I have never felt such a heady rush as when Naomi said more. She is not confident enough in her own body, though, or her own orgasms to understand that pain is just a prelude to greater pleasure. But if she did . . . and she could relay that to me . . . I groan aloud as my whole body stiffens with what could be between us. She would have no boundaries and no barriers. No shame.
What would it be like to have sex with a woman wherein there was no shame? I can almost hear her saying Lick me with your tongue. Touch me with your fingers. Press them in harder. Bite me. Fuck me. Love me.
Love me? I do not know where that thought comes from, but it is dangerous. Love is a tender emotion, and Vasily Petrovich does not know tenderness. He knows reward and punishment. Tenderness has no place in my life.
I pull my fingers out, gritting my teeth against her soft moan and her luxurious skin so slick with her arousal that the movement makes an audible sound. A sex sound. A sound that makes my cock hunger for her. With immense effort, I throw myself backward away from her magnetic pull.
But I cannot stop staring at her glorious sex. Her folds are rosy, swollen with the blood of her recent arousal. She is coated with her come, and my mouth aches to taste her. I lick my lips and imagine the tang of her sex on my tongue. This is a visual that will haunt me. When I close my eyes, I will see her face as she comes, hear her sexual moans, feel the tight clench of her cunt around my fingers.
“That was good, then?” I choke out in a hoarse voice.
“Yes. It was good. I mean although good is not an accurate term.”
I can feel my face fall as she speaks. “Not good? I felt your body explode in my arms. Your eyes rolled backward and your entire frame shuddered with ecstasy.”
“Shuddered with ecstasy . . . that’s accurate. I agree with that description. Explode, however would not be correct. That would describe me breaking apart into little pieces . . . although I suppose it could be described euphemistically as such because obviously I am still in one piece. But at the end there, when I told you to stop and you refused and kept thrumming your thumb against me . . . It was your thumb, right?” She barely waits for my nod of agreement. “When you were wiggling your thumb against me, it did feel like I was losing control so I guess, all things considered, I’d accept ‘explode in your arms’ as an acceptable description.”
She blinks up at me expectantly. “Can we do it again or do your fingers need to recover?”
I force my hands to curl into fists so I do not fall between her legs and beg to touch her. I need distance from her so I lie. “Yes, my fingers need to recover.”
“I thought so.” She pulls her legs up and curls into a small ball. “They were working very fast. I suppose they are sore, although I never thought fingers could get sore but they are made of muscles, bones, and tendons and therefore would suffer from the same symptoms as other parts of the body.”
Her words are running together as she sleepily continues on about body parts and fatigue rates. After a quick wash of my hands, I throw a blanket over her and settle into a captain’s chair close to the exit door, unnecessarily buckling my belt as if this thin band of fabric and quick-release metal could somehow prevent me from throwing myself at Naomi.
Swiveling so my back is to her, I drag a hand over my face. Where are my objectives? The plan was to obtain the Emperor, find the Madonna, return home and wield absolute power over the Petrovich Bratva, and bring my sister home. Dostonev’s request for the Madonna could be satisfied after I had the backing of the council. Upon finding Naomi, my entire plan has been derailed.
My ears strain to hear her behind me and it is not until her breath evens and slows into the telltale signs of slumber that I allow myself to relax. Slowly I uncurl my fingers from the armrest. Dully I register the marks in the cream leather. The seat will need repairing. I make a mental note of it.
One by one I go through a checklist of items that need to be addressed upon landing. First a call to Bratva headquarters. I will need to see the last time Aleksei checked in and with whom he spoke. Which members of the leadership could be trusted? Briefly I mourned the loss of Aleksei. He was a good soldier, capable of taking an order and executing it without a great deal of oversight.
Perhaps I will draw on Thomas for advice, pretend that he is a confidante. I do not trust him but I can make him believe that I find him valuable. That might be sufficient to elicit enough loyalty to hold the Bratva together while I’m on this little errand.
