. I press my palms flat on his hard chest. “But you know my past.”

  He consumes me
with those grays eyes. “I’m older than you, myshka.”

  I believe it. I see it. But I don’t want that to matter, on any account. “And…?”

  “And I have five years of history on you. I’m not discounting your own experiences. I know for a fact that your first couple of times in bed left a mark on you.” He lifts my chin, so that my eyes rise off the bathroom tiles. He is full of warmth. And light. “There’s just more in my past.”

  “More,” I whisper. What more? I ask through my soft eyes.

  His chest rises and falls.

  We’re quiet for a moment, and I watch him unbutton the last of my shirt. He takes a couple steps back from me, my spine digging into the sink’s lip.

  Standing still, my black shirt is partially open, revealing the sides of my breasts and my wet orange panties. He has trouble focusing on my face and not my body, his concentration on more pleasurable things than this talk.

  I have to know. I’m afraid I’ll never grow the courage to ask again. “Why is she so complicated?”

  He combs both hands through his hair, pushing the longer strands back. “Because…” He holds my gaze. “She was my partner.”

  “What?” My face falls.

  “Tatyana Ulanova.”

  My mind rotates a million miles per hour, tilting, back-peddling, and out of all thoughts, the first I land on is so insignificant. “I thought it was Tatyana Ulanov, not Ulanova?” Maybe I begin with this because it’s the easiest to touch.

  “It’s Ulanova. Whoever told you Ulanov was wrong.” He rubs his jaw. “In Russian, surnames change according to whether you’re male or female.”

  My face twists as I process this. “But Katya and you are both Kotova…wait, is that even your real last name?”

  He tries hard not to smile.

  “It’s not funny,” I say. “I don’t even know your name.”

  “Yes you do, myshka. Tatyana is a Russian citizen, but I’m not. Those of us born in the United States had to take the same family name, by law. For whatever reason, they agreed on Kotova, not Kotov.” He casually adds, “It’s a sore subject with my father, considering he speaks very little English and holds Russian customs to a high standard. To the rest of us, it’s just a name.”

  I bet Tatyana knew all of this about him. Of course she did, Thora. She’s Russian. I’m at a disadvantage with a girl that I’ve never met. What’d he say about her? She’s the best in her discipline. At aerial silk. She can communicate with him, in any language. And she probably fits better with him. Physically.

  I tremble, cold sweeping my limbs, my wet shirt like ice.

  “Thora…” He nears again, about to undress me. To warm me.

  I press my palms on his chest again to stop him. “Just let me think…”

  “She’s out of the picture.”

  “She was injured,” I remember. “She got hurt, Nikolai.” I shield my wince with my hands and groan. “Is that why you broke up?”

  Girl sustains a career-ending injury.

  Girl no longer works with Guy.

  Guy breaks up with Girl.

  Girl leaves Vegas.

  It seems callous on Nikolai’s part, to desert a girl after something traumatic. Who am I really with?

  He rubs his eyes like the memory is still raw. It shouldn’t still be raw, right? That makes me the…

  “Rebound,” I whisper. “I’m your rebound.”

  Nikolai drops his hand and cocks his head like you’re so wrong. “No. We broke up two months before she was injured. I was with her for three years romantically, longer professionally, but the feelings I have for her now are…” As he tries to find the right word, his face slowly contorts in a cringe, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. And then shakes his head.

  “Your feelings seem to be strong,” I breathe, crossing my arms for warmth. I shake some. Stop shaking, Thora.

  “Not in the way you think.” His voice is harder, more powerful. He shuts off the bath and then walks over to me, wanting so badly to take me out of the wet clothes. “You’re freezing.”

  “I just need to process this with clothes on.”

  “I don’t see what it matters if you’re naked.”

  I exhale a tense breath. “Because I’ll be distracted.”

  “By your own body?”

  I scowl.

  “You said it.”

  “By you staring at my naked body.”

  His lips curve upward, in a charming smile. “I’m not going to tell you that I’ll look away because that’d be a lie.” He tucks a piece of my hair behind my ear. “Can you hurry with your thoughts?”

  My jumbled, tangled, helplessly confused thoughts. Ask something important. Everything feels important, so that really does not help my case. “Where is she now?” I manage to say. Good one. You’re doing good. Or well. Whatever. I kind of want to shut off my brain now.

  “Yekaterinburg. It’s where she grew up.”

  So she’s most likely with her family, at least those who aren’t in the circus. “Is she coming back ever?” I ask.

