by Holly Hart
"What's your name?"
5
Ellie
I jerked back as if I'd been stung.
In a sense I had. This man, my unexpected savior, radiated a sense of danger like nothing I'd ever experienced before. My heart rate skyrocketed. It was hard to believe that the over worked muscle could find ever higher heights to climb after what I'd just seen and experienced, but it surprised me. I stuck out my hand, because it seemed that was what my mysterious rescuer wanted, but I was lost for words. Luckily, he stepped in so I didn't have to.
"Roman," he smiled, sticking out his arm and enveloping my trembling fingers in a hand that seemed to have been chiseled out of smooth marble, a hand which was strong and unyielding without feeling in the slightest bit hard or calloused. "Pleased to meet you."
I choked, and my hand would have trembled if it wasn't for the stranger – Roman's – unhesitating support. A chill sped around my body as the adrenaline began to drain from my system.
For all the good it did me…
I didn't recognize the girl I'd become over the past couple of years, after all my carefully molded self-confidence and assurance had been chipped away by Rick's unending, humiliating assaults. Don't think about him, I chided myself. I forced myself to pull my chest up, and meet my rescuer's gaze firmly by reminding myself that the woman who had exposed the deputy mayor's corrupt office for what it was just a year before was still in there somewhere.
"Ellie," I said softly. The man's eyes still had the fevered, fierce glint of Viking bloodlust in them. While I didn't for a moment expect that he would do anything to hurt me – I didn't know how I knew it, but somehow I did – it was still unsettling. He held my hand firmly, and the warmth seemed to hug me tight, battling against the adrenaline-induced chill that was threatening to have me start shivering. From behind Roman's massive, and unnaturally toned bulk, I heard a desperate moaning sound. "Uh, shouldn't…"
Roman anticipated my question precisely. "Shouldn't we do something?" He asked, with a smile that at once seemed entirely at home, but also completely alien on his scarred face. "Those two gentlemen," he said politely, but raising his voice so that the entire bar could hear him. "Were just leaving."
I looked around him, staring at the two wounded men on the floor, and then my eyes flickered to the bartender. This time I really did start shivering. My knees felt as though they were about to give way. I wasn't the kind of girl who got in fights. I was a reporter, for God's sake! What I was even doing in Jefferson, one of Alexandria's darkest, grittiest suburbs in the first place was a good question. Roman must have seen something on my face, a tell, a giveaway, because no matter how well I thought I was hiding my distress, he picked up on it in an instant. "Are you doing okay?" He asked with concern. "Here," he said, whistling to get the bartender's attention. He needn't have. Like everyone else, the man was staring at the pair of us in stunned amazement. In the background, a scraping, moaning sound briefly disrupted the bar as my two injured would be assailants dragged their broken, damaged bodies out of the bar, barely functional limbs dragging across the wooden floor.
"Hey, man. I don't want no trouble," the barkeep said. "Like I said, ain't no fighting in this bar. I'm running a respectable establishment, you dig? I'm gonna need you to –."
"The only thing I dig," Roman said threateningly, cutting the man's delayed bravado off with a single, irresistible growl. "Is that if you don't get this lady," he placed his hand on my lower back apologetically, and I shivered with… something. "I mean, Ellie a drink, then you're going to have bigger problems to deal with than scraping a little bit of blood off the floor." The bartender's face went white, completely devoid of color, or blood, as he took in Roman's words. He physically shrank back, clearing his throat apologetically before he finally mustered the courage to say something.
"You got it, boss."
Roman turned to me with a smile. I marveled at the way he could change his spots like a chameleon, appearing for all the world as if he was happy to bring the power of God down on those who threatened him one second, and treating me like I was a fragile eggshell the next.
"What will you have?" He said courteously, and I appreciated the way he asked me what I wanted first. Not a lot of men in my life ever did, but I loved it. Too many men seem to think chivalry is bossing their women around, ordering for them at restaurants and bars. It’s not. It’s understanding what your woman wants, and providing it.