My sister will need to be called as well. Dostonev’s men guard her and I have allowed myself only minimal contact with her over the years. Those men do not know whom they guard, only that they are paid handsomely to protect one slight girl. She is a woman, I correct myself. Katya does not like to be referred to as a girl, but a girl is all I remember. She was a slip of a girl when I sent her away, when I pretended to kill her so that Elena Petrovich could not whore her out or use her against me.
When I refused to allow Katya to be gifted to a man when she was twelve, I made it obvious where my vulnerabilities were and that either Katya would be killed as punishment for our rebellion or vilely used. I volunteered to kill her myself, and at age seventeen earned a notorious reputation. Another woman might have suspected a trick but Elena was pleased with my willingness to kill, believing that sex is preferable to death. After all, I had chosen that route myself. Sex over death. But not for Katya. I chose to subject myself to Elena for Katya, not so she would have to suffer the same at others hands.
I burned her and brought her ashes back to Elena’s trophy case. I recorded it all so Elena would know it was real. With one action, I cemented myself as a loyalist, willing to do anything for Elena, for the Bratva. Others were disgusted by my actions but it engendered real fear, for I was Vasily Petrovich, a man so amoral he could kill his own sister.
—
But none of it was real. I went to Dostonev and promised anything. He delivered me a magician and through the literal use of smoke and mirrors, we faked Katya’s death. She lives in hiding now, waiting until I can free her. The Madonna must be acquired. Debts must be repaid.
Then I can have my sister back.
The long list of my duties comforts me. In my own way, I am as odd as Naomi. Finally, I’m able to release a calming breath and fall asleep. During the long flight I wake frequently, but I will myself back to sleep knowing my body will need it once we are in Rome and the hunt is fully engaged. When the pilot steps out to alert me that we will land in thirty minutes, I rise swiftly with a nod. Naomi still slumbers, I note with fierce satisfaction. I have worn her out.
After the pilot returns to engage the landing sequence, I change into the gray suit hanging in the small closet next to a navy wrap dress. This is likely a stewardess’s dress but it will serve Naomi better than the luggage full of garish tourist clothes. There’s a flight bag on the floor. Opening it I find clean underwear, slacks, and white blouse. This will serve well for Naomi’s luggage. I do not want to carry the stolen luggage through customs. Instead the pilot will dispose of it during a different trip. He—and the rest of the staff—are paid well to perform odd tasks without question. Short wedge heels rest on the floor next to a pair of size 14 hand-stitched leather loafers. The two pairs of shoes nestle together as if they belong to a couple. I can see as clearly as if I turn and stare at her, Naomi’s lithe body lying alone on the bed, covered with little more than a sheet. Underneath she is nude. I cannot stop the memory of her sweetly convulsing around my fingers as she gripped my shoulders and chanted my name.
I tighten the knot of my tie harder than necessary to draw my attention toward more important matters. My cock is unimportant. The feel of her soft cunt around my flesh is unimportant. The only thing that is important is the Madonna.
Resolutely I shut out the domestic vision of the two pairs of shoes and pull on my suit coat over the shoulder harness. This—unlike the pants and the shirt, fits loosely, allowing for me to hide a gun under my jacket.
I fly
private not because I am too good for commercial flights but because I cannot be armed on commercial airlines, and I go nowhere without a gun under my arm and a knife on my leg. In the briefcase in the back of the closet are another gun, six magazines, and a stack of cash. I pocket several for the bribes I will need when we land.
I consider the bookings I reserved while on the plane. We can stay in the more touristy location of the Via dei Condotti or along Embassy Row on the Via Vittorio Veneto. But the Hassler is on the top of the hill looking down over most of Rome. That is the safest place. I note one particular room overlooks the Spanish Steps. Ideal. I can see my enemies coming.
“Naomi,” I call, standing two feet beyond the bed. I cannot come closer into her web. I respect her power and know my own limits.
