He grabs me with a muffled curse and drags me toward the bathroom.
“Where are we going?”
“I need a shower. And I am going to fuck you while we are in it, since you do not like the bed.”
Oooh.
We head into the small bathroom, hand in hand, and it still smells of the cleaning supplies I used. Before I showered, I hunted through the bathroom and found cleaners under the sink, and scrubbed the tile and tub before I stepped into it. I gave them another round of cleaning after my shower, so no trace of the nasty mattress germs remained.
“I smell cleaner,” he tells me. “You?”
“Yes, I cleaned everything. Even the tile walls.”
“Good,” he says thickly. “I am going to push you against one and fuck you.”
My pulse flutters to hear that. Oh, wow. That’s an erotic thought, and more exciting than anything I’ve done with a computer in a long, long time. I eye the shower and the now-clean tile, imagining us pushed against it. My nipples harden in response.
“You are quiet.”
“I was just impressed that I got wet so fast,” I admit to him. “Want me to show you?”
He snarls like the volk he is, and then we are kissing again, ripping at each other’s clothing. Fabric tears under my fingers, but I don’t care. If my violence excites him, I’ll give him violence. I want him as aroused as I am.
As our mouths mesh and our tongues twine, I tug at his clothing, snaking it down his arms and freeing his big, brawny, bitable chest. He’s ripping at my own clothing, and somewhere in our excitement, he’s managed to turn on the water to the shower. Steam begins to fill the room but neither one of us has stepped toward the water. We’re too busy divesting the other of clothing.
“Looking at your big body lubricates me instantly,” I tell him, pressing my thighs tighter together so I can feel the delicious squeeze of my wet flesh as it slides against itself. “It’s interesting that such a physiological reaction can happen so quickly. My body must be very attuned to yours.”
“Is that so?” His accent is thick, a sure sign—at least to me—that he’s enjoying my words.
“It’s true,” I say as I step out of my panties. “Feel my secretions.” And I take his hand and guide it between my legs. “Very wet, yes?”
His fingers press against my vaginal lips and then dip between them, moving back and forth. Even his hand feels so big that I get even more aroused, and when one finger traces the opening to my vagina, I bear down on it, wrap my hands around his neck, and lean in and bite the hell out of his clavicle.
Vasily snarls and thrusts his finger deep inside me, and I ride it, biting madly at all the skin I can find. I dig my teeth in, wanting to mark him more. I think he likes the marks, so I will leave him with dozens of them to pet and admire.
“You must stop,” he tells me.
“No,” I say and drag my teeth across his skin viciously.
The breath hisses from between his lips and he fingers me roughly even as he drags our joined bodies back to the sink. I make a protesting noise as his fingers slide from my pussy—so wet that they make a sound as they leave—and cling to him as he tries to roll on a condom while I distract him. I rub my own pussy because it feels good, and then drag my fingers over his hungry mouth as he rolls the condom down his length. “Drink,” I command him.
He sucks my fingers clean, and his teeth nip at my skin. When I pull my fingers free of his mouth, I give it a light slap. We’re acting like savages, and I’ve never been so aroused or had so much fun. I love the way Vasily’s gaze narrows as I smack him, and his lungs heave like bellows.
And then he grabs me by the waist and drags us both into the shower, and I’m pressed against the wall a split second before he wrenches my thighs apart and slams into me.
I scream with pleasure. The shock of him forcing his way inside is delicious, and I’m so wet that it doesn’t hurt. I love his wildness, his frenzy as he hauls my legs higher around him and shoves deeper inside me with the next thrust. I want to claw at his shoulders as he begins to roughly piston his hips against my pinned ones, but the water is making our bodies slick, and there’s nothing for me to grab but his hair.
Oh, his hair.
I grab two fistfuls of it and yank even as I lean in to bite at his beautiful, hard mouth, so like the sculpture of a cruel god. His breath hisses out again and he snarls something that I pay no attention to, and he’s fucking me so hard and fast that I’m pretty sure he’s going to come in the next two seconds. And I want that, so I pull his hair harder. “My volk,” I yell in his ear. “You’re mine, right?”
“Yours,” he growls, and gives me one mighty shove, his entire body trembling as he spends inside me. Then his hips shudder against mine and his wild plunges slow down.
He’s come and I’m still wanting. So I slap at skin and tug at hair. “More, Vasily, more!”
“Patience,” he tells me in a thick voice. I think he’s feeling good, but I’m not there yet, and so I yank his hair again, like a child deprived of a pony ride. His hand steals between our sealed bodies and I feel the hard press of it between us as it steals to where our bodies are joined. Then, his thumb rubs against my clit.
My legs jerk. Between the feeling of his still-hard cock inside me and his thumb on my clitoris as he begins to rub, it takes mere moments before I’m screaming my own pleasure, and I come with my teeth sunk into Vasily’s shoulder as he continues to work and manipulate my clit. I sigh with relieved pleasure as the aftershocks end and he slowly drops me from the wall to land on my feet in the tub.
“Let us wash together,” he says, and peels the condom off.
