The Man of My Dreams (From Russia With Love Story Series)

by Kiera Zane

  “Love doesn’t have to end in pain,” I say, not sure if I believe it myself. But I think back to my own parents, how they clung to each other for strength after my departure, keeping each other alive in the face of insufferable sorrow.

  Then I believe it, taking his right hand in mine and raising it to kiss his knuckles, very gently.

  When we get to the hotel, I suggest he let me go in and get the room. “You’re a U.S. senator,” I remind him. “And we want to stay out of sight, remember?”

  A few minutes later, he’s surprised that I’ve only gotten us one room. “How can you protect me if I’m in another room?” I ask my eyes wide and innocent, my lips pouting and vulnerable.

  We retire to our room.

  The room is dark, but it is the thickness of the sexual tension that surrounds us as much as the darkness. Neither of us reaches for the light.

  We are the light.

  We stand in the stillness of our pent-up attraction, every little movement amplified. I can sense his body near to mine; feel his warmth, the tiny sounds of his clothes as they shift on his tall, muscular frame echoing in my ears. I can smell him, cologne and concern in a heady brew.

  He is only inches from me, moving as if in slow motion. We both are near to stillness as the moment stretches out ahead of us, the certainty of our eventual union rolling up upon us like a giant wave, pulling back the sea to gather its forces for an irresistible blow.

  The wave breaks, kicking up foamy flecks of passion as Jon and I fall into each other’s arms. Our lips meet, tongues passionate and determined, pushing against one another in a twisting, wet whirlwind. His breath is hot against my face as we kiss, noses pressing against each other, chins caressing, checks and foreheads rubbing in a sensual celebration of their long-awaited embrace.

  My blonde hair falls over my face to hang between us, stalks of silk that do nothing to separate us; in fact they do much more to bring us together.

  His hands are strong as they follow the curves of my body; the smooth arc of my hips leading upward to my narrow waist and then, higher still. My heart beats faster as his fingers find the bottoms of my breasts; tips gently tracing the supple curves, the outer rims, the firmness and fullness.

  And my body speaks to his hands, answering their queries, rewarding their explorations. My nipples rise to meet his fingertips, lungs churning faster to push more impassioned air into my steadily-increasing sighs. My hands rest on his strong forearms, then push their own way up, to his thick biceps and broad, sculpted shoulders. My fingers wrap around the lapel of his jacket, pushing the garment back over those massive shoulders and down to fall to the floor behind him.

  His necktie is already loosened and is soon removed, the buttons of his dress shirt holding on for dear life as I peel the white cotton away from his firm, hairless chest.

  We kiss again, tongues even more engaged, inspired by greater urgency and commitment. He pulls my dress up over my head, the air suddenly cool on my breasts as I undo my bra and toss it aside.

  We fall onto the bed.

  He kisses his way down my neck, goosebumps rising along the backs of my arms and around my nipples, my chest heaving as my breath becomes deeper, stronger, harder. My body quivers with anticipation, blood pounding, juices stirring until they are spilling over, soaking my panties until Jon pulls them down my legs, freeing me.

  Freeing us both.

  My muscles are stretching and quivering as he looms above me, my own heat rising up to match with his and swirl around us in a sensual cloud. I know without being able to see that he’s as ready as I am. No need to reach down and measure his enthusiasm; my body can rate his desire much more precisely with a different tool all together.

  And that organ registers his pleasure to the most minute degree, my hips shifting slightly as I open up around him. He’s not too fast, a long and gentle stroke introducing his body to mine with confidence and control, a low hum ringing up through my body to prepare it for the onslaught to come.

  My body closes around him, pressing with equal pressure from every angle upon that long, muscular unit. It rubs against my tender tissues, tickling and taunting me beyond the mere area of contact to send ripples of pleasure coursing through me. My skin becomes dewy, my heart begins to pound faster. He seems weightless above me, hovering upon his own strong arms and staring down at me like a warrior, a conqueror; determined, indomitable.