She rolls over, her voluptuous breasts swaying from her motion before coming to a rest. She is temptation incarnate. I step back. Her eyes flicker awake and for a second, they catch mine. As always I am stunned by their clear, vibrant color. But just as quickly as she meets my gaze, her eyes slide away to focus on my cheek and then my ear.
“It is time to awaken. You will get up and get dressed and provide me with a list of equipment needs. I want to procure those items so that we may obtain our target and finish our business.”
As she struggles to sit up, the sheet falls lower and her pale stomach and perfect belly button are exposed. The sheets make a swishing sound as she moves her legs to the side. Ah God, I cannot take another moment. I stride to my chair and buckle myself in, the restraint laughable, but I will take anything to help me gather my control. My fingers find the indentations I made earlier and I grip them again, striving to find strength to resist her.
Hoarsely I tell her, “There is a dress and underthings in the closet. Wear those. Remember you are Karen Brown. We are a couple taking our first vacation together. We met when you were a student in St. Petersburg.”
“Why not Moscow?” she says, strolling nearly nude to the closet. Does she know how she affects me and is doing this on purpose? If so, I applaud her cleverness even as I curse my own weakness, but given her general obliviousness about many things, she likely does not realize that her naked body is beautiful enough to drive men to commit crimes. I take a deep breath and try to calm my rousing body.
“St. Petersburg is more common for study-abroad programs. Outsiders view it as more cultured.”
“But it’s not?” She pulls out the toiletries bag and the wrap and proceeds to dress. I close my eyes so I do not attack her.
“Moscow is the heart of Russia. St. Petersburg is the gown we’ve put on to impress all the other Europeans.”
“Where is your home?”
“The Petrovich Bratva encompasses a portion of the Western Administrative Okrug, one of the twelve districts of Moscow. It is actually in the southwest of the city center.”
“Do you rule all of it?”
“Nyet. There are over a million people in the district. Most are legitimate citizens. We do not control them. We . . . protect them,” I say because while the Bratva is powerful, it is because we’ve provided order. “There are several members of the council that advise our subprefect and above him is a prefect and above him is the mayor of Moscow. There are layers and layers of bureaucracy and nothing can be accomplished in any time without dozens of reviews. And the reviews must be reviewed. And the committees who advise the subprefects or prefects must also be advised themselves. So people come to us for help and we can provide it quickly. We can dispense justice and give out aid if necessary. The Bratva provides and protects for those who are within its circle.”
“And if they aren’t within the circle?”
“Then they must look to someone else.”
“It sounds like a big headache and you enjoy this?”
I smile at the sound of her disbelief. “I do.”
The noises of her dressing have ceased, which leads me to believe it is safe to open my eyes. But when they land on Naomi in the simple navy dress that accentuates every curve in her body, I wonder if I should gouge my eyes out now and save myself the trouble my attraction to her will undoubtedly cause later. I miss her blond tresses, but there is no denying she is outstanding as a brunette as well. The darker hair color frames her fair skin and deepens the color of her eyes. I am losing my head over this woman because I want to take her to the bed, spread her legs, and take her again and again until my ears ring with her screams of delight.
Teeth clenched, I force myself to the task at hand. Handing her a set of fake papers, I run over the details so that we may pass through immigration with no concern.
“When we land at Ciampino–G.B. Pastine Airport, there will be a hire car waiting for us. Carry your bag in one hand and your passport in the other. They should stamp it. Walk directly to the hire car. Do not speak if you can help it. Now tell me my name again.”
She rolls her eyes, undoubtedly tired of me. “Dmitri Luzhkov. We met in St. Petersburg as I was touring Letny Sad at the Russian Museum. You were taking your mother to see the statues and I was taking pictures of the Neva riverbank.”
“Very good.”
“I’m a genius. You only needed to tell me once.”