You really do know how to pick them, I giggled to myself, letting a smile break upon my face like the morning sun appearing on the horizon. Either it's a man who can't keep himself from laying his hands on you for all the wrong reasons, or a guy like this.
Roman replied with a shy little smile as he saw mine, and I turned away from him instinctively, my cheeks going red with embarrassment. I was just glad that he couldn't hear what I was thinking. "A bourbon," I said, before changing my mind. "A strong one," I clarified.
"Make that two," Roman growled to the bartender. "On the house."
The man never once looked like complaining, and I found my mysterious savior's unhesitating use of his undoubted power over other men strangely exciting. I'd spent my whole working life as a reporter campaigning against powerful men, corruption and Alexandria's criminal elements, and the man now carrying our drinks to his dark corner table fit at least two of those three criteria. Yet I followed him without so much as a word of complaint, drawn in by a sense of calm confidence that seemed to radiate outward from the man wherever he went. The ice tinkled against the walls of the two dark amber glasses of bourbon as he set them down on a chipped and stained bar table. I followed his lead and sat down, my heart beating at a thousand beats a minute, as if I'd just finished up competing in the Olympics.
The first words that escaped his mouth were, "I'm sorry."
I cocked my head with surprise, and had to concentrate to make sure I heard him right. What's he got to apologize for? I wondered. After all, he'd just saved my life. Or at least, I was sure, my dignity and probably much, much more. My tongue felt dry with nervous tension, and I took a long, deep gulp of the cold yet burning hot whiskey in order to wet it, and to center myself.
"What," I finally choked out, "for?"
As he began his stilting, hesitant reply, I began to study the man more carefully. I wouldn't put money on it, but he sounded as though he had the slightest, faintest hint of a long-forgotten Russian accent. That, and his name, made me think bratva, but that didn't make sense. Why the hell would be Russian mob be interested in saving me? From what little I knew about them, at least in the last few years since the terrifying Antonov family had come to power and the truce with the police had broken down, they were the kind of guys who were far more likely to murder first and ask questions later.
I began to catalog what I knew about him. He stood easily over six foot with room to spare, and had hands that radiated a composed yet boundless strength. He wasn't GQ magazine pretty, but instead looked rugged and tough. His face was lightly scarred, and his eyes, a wolfish gray, flickered about the bar, endlessly searching for threats. But when they fixated on me, I felt like there was no one else in the room.
"I should have stepped in sooner," he said, his face wreathed in what seemed to be an entirely heartfelt guilt. "I watched it all happen, but –."
I'd already reached over the table for his hand before my brain registered what I was doing, feeling a boldness coursing through me that I hadn't felt in years. Rick had always hated public displays of affection… I checked myself before I let that negative train of thought developed any further.
Don't think about him.
Roman's hand was warm, and the second I touched it a shiver of excitement traveled the length of my spine. I knew that I wanted to reassure him. It was the least that I could do after all he'd done for me. But for a long couple of seconds my throat was choked up. It had been a long time since anyone had cared about me like this. I also found his quiet reticence strangely endearing – he
seemed to stumble over words now, whereas before, in the heat of the moment, he had acted in an imperial, commanding manner. I began to suspect that perhaps he often didn’t do much talking, like he was more comfortable in the physical world, of bravery and actions and deeds, and didn't find himself at home elsewhere. "You don't need to apologize for anything," I said, and I meant it.
I drank him in, the sight of him, and perhaps more importantly, the smell. You hear a lot about love at first sight, and there was some of that, but with Roman, he just smelt right. He smelled as though he was already a part of me, as though I was a jigsaw puzzle and he was the last, elusive piece. I drained my glass, feeling the heat of the whiskey burning through my body. I fought back the urge to scrunch up my face at the burn, feeling a desperate urge to impress him. Hell, who was I kidding, I wanted to do a whole lot more than just impress him.