  His hips start to grind faster and mine match his pace, my toes curling, fingers clutching the bed sheets and pulling them into tangled mounds. My breath presses faster through my gritted teeth, lips pulled up in a scorching sneer. He plunges deeper into me, organs feeling like they’re being pushed aside. He is fearless in his exploration, knowing every crevice and cranny with intimacy and assurance. It feels as if he’s been in me before, an odd and impossible familiarity.

  I flash back on the night I was asleep, and thought this might have happened.

  Could it have?

  No.

  This is something I’ve never felt; not the clumsy intrusion of the young and angry and desperately hungry, or the old and jaded and sadistic. This is the meeting of wanting and desire, of giving and receiving, a balance of energy that pours from one into the other and then back again in a churning tide of sinew and flesh and body and soul.

  But I can’t think anymore. The passion of the moment floods my brain, drowning my thoughts in a hot tide of salty brine.

  He pushes my left leg higher, my knee pressing against my breast, foot rolling useless at the end of my taught calf, hovering between us. Faster now, he drives me to new heights, muscles pulled tightly along my back, my heart pounding behind my ribcage, breasts heaving as I start to moan. At first a long, low whimper; it grows quickly into a stuttered, muttered roar. Louder now, as I shake my head, hair flying around me;

  I’m calling to him as if we were miles away, even as he is as close to me as a person can possibly be, physically or otherwise.

  His hips begin a circular motion, a rhythmic rotation to match the pace of his forward thrusts. One of his hands finds my left breast, squeezing it, nipple hard between his fingers before he lowers his face to it. He takes it into his warm mouth, tongue rolling and flicking to add a tingling sensation above to underscore the pounding thunder below.

  I press my head back into the pillow, my body writhing now of its own accord, reacting to the pull and twist of the muscles along my torso and down my legs. I jut and twitch, buck and bob beneath Jon’s mastery, his body in complete control of us both.

  The bed shakes beneath us, the speed of our mutual thrusts increasing to an unseen blur. My juices froth and bubble, my stomach quivering, my whole body starting to shake. Blood pounds in my veins, which feel like they’re going to burst. Hairs stand up on the backs of my arms as my spine arches beneath me, twisting my body in a reflexive dance. The energy pours into me and out of me, filling me and draining me: Pound, twist, shake; pound, twist, shake.

  He starts to growl as he pulls up from my breast, looking at me like a hungry animal, preparing to devour me; to eat me alive. He leans closer, kissing my neck slowly even as his hips gyrate wildly, like he’s two different people, and the sensation is more than my body or my brain can handle.

  My orgasm builds slowly, rumbling in the unseen darkness of my molten loins. My body is fixated on that amazing muscle; wrapped around it, my pink fist squeezing with all its might to hold onto that slick rope, never wanting to let go.

  My body starts to shake as my juices burst up with a force I’ve never known, my muscles pulling tight to the point of rupture, tendons straining to cling to the bone. My eyes clamp shut, teeth clenched so tightly I’m afraid my teeth are going to shatter. My hearing goes dull, a muted hum as my orgasm rips through me, from my center outward and then back again.

  I can feel Jon climaxing too, his body stiffening above me; face red, breath quick, musk rising around us as our senses refocused on ourselves, each other, the moment of our ecstasy sputtering past
its peak and unwinding slowly as we pass together over the summit.

  Our breathing returns slowly to normal, my blood seeming to flow just a bit slower in my veins. My body tucks and pulls in little spasms as his seems to loosen, a relieved sigh spilling out as he looks down at me, a smile breaking across his face.

  I look up at him, our eyes deep in a wordless exchange, neither willing to break the new bond between us. Neither speaks because there’s nothing that needs to be said. There’s too much to say to put into mere words.

  He rolls over slowly and we disengage, my body cramped and exhausted, still in the trembling afterglow of our heated exchange. I lay my head on his expansive chest, one hand lazily stroking his nipple.

  The next morning is a flurry of phone calls for Jon. I know I should contact Dragunov, he could be thinking any number of wild things might be going on. But I need to get to the pay phone in the lobby, and slipping out just isn’t that easy. I try once and it turns into us both having breakfast. I don’t dare try to combine the phone call with a bathroom visit for fear of getting caught. I need Jon at least one flight of stairs away when I call Dragunov.