“Then you should have no problems following my directives when we land.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
NAOMI
I’ve memorized all the details that Vasily has given me of our “relationship,” but he’s forgotten one thing about Aspies—we’re easily distracted. That, and we don’t like new places. The airport here at Ciampino is crowded, people rushing past with carry-on bags and swarming like ants at a picnic. I’m intimidated by this crowd and the unfamiliarity of the airport itself. It seems so big and foreign, and I don’t deal well with either. I like comfortable, familiar things.
Still, I manage, if somewhat distracted. I follow Vasily—no, Dmitri—and his big, broad shoulders as he makes his way through the crowd. We wait in line at customs and he’s not speaking, which is just fine with me. I’m too overwhelmed by everything around me to try to hold a sensible conversation. I hum “Itsy Bitsy Spider” under my breath to try to calm myself, but it’s loud here, and I can hardly hear myself.
No freaking out, Naomi, I tell myself. You don’t want to make Vasily unhappy.
It’s true, I don’t. I’m still basking in warm feelings for him since he gave me that orgasm on the plane. I want another when we get back to the hotel, and if he’s irritated, it’ll be difficult to convince him. I’m thinking about orgasms as Vasily/Dmitri holds out his passport. The man with the stamper speaks to him. Vasily/Dmitri says something. They share a laugh. His passport is stamped and he moves forward. I step up to the spot he vacated, hold out my passport, and wait. Nearby, a baby screams and my nerves rattle, shot.
The man smiles at me. “Are you in the country for business or pleasure, Ms. Brown?”
I stare at the man’s mouth. I can’t look at his eyes because they’re small and piggish and staring, and he’s got one tooth that’s turned to where it juts out when he speaks. It’s like a tusk, really. This man reminds me of a boar. Which muddles up my thoughts from earlier and turns into, “Did you know that a boar can orgasm for up to thirty minutes?”
The man’s tusk-mouth moves into an expression like a frown. “I—I am not sure I understand—”
“The female sow doesn’t orgasm for as long as the boar does,” I continue, still distracted. “But the male has a penis that is spiraled at the end so he can corkscrew into the cervix in order to properly inseminate the female—”
“Karen,” Vasily barks at me. “Now is not the time.”
I blink. I didn’t even get the chance to tell him about the sheer volume of boar ejaculate. “But—”
“Business or pleasure?” the man holding the passport stamp asks me again.
“Pleasure,” I say. I look over at Vasily and even though I’m not good at reading expressions, that chilly look on his face tells me he’s pissed. I’ve done something wrong.<
br />
“Where will you be staying?” the customs official asks me.
“In a hotel.”
I look over at Vasily and his nostrils flare. I wonder why.
“Please step aside so we can go through your luggage.” The man gestures, and another customs official in a matching uniform approaches. He takes my bag from my hand and moves me to a nearby table. He puts on gloves and begins to unzip my bag, then begins to go through my Karen clothing.
The new man gives me a quick look, then digs through the dresses in the bag. “Where are you staying?”
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?” I snap.
“Please stand over here,” he instructs me, pointing a few feet away.
I’m pretty sure this wasn’t what was supposed to happen. I hum even louder and cover my ears, agitated.
Vasily approaches and gives my shoulder a squeeze, then heads forward and begins to speak to the customs official in Italian. I don’t catch any of it except two quickly spoken words—Karen and autismo.
From there, the look on the official’s face turns from annoyance to pity as he studies me, my ears covered and humming. I look away from him, unable to meet his gaze.
The men talk quietly for a moment, but the official is zipping my bag again and then holds his hand out. “Passport, please.”
I hand it to him to be stamped, but I’m furious. I’m so angry that I’m shaking. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s pity. It’s everyone looking at me like I’m the local fool, like I’m somehow incapacitated and so stupid that I’m about to start drooling on myself.
And Vasily was the one offering the information. He’s betrayed me, and I feel a stab of hurt. I thought we were friends. I thought he liked me. I was even becoming accustomed to his germs. I’m trying to process things logically as he puts a hand on the middle of my back and leads me forward, but all I can keep coming back to is autismo. Autismo.
Last Kiss Page 11