His upper lip trembled, as though he was searching for the right word to say, and then stopped. It happened again, and I was about to say something when he squeezed my hand. It felt as though an unspoken message had been communicated between us,
"You want to get out of here?" I asked. I scrunched my eyes, surprised at how much I wanted him to say yes. I'd only known the man for what, a matter of minutes, and yet he already felt like the most important man I'd ever met. Perhaps it was just a rebound thing, something to do with my emotional vulnerability after Rick's latest act of violence, just something I needed to get out of my system, but it didn't feel like that. It felt real.
He blinked with surprise, and tensed up, as if he was scared that I was asking him a trick question. "You mean?" He said hesitantly, his icy gray eyes large with hope.
It wasn't a question, and judging by the look of him, it wasn't that Roman thought I was inviting him to bed, either. Though I was, even if I didn't know it yet. I stood up, my decision made for me, perhaps sped along by the alcohol that was rushing around my system.
Every single person that was left in the bar suddenly looked down into their drinks. I blinked automatically, then flushed with an emotion that wasn't quite embarrassment, and wasn't quite pride, but somewhere in the middle. "Yeah," I said. "Look at this place; it was a wreck before you started chucking bodies around. It's not exactly the kind of place a girl imagines her first date with a handsome hero, you know?
This time it was his turn to flush red with embarrassment. And maybe a little bit of pride, too.
He looked at the broken lamp, and a room that looked like a hurricane had passed through it and spared nothing with a questioning glance, and then thought better of it. Perhaps he thought that I was a crazy lady, or maybe he just didn't want to look lady luck in the eye. Either way, my coat was just the next thing that ended up on the floor.
"Are you sure?" He asked, his voice soft with concern.
My fingers flexed around his automatically, and I trembled with warmth, wondering just how he could be so soft and cuddly in here, yet so frightening to my tormentors out there.
"Yes," I answered honestly. "You know what, I do." And then I silenced him with a kiss, and it was the kind of kiss that you never forget. His lips were warm, and they transformed in seconds from soft and hesitant to hard and hungry, pressed up against mine with a smoldering force.
My top joined my coat, and then my skirt too, and then I protested at the unfairness of it all, and his shirt joined mine on the floor. I tugged him toward the nearest couch by his belt, and he watched me the whole time with icy gray eyes that were hot with lust. I shivered, feeling an unfamiliar emotion swell through my body, a combination of desire, and the warmth of being desired. Oh, I'd had sex, but I hadn't felt anything, enjoyed anything, not in a long time. I fumbled with the belt, fingers crawling across the smooth, worn brown leather and the hard metallic buckle, and finally managed to tear it open. Roman pushed me back down on the couch, and I fell and landed softly on my back. It knocked the wind gently from my lungs, but before I could take a breath, Roman pushed his lips up against mine once more, holding himself up with one hand and unbuttoning his fly with the other.
I raked his back with my hands, and broke away from the kiss for less than a second to take a deep, restorative breath.
And then he was on me, kissing, touching, probing. My underwear, plain – I definitely hadn't expected anything like this to happen, ended up on the floor, and so did his, and his cock hung proudly between us, at attention and resting gently on my belly. It was hot, raging with fire and a promise of so much more, and I couldn't wait to touch it.
I grasped it with my hands and he sighed with desire, his eyes closed. I wanted to do it again, and again, I wanted to feel loved and wanted, but most of all – appreciated. Roman had already made me feel cared for in a way that I hadn't for a long time, too long.
And then he was inside me, gently at first, and tenderly as he pushed his full, thick length as far as it would go.
I gasped as he filled me up, and "Roman," escaped my lips in a hiss of pleasure. He held my arms down, and I wiggled with frustration. I wanted to reach up and pull his head down onto mine, but he lowered his lips as though we had some kind of telepathic connection. I kissed him as though the world was ending, at the same time as the heat of his cock filled me up from inside and he began to thrust. I was wet, perhaps as wet as I'd ever been, and I couldn't do anything with my hands, so I began to thrust with my hips, joining him in the middle as slivers of fire began to emanate from my pussy.