  And there is much to be learned in the meantime. Jon says, “No, Dan, I’m fine... She’s with me... ”

  Jon works the whole thing like a master. And, I have to admit, so do I.

  The television reports a mob shootout with evidence found at the scene, the dead body of a low-level mafia grunt.

  Dragunov, I think to myself. I didn’t mean that kind of evidence.

  But that’s Dragunov, and Sobchak and the whole KGB; ruthless and deadly, willing to end a life for the mere convenience of it.

  No mention is made of the senator’s involvement in the shooting at all, and as far as everyone at the office know he’s just grabbing a little time away to clear his head.

  My only concern now is Dragunov. How upset is he? Did he get anything he can use on Jon? Was he shot or even killed?

  That would be too much to ask for, but I also know it won’t matter. There’s always going to be another to take his place, one who could be even worse and more dangerous still.

  I wait until Jon is on the phone again, this time with Deloris, contriving a statement on the recent gangland violence threatening the city. I say, “I’m going down to the gift shop for a pack of gum.”

  Jon looks over. “Hold on, I’ll go with you.”

  “Oh come on, it’s just a pack of gum. I’ll be back in five minutes. Want anything?”

  Jon considers it, and I can hear Deloris’ voice on the other end of the phone. He looks at me and says, “No, I’m fine. Thanks. Hurry back.”

  I nod and exit as he turns his attention back to the phone.

  I use the pay phone in the lobby to call Dragunov’s local phone number. He answers and I say, “Dmitry, it’s me.”

  “Well, well, if it isn’t Aleksandra Capone.”

  “I’m glad you’re all right, brother.” I allow myself an accusatory tone when I add, “I saw that you ... covered your tracks.”

  “In your service, sister. Our papa would like a word with you about it, in fact. He’s quite distraught.”

  “I warned you it could go that way. Didn’t you get anything of value first? Photographs, surely.”

  “Only from the back, nothing conclusive. Nothing was said of any value either. Where are you now, sister? Let me come and take you home.”

  I know what he means by that, the deadly subtext. And my own life is not the only one at stake.

  I say, “I’ll be home soon enough. And I look forward to telling Papa that I did as I was supposed to do, but that you were the one who failed to collect the hard evidence we needed. It is you who failed the family, brother, not I.”

  I know as soon as it is too late that this is an unwise strategy. It only pits Dragunov against me, the most likely scapegoat to bear the brunt of his failure. When the phone clicks and the buzz returns, I’m filled with dread; my blood running hot, skin tingling.

  I walk past the gift shop, stopping and doubling back for the pack of gum. I’m in a daze as I buy it, mind flashing with grim images of gunfire, the imagined face of Dragunov as he looms above me, choking me to death to protect his own miserable life.

  I see other images; buildings burning, prison doors slamming shut. My own momma and papa stand over a grave, heads low over their stooped shoulders.

  My grave?

  I can’t make it out. The agony of this curse of mine, this so-called gift, is the uncertainty, the lack of clarity. I know something is happening, or will happen, but I never seem to have enough information to be able to stop it.

  On the way back from the store I hear somebody say, “See? A body like that!”

  I stop and turn. There is an open bar in the lobby, where five people sit around a table; three women and two men, all in their early twenties. One of the women, a redhead, reaches out and shakes her head. “I didn’t mean to offend you, honey, I was just saying I wish I had a body like yours.”

  I give it a little thought. “I guess it’d be pretty hard to be offended by that.”

  One of the men stands; he’s tall, young and fairly good-looking, with a preppy haircut and dimples. He extends his hand and says, “Robert. Have a drink with us, so we know you’re not put-off.”

  I check my watch. “At eleven in the morning?”

  They all look at each other. One of the other women, a pretty brunette, says, “We’re on vacation.”

  The other man, chubby and smiling, says, “Hey, it must be five o’clock somewhere!”

  They all chuckle, Robert coaxing me toward their table.

