Abruptly I stand and lift her into my arms. Her hands delve into my hair and she spreads kisses along my jawline, behind my ear, and down the column of my neck.
When I reach our bedroom, I throw her onto the pile of covers. Grasping the back of my T-shirt with one hand, I tug the offending fabric off and toss it to the side. My jeans and underwear follow close behind. She lounges against the headboard, an inviting tangle of bare legs and lush curves. Her knit skirt is flipped up to her thighs, and her deep V-neck shirt parades the erotic valley between her breasts. I keep the apartment warm so that she wears as little as possible inside.
With her dark hair tumbled over one shoulder, she is as enticing as Venus, as alluring as Aphrodite. I climb onto the bed on my knees to worship her. Reaching under her skirt, I pull off her panties. Bringing them to my nose, I inhale her musky scent. Then I wrap her lace and cotton around my full erection. “I fantasized about you. About your body taking mine. About my cock inside your sweet cunt.”
“You’ve a dirty mouth,” she says. The smile dancing around the corners of her mouth is Mona Lisa mysterious.
I draw a hand across my lips. “My words, you mean?”
“Yes. The things you say turn me on.” She curls her fingers for me to come toward her. “But don’t stop.”
Never.
“Your feet are beautifully formed,” I say. I know she is ticklish so I press hard against the pads and then the arch. She moans her appreciation. Encouraged, I provide her other foot the same attention. Then I place both on my thighs and press forward.
She opens and her skirt falls to her hips. I stop only when her cunt is fully exposed to my gaze. My folded legs hug her hips while the heels of her feet dig into my thighs.
I wet my index finger and then draw it down, tracing the folds and swollen lips of her sex. Her eyes glitter with excitement. I take her hands that were braced against the mattress and place them on either side of her thighs. “Hold yourself.”
She does as I order. Her legs are smooth and strong. The lamplight in the room casts a warm golden glow over all the rises and enticing shadows in all the valleys.
I stroke her with that single finger, up and around her clitoris, and then down around her lips. My finger gets wetter with each pass. In my mouth, my tongue feels thick and heavy. It is hard to form words.
“I have studied different masters and their work is undeniable. But even they would have trouble translating the wonder of your body onto a canvas.”
“You are impossibly dramatic,” she chides.
“Am I? Or merely truthful.” I bend forward and pull the V of her shirt until one large, juicy tit pops out. The fabric binds her movements and displays her charms in exaggerated fashion. The hard peak waves in invitation, and I am all too happy to provide it attention. I fasten my mouth over her bud, sucking it into the hollow of my mouth, laving it with my tongue. The tip of my cock brushes against her stomach, leaving a wet trail of my excitement along her belly.
Lust seizes me, and the slow seduction I thought to deliver is swallowed by my need to be inside her.
“Kotehok,” I groan, releasing her breast. “I am desperate for you.”
Innocent though she may have been when we met, she is now a siren. Daisy sits up and removes her shirt. The motion causes her full breasts to bounce enticingly in front of me. With another swift motion, we rid her of the skirt and then we are skin to skin, flesh to flesh.
Taking myself in hand, I arrow into the hot, wet depths of her body. A groan of tremendous pleasure escapes me as I sink into the welcome embrace.
I push myself up on one arm to watch as I advance and retreat. My cock is shiny from her juice, and I shudder at the sight of her cunt swallowing every hard inch of me.
My hand traces the swell of her hip, the dip of her waist, and the high curves of her breasts. “I wish I had dozen hands and dozen mouths so that I could taste and touch every inch of your body while I fuck you.”
Her hands tremble at the base of my spine, but her hips grip me fiercely as I plunge into her time and again. Her mouth finds my shoulder, my neck. Her whimpers of pleasure slither under my skin and bake into my muscles, slide into my bloodstream until I am delirious with her delight.
I whisper my vows of devotion against her sweat-dampened skin as I pump against her. My hips spread her thighs farther apart. Some part of me recognizes I should slow down, be more gentle, but I cannot with her.