It’s a good idea. We both need to clean up. I step forward into the spray, and his hands begin to run over my wet skin. He unwraps a bar of nearby soap and begins to rub it along my breasts and arms, cleaning me. I stand still and let him.
“You are not uneasy about the sex club?” he asks.
“Hmm?” I’m drowsy with endorphins, and my legs are a little weak in the knees. I feel really good, too. Gosh, I love sex with Vasily, fluids and all. It’s clear I’ve been missing out on something great. I wonder if there are other exciting things we can do in bed. This might just be the tip of the iceberg—
He grips my chin and turns my face toward him so he has my attention. “Naomi. Are you uncomfortable with the sex club we must visit?”
“No? I think I like sex now.” My hands move over his chest, reddened with my scratches and bites. One of his nipples is purpling from where I sucked on it too hard. I should feel a twinge of guilt but all I can think is how he must have enjoyed that. “I’m just sorry we haven’t had a lot of uses for a hacker at the moment. I mean, you don’t need a black hat for going into a sex club, you know? If you wanted me to appropriate funds for you, I could. If you wanted me to take down a network, I could. But suck on your cock in front of others? You don’t need me for that.”
“I do not need a hacker,” he agrees, and my heart momentarily drops. But his hands skim along my wet skin and then cup one of my breasts. “But I need you. You are the only person that can touch me and I do not feel revulsion, Naomi.”
I’m pleased by this compliment. “It’s because we’ve been around each other so much that we’re likely now immune to each other’s pathogens.”
He snorts. “If you say so. Or perhaps it is just you, because you are special to me.”
I tense a little at the word special, but when he clarifies it, I relax. I don’t mind being special to Vasily. I take the soap from him and dab my fingertips on it, then stroke them across his now-streaky eyebrows to clean them. “When do we go to this sex club?”
“We go tomorrow.”
“Good.”
“Why good?”
I smooth my thumbs over his brows. “I want you to find my G-spot again.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
VASILY
On my right, Naomi is lovingly stroking the brim of her cap repeatedly. Her
fingers must be chafed at this point. I shift in my small seat. My cock is sore today. If she propositioned me, I may have to turn her down. I am not at all certain I could accommodate her request.
In the slow-moving Fiat I appropriated near the university, the images of our bathroom endeavor filter through my mind. First there was her command to locate her G-spot, which was easily done. I have it memorized, and my fingers seek it out without effort. But after rubbing her until she gasped and came around my fingers, I turned her to face her freshly cleaned tile and pounded into her until she was screaming and I was coming harder than I ever had before.
Perhaps we should have stopped there. We slid into the curved porcelain tub, exhausted and weak. With the last ounce of energy, I pulled a towel over us. We must have dozed off, but then I recall waking with my cock in her mouth, her ass bobbing rhythmically by my face. I pulled her over to straddle my face and ate her as she choked around my cock.
Naomi is not a good multitasker.
But when I finally was done licking her juices, she declared that we could not sleep again until my own erection was relieved. I did not argue.
“Did you know that in this position it is much easier for me to maintain firm contact against my clitoris without the aid of your hands or mine?”
“Nyet,” I grunted in response, lifting her ass up and then enjoying her slam down.
“Our bodies fit really well together. I worried you would be too big. But you aren’t too big. I mean, you’re big. Definitely bigger than average.” Her words went on and on, breathy syllables separated by gasps of air. “Your hair is both soft and scratchy. Why is that?”
“Shall I shave it for you?”
She stopped then. “You would shave? Yes, I think you should. For science.”
“For science,” I repeated solemnly, and then buried my face into her neck as her cunt muscles began squeezing and releasing me. “What are you doing, Naomi?”
“I’m working my Kegel muscles. Those are—”
“I know what they are,” I interrupted.
“Yes, well, I’m seeing if they enhance intercourse. I think it does. It makes me want to orgasm more quickly. I think it’s the friction or pressure on various parts of my vagina. Don’t you think so?”
“Yes. Squeeze me again,” I said through gritted teeth.
“Does it feel good to you?”
“Da! Fuck me . . .”
“Vasily . . . Vasily.” Naomi tugs on my arm. By the frown on her face, it appears she has been attempting to gather my attention for some time. I shake myself to loosen the sexual memories.
“What do you wish?” She has a new laptop we acquired in Firenze open and is fiddling with the tag we will be placing on our mark for tracking purposes.
“I want to test the range of this tag.”
“You have written a program?”
“Yeah, just a simple little code but I can’t test how far away this thing will emit a signal when I’m sitting next to it.”
“Guillaume said a few hundred feet.”
“That’s not very precise. How will we track this guy?”
“Venice is small. We will walk around until it goes off.”
She frowns at me. “Seriously? That is your plan? That’s really bad, Vasily. Pull over,” she orders.
I shrug. A break to stretch our legs would be welcome. I drive the Fiat onto the median and engage the emergency break.
“What are you doing?” she asks, confused.
“Pulling over.” I open the car door and step out.
“I meant like at a gas station or something.”
“This is Italy. There are no roadside gas stations as there are in the United States. It is