  “No. She wants to live in Russia.” He watches my arms vibrate with the chill, concern narrowing his eyes. Stay strong, Thora. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she has a boyfriend or a fiancé. Or even a husband by now.” He doesn’t pale or cringe or recoil by these facts.

  “It doesn’t bother you—”

  “Why would it? I’m with you.” Intensity still permanently latched to me, he removes his boxer-briefs, the last article of clothing. I breathe shallowly and seem to tremble more.

  This is such a weird conversation to be undressing to. And I’m really to blame for that. It needed to be said. True. It’s better with this knowledge.

  He steps closer to me, until his body pins mine against the sink. “Anymore thoughts?”

  With that one action, they’ve all escaped. I strain my neck just to see his hard, masculine face, flooded with desire. My arms are still crossed, pulling my shirt closed, despite being unbuttoned. He can’t kiss me in this position. He’d need to back up so he can lean down, and it’s frustrating on all accounts. I should’ve left my high heels on.

  But he waits. For me. To say that I have no more thoughts.

  “Why are you so patient with me?” I whisper.

  “Because every part of me wants to take care of you.” One of his hands drifts to the back of my neck, the other beneath my wet shirt, around my hip. “And to do that, I’d slow down to your speed.”

  “And what’s your speed?” I ask.

  “Much faster.” He watches my reaction as he dips his hand beneath the band of my panties. My mouth opens in a heady breath. “Harder,” he says lowly. His fingers brush the inside of my thigh before he pulls off the fabric. “Deeper.” He peels the wet shirt off my arms, my lungs expanding in a strong breath.

  The inhale lifts my chest, both barbells prominent, both pierced by him. It makes the throb in the hard bud feel more like pleasure than pain. He soaks in my body, every inch of skin with the most consuming gaze. After the sopping shirt hits the ground, we’re both left bare against each other.

  He makes the two guys that I was with seem like boys. Nothing as sexual, as arousing, as this. And all he did was undress me.

  I tremble. This time, not from the cold.

  Very swiftly, he lifts me around his waist, and his lips and tongue make skilled work on my neck, sucking the most sensitive part. I grind forward, my nerves lighting and dizzying me. I clutch him tightly, my arms not even close to wrapping around his frame. I bury my head into his muscular chest, protected, small.

  “Just…no sex tonight,” I whisper. Not after that conversation. I don’t want to equate the first time to her.

  He kisses my lips and then says, “Okay.”

  For a brief moment I wonder if he’s really okay with it. Then he dominates every movement, doing whatever he pleases while I relax into the moment. And I realize, he’s going to make it okay by doing so many other things.

  His fingers slip ins
ide of me. God. The fullness blinds me, and I cry into skin. We’re in the middle of the bathroom. Not even against the wall. He easily holds me, driving his two fingers deeper, finding a spot that—

  “Nik…” I gasp into another cry, spidering him with the hardest grip. It collapses his breath for a second. Then he lowers his head to suck my neck again, like I’m his play toy that he wants to pleasure. I throb. I pulse. I ache. Actually craving for his cock—actually wondering what he’d feel like.

  While he screws me deep with his fingers, he carries me to the ledge of the marbled tub, setting me down. He remains standing, and using his free hand, he grips the shaft of his erection, which is much larger than anything I’ve seen up close.

  Boys. You were with boys, Thora James.

  “Open,” he commands.

  I am so wet. My back arches some, but I manage to part my lips. He fills my mouth, and I breathe through my nose, the erotic image like a trigger for my body. I nearly lose it, my toes curling and a raspy noise vibrates along his hardness. In my mouth. He places his hand on the back of my head, controlling how deeply I go. The movement. That mixed with his fingers in me.

  I… almost fall backwards. Into the water.

  He keeps me upright. And my hands slide onto his toned ass—Dear Lord. In heaven. It’s the way he’s looking at me too. His heavy breath, his arousal growing. He’s getting off watching me get off.

  I pop him out of my mouth, right as he hits a spot that sends me over. I cry, so loud that he instantly covers my lips with his large hand, drowning the noise. I haven’t even caught my breath before he picks me up, as though I weigh nothing to him. And brings me into the tub.

  My eyes are closed, but the hot water soothes my skin as soon as I’m lowered in it. He splays me against his chest. While he leans against the porcelain. His lips are on mine, but I can barely breathe still.

  “You’re going to come again, little mouse.” His breath tickles my ear. “Until I decide to come with you.” Fact: he loves watching me orgasm. I just can’t imagine doing it again and again. And again.

  “Not…possible,” I pant.