My desire runs too hot. My lust is too powerful. Between her legs is an aphrodisiac that severs my control and unleashes the animal inside. I want to throw back my head, beat my chest, and howl at the moon like a wolf who has captured its prey.
Yet I also want to lie under her warm hand, kiss her foot, and do nothing but live to protect her.
“Nikolai, my love,” she gasps, a thready, needy sound. I recognize its meaning, what she wants of me. Slipping a hand between us, I capture her clit between my fingers and pinch lightly. She rides my hand and cock fiercely until her ecstasy overtakes her and she comes apart in my arms. While she’s still quivering from her release, I pound into her, one hand braced by her head and the other latched to her hip, bringing her closer, closer, closer to me until it is I who is shouting and shaking as my come jets into her with the force of an unplugged dam.
Collapsing next to her, I murmur my love. “My heart, my Daisy, I love you. Only you. I cannot live without you.”
Tenderly she kisses me. “You won’t have to.”
Chapter 11
Daisy
My normal lunch table is empty.
I guess it’s not my “normal” lunch table, but ever since I’ve claimed Christine as a friend, it’s been our place to eat, talk, and share notes about our architecture class. Though I’ve done most of the sharing, I don’t mind. Christine is my friend, and if my giving makes her life easier, I will gladly do so. But today, she’s not here. Miserable, I wait as my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and extra banana-nut muffins go uneaten. Eventually, I trash them.
I don’t know what to do. I’m sure she’s avoiding me because of what happened at our last lunch. She’s embarrassed because she thinks I’m judging her.
I’m not. I’m judging Saul. Christine, though . . . I understand Christine. I know what it’s like to love someone but desperately hate their actions. My relationship with my father was like that until I ran away. He tried to control me, to squash down my rebellious tendencies. To hide me away from the world to keep me safe. And all the while, I plotted my escape. Christine might be plotting her own. The thought brightens my gloomy mood. If there’s a way I can help her, I will.
I start by pulling out my homework and making a copy of it. I change my writing so it looks more like Christine’s shaky hand and write her name at the top. I even change a few answers so they don’t match mine, and I feel quite proud of myself for being so sneaky.
When I get to class, I see Christine’s seat is empty. I sit in my regular one and worry until the bell rings, and the lecture begins. A moment later, Christine rushes into class and slides into her seat. My relief at her presence disappears. The bruise around her eye is nearly gone, but a fresh one circles her wrist just where her sleeve meets her hand.
As the professor comes around to pick up our homework, he extends his hand to Christine.
She gives a small, ashamed shake of her head. No homework.
My heart pangs in sympathy and I pretend to pick a paper up off the ground. “Here you go, Christine. You must have dropped this.”
Her eyes widen as she takes the paper from me, realizes what it is, and then hands it to the professor. He barely glances at it before heading down the aisle once more. I’m convinced he doesn’t actually look at our homework, just wants us to participate.
As the professor leaves, Christine gives me a shy, hesitant smile and I beam at her.
I’ve got Christine’s back.
***
That night as we do the dishes, I tell Nick about Christine’s absence.
About the new bruises on her arm. Instead of offering sympathy or solutions, he shakes his head at me.
“Stay away from her, kotehok. She is involved in trouble.”
I refuse to. “She needs a friend now more than ever.”
But the look he gives me is wary, and his eyes are old and too knowing. “Your heart is good, Daisy, but I do not know that your friend wants help. What would you do if someone tried to take you from me?”
“But that’s different,” I sputter.
My words make him smile. “Da, we are different, love. But I would kill any man or woman that tried to come between us. Perhaps this Saul feels this way about his Christine, hmm?”
I frown as I wipe my hands free of the sudsy water. I don’t like that Nick is warning me away from her. Christine needs me. I know she does. I see in her the girl I was before I ran away: trapped, miserable, and friendless.
I won’t abandon her.