I didn't know what was hotter now, his cock or the slit between my legs, because it all seemed to melt into one single, perfect whole. And then he collapsed on his elbows, still thrusting, but this time deeper as the angle changed, and my hands were free, and I grabbed his toned, hard ass and pulled him into me. And then I felt his heat explode inside me, and stars fill the horizon, and every nerve on my entire body explode with pain, and my skin begin to burn with the perfect heat of lust.
It happened so fast, and perhaps I was drunk on the unfamiliar alcohol, and lust, and the simple warmth of being wanted again, but I forgot one thing.
Protection.
6
Ellie
Ten weeks later.
"Investigative journalism's dying, Ellie," my boss, Mark sighed, taking off his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. He was the editor, and I didn't relish his job. He was right, in a way. Newspaper rooms across America were shrinking, contracting and letting good reporters go. The Internet was killing good journalism, and it was happening fast, and every day. "The Herald just doesn't have the money to pay for this stuff anymore."
I replied hotly, the only way I knew how. It wasn't just my job that was threatened, I could handle that – it was way more important than that. If the Herald didn't cover the corruption in this town, then no one would, and Alexandria would just sink ever deeper, ever quicker into the mire of corruption and violence that it had been stuck in for almost half a decade. "Oh yeah? If that's the case, why do we break sales records every time one of my articles is on the front cover, Mark?"
It was a good question, but I already knew the answer, and so did Mark. I was fighting a losing battle. I had no doubt that our little department was going to be hit by the next round of departmental budget cuts, whether it happened today, next week or next year, it was only a matter of time.
"Sure, we sell another ten thousand copies, Ellie. But you only write one a month. What are we supposed –."
"I only write one a month because that's what it takes, Mark. I could write thirty articles about cats stuck up trees, but who wants that? Good writing takes time, and good research takes longer. This piece about Victor Antonov, it's solid gold." The second I mentioned Victor's name, Mark shrank back, like a caveman coming across a forest fire for the first time. He was a pro, and he hid it in seconds, but I filed it away.
"All I'm saying, Ellie, is maybe you should write a few interest pieces, just for a while. I'm not saying you need to write about firemen and cats, you know? But give me something I can go to the board with,
because otherwise…" He trailed off, but what he didn't say was almost as important as what he had. It was a threat, that much was plain as day. My job was on the line, but everything was so shrouded in shades of gray that I wasn't sure why. I had no doubt that the Herald's board was thinking about cutting back the investigative journalism team, but still, something felt off about this..
I held my thumb and forefinger up half an inch from each other, most trembling with rage. "I'm this close, Mark, to bringing this bastard down.
I span around on my heel and began marching righteously out of the office. I knew that Mark wouldn't take offense; we'd had far worse slanging matches before, which was any good editor's job. Hell, if he wasn't having stand-up fights with his reporters on at least a weekly basis, then he was doing something wrong – and so were they. Still, something about this wasn't sitting right with me. I had the same nagging sense that there was more to this them was being said, like an iceberg that kept 90% of its enormous bulk under the surface of the water, that I got when tracking down a lead for a story.
My editor's parting rejoinder followed me out and into the corridor, but it came in a nervous, reedy tone of voice that I wasn't used to associating with Mark. "The Antonov's are a powerful family in this town, Ellie. Just be careful, okay?"
"Alright," I hissed as I left, just quietly enough to kid myself that he might not have heard, and take that tiny victory, but just loudly enough for him to – in all likelihood – have picked up every word.
I just didn't know how soon his warning would be tested.
I paced up and down our tiny little office as my colleague and, I wasn't afraid to admit it, my friend Tilly watched with concern. "Maybe you should sit –." She began, but I wasn't hearing any of it.
"He's hiding something, Tilly," I hissed, as venomously as a hunting snake. "I don't know what it is, or what's going on, but he's not telling me the truth, I know that much for damn sure."