  Who are these people? Are they really just guests of the hotel? Odd that they’d approach me, of all people. My body’s not so much greater than the redhead’s, not such that she’d make that big a deal about it.

  Flattery, I recall, one of the basic and most potent mind control methods. Could these people be KGB operatives? American spies, maybe? They could have been following me for weeks.

  I decide to take him up the invitation. If they are KGB, I might be able to figure that out if I talk with them for a while – a slip of the tongue, a slight accent undetectable to Americans. If they’re Americans, well, I’m the rival of any young spy. I can handle this. And if they’re just chatty tourists as they appear, then what’s the harm? There might be some worthwhile information to extract from them, and it could be fun. I have never had the experience of just hanging out and having American type fun when I was drinking to excess. This might be a new feeling.

  I order a Bloody Mary, tangy and spicy and peppery on my tongue. I need alcohol to loosen up always. Without it, I am shy. Go figure. I can seduce a man, but put me in a group, and I need a drink to start talking. Robert introduces his friends as Maggie (the redhead), Joanne (the brunette), Sally (the other woman, a chubby blonde) and Mike (the skinny one). They’re all very pleasant and chatty and claim to be from Harvard University in Cambridge, away for the weekend.

  “Wait ‘til President Kennedy gets going,” Mike says. “you’ll be seeing some big changes.” They love their President. Idolize him almost. It is an odd feeling that they look up to their president and revere him without coercion.

  Maggie waves him off, taking a sip of her margarita. “Who cares about politics? Did you see West Side Story? Amazing! I’ll bet it wins all those awards this year.” The fact that they don’t want to talk about politics is refreshing. They are my age, and they don’t care about anything too serious.

  “Those awards are meaningless,” Robert says. “That’s just a way to increase everybody’s salaries. Anyway, best movie this year is The Apartment.”

  Joanne turns to me. “What about you, Lexy? You a movie buff?” I have seen neither movie. In actuality, I have never been to the movies, so I can’t really tell you if I like them or not. Entertainment wasn’t a big part of my KGB training to come here and be a spy.

  I shake my head. “I guess music is a bit more my thing.”

&n
bsp; “Who do you like?” Robert asks.

  “Um, I think Patsy Cline is great. I Fall To Pieces...” I had heard this song on the ride up to Connecticut, realizing how out of touch I was with simple things. Too much focus on something isn’t the best thing either. I pray they don’t ask me for any other song by Cline.

  “That is good,” Maggie says. “I think she’s gonna be around a long, long time.”

  I can’t make these people out. If they’re KGB, they’re very good. If not, they’re very dull.

  Robert says to me, “I don’t see a ring on that finger. Are you here with somebody special?”

  Wait a minute, there may just be something going on here after all. How much should I disclose? Are they just clarifying who I am so they can carry out the hit on the senator, probably me as well? Or are they going to kidnap me, as the senator has been concerned might happen all along?

  I say, “No, um, it’s just me for the weekend. I’m... getting away from the big city for a while. I go to school in Boston.”

  “Really, B.U.?”

  “You guessed it, Maggie.”

  Robert says, “You’re just across the Charles. We should get together sometime. I’d love to show you around the campus.” He smiles at me, sexy and confident.

  Family must be rich. He hasn’t lived long enough to have that much confidence in himself alone. I smile at him, not wanting to encourage him, but not wanting to brush him off entirely. I want to leave him guessing about his status.

  He says, “Y’know, it’s not the 1950s anymore, this is 1961! We’re in the modern era now. It’s time to start casting aside the old taboos, wouldn’t you say?”

  I’m not sure where this is going, but one look at the women’s blushing faces gives me a fairly good indication. Okay, does every American male only want sex? This would be boring if it wasn’t laughable. I didn’t want to have sex with him, and clearly he is telegraphing his available status.

  I say, “Is that why you all came here, for an orgy?” They sit, shocked by my frankness, and then burst out laughing. They share knowing glances, nod and shake their heads, chuckling and shrugging. But they don’t deny it. And I don’t have much more time to pursue it anyway.