***
The next time I head to the commons for lunch, Christine is at her regular spot. Cheered by her reappearance, I sit down happily and offer half my sandwich.
Christine waves it away with a weak smile. “I already ate, but thank you.”
I doubt it, but I keep smiling. “Of course.” I take a bite of my ham sandwich and choke down the dry mouthful. As I do, I pull out my notes from class and offer them to her so she can make her own copies.
She flashes me a grateful smile and I don’t even mind.
“How’s your eye?” I ask her.
Christine flinches back. “Fine.”
“Haven’t run into any more doors?” I tease gently, trying to defuse her panic.
She looks relieved and smiles at me. “Nope.”
I force myself to keep eating even as Christine works on my notes. I keep trying to think of topics to discuss and discarding them. Eventually, I settle for buttering her up. “So that was your boyfriend from the other day? Sal?”
“Saul,” she corrects, and the wary look is back in her eyes.
“He seems very protective of you,” I say. “He must love you very much.”
Her smile slowly blossoms across her face. “He is. He’s such a great guy. So smart and strong and very protective of me. He only wants the best for me.”
I want to vomit at the rapture I hear in Christine’s voice. Instead, I put down my sandwich. This is the most eloquent she’s been. “I bet. Have you two been together long?”
“Since high school. How about you and Nick?”
“Less than a year,” I tell her with a smile. “But he’s my soul.”
She nods in understanding. “Saul and I met at a game store,” she tells me. “I worked there part-time while in high school, and he used to come in and play. I’d give him a discount because he was cute, and he eventually figured it out and asked me out.” She grins.
“Is Saul a big fan of gaming, then?”
She nods and hands my homework back. “He’s majoring in programming. He’d love to do video games for a living, I think.”
“Cool,” I say, though I’m mentally noting this down. “What kinds of games?”
“Oh, I don’t know. First-person shooters?” She shrugs. “I mostly play Japanese RPGs, so we don’t play the same types.”
I don’t know anything about video games, but I get cold when she mentions “shooters.” I wonder if Nick will know much about games? He seems to know a little about everything, though he prefers to spend his time with me instead of playing video games.
Even as I think this, I worry. Nick is stressed lately, and he worries about me. His cover as Nick Anders will be compromised if he takes up his job as a hit man once more. I can’t allow that to happen. I love Nick more than I love my freedom, but I also can’t let Christine suffer.
It’s clear I’ll have to handle this on my own.
“Do you play video games?” Christine asks, interrupting my thoughts.
I shake my head. “No,” I tell her. “I’ve never tried one.”
“You should,” Christine says. “I can give you a suggestion or two if you want to play something.”
“I could come over and you could show me how to play something.”
A shadow crosses her face. “Well, I was tight on money last month and uh, I pawned my systems.”
I nod sympathetically. Maybe now is a good time to approach Nick’s suggestion. “You know,” I tell her. “Nick and I live in a big apartment building that has a lot of empty units. You’re welcome to move into one if you need help getting on your feet.”
The look in her eyes becomes soft. “You’re a good friend to offer that to us, Daisy.”
“Or just you,” I say automatically. “You could go there in case you wanted to get away from Saul.” I try to keep my tone light. “You know, just for a day or two.”
“Why would I want to leave Saul?”
I shrug. “I’m just saying. If you ever fought or something. I want you to know there’s a safe place to go.”
But she sees right through my cheeriness. The word “safe” triggers a flinch. Her expression shutters again, and she flings her books into a pile. “You know what? You don’t know anything about me, Daisy. I don’t need your help, and I don’t need protecting from my boyfriend.”
“Christine, wait.” I get to my feet, concerned at her anger. “I’m just trying to help—”
“I don’t need your help!” Her bellow of anger is surprisingly strong, considering Christine’s voice is always meek and quiet. “Just fuck off, Daisy, and leave me alone. You think you’re so perfect but you don’t know anything.”
I’m taken aback by her strong language, her attack on me. We’re friends, aren’t we? Friends don’t tell friends to fuck off. And I certainly don’t think of myself as perfect. It hurts that she thinks I’m judging her when all I want to do is help her. Protect her.
As she stalks away, I watch her beaten-up backpack bounce on her narrow shoulders. Then, I get up and gather my things, heading after her.
Nick would follow his mark. He would find out where his prey lives, find out its patterns, learn everything he could before taking action.
I can do that, too. If I follow Christine, I’ll find out where Saul is. I’ll find out where she lives, and maybe, just maybe, I can figure out how to help her.
And I can do this all without involving my sweet Nick. Because I can’t live without him, and I won’t put him in danger. Not over this.
Chapter 12
Nikolai
I follow Daisy as she follows Christine. Neither women are very aware of their surroundings. Christine’s apartment is nearly a mile from the campus, and the surroundings are shabby even though the snow covers many sins.
Still the state of disrepair is obvious. Christine hurries inside the house that appears to be cut into several apartments, while Daisy loiters on the corner. She watches for several minutes, longer than I would expect any civilian to wait in the cold. Her patience is rewarded when the lights on the top floor go on. The cold does not appear to affect Daisy. When the shouting begins, she creeps closer as if she can somehow make out what the inhabitants are saying.
If she’d come to me, I could have lent her my listening kit. Alas, that is at home in my studio. But then if she had come to me, I would have told her to not interfere. Ignoring others’ pain is one way to survive in this world. But Daisy’s heart is too big. She cannot ignore the injustice and . . . this is part of her loveliness. I can but watch and protect.
My need to smooth her path, erase any ugliness in her life, threatens to overwhelm me, but I beat it back. When her father held her hostage for so many years, she grew to resent restraint.
More than anything, I know she will run from me if my bonds are too tight. The struggle between my innate desires and what I understand to be appropriate behavior is difficult, but I will prevail, for to lose Daisy would render life meaningless.
The words on my chest burn.
The exchange between the occupants of the top floor floa
ts down to the ground in indistinguishable sound clips. It is impossible to decipher what they are saying, only that there is anger and unhappiness filling the air. Daisy stares and shivers. I start toward her, her discomfort strafing my stomach. While I could withstand the cold for hours, seeing Daisy shiver even once is agonizing.
But before I reach the corner, she turns away and moves in the direction of our apartment building. I drop back so she does not see me. We walk to our home, her about a hundred yards in front of me.
Because I am always watching, I see the man from the shooting range leaning against his dark car. He steps toward Daisy, and my hand reaches inside my jacket, molding around the gun handle.
She whips inside our building before he can reach her. Sprinting forward, I catch him by the arm before he can follow her inside.
“Why are you here?” I demand.
He turns his dark visage on me and with no small disdain says my name. “Nick Anders.”
“Yes.”
Shaking me off, he steps back out of the light of the doorway. I follow him, pushing him toward the side of the building. The building sits on a quiet street. There are other students housed here but also young families. I do not know if I can kill this man without being seen, but he represents a threat. My instincts tell me he is dangerous, and I have survived this long only by being cautious.
“I did a search on you. In fact, I called Erie County in New York City to see if the records department had a copy of your birth certificate. The only Nick Anders that they knew of had died in 1944 from paralytic polio. He fit your description, though. A Russian immigrant with dark brown hair, about six feet tall. Strange isn’t it?”
“No,” I manage to answer evenly. I try to keep my responses short because Daisy has informed me my accent becomes more prominent when I am . . . tense. “Many immigrants from Russia can be found all around the States.”
“I checked out your girlfriend, Daisy Miller. Her mother was killed years ago by a junkie who was released on parole after only serving a few years. Her dad didn’t take it well. The folks in her town say he locked her away, afraid that he’d lose her as well. He became a recluse until the junkie is shot in the head. Then he up and moves out of his fortress and into the city, in this very building.” He ticks off each incriminating fact and watches me carefully for a response.
Last Hit: Reloaded Page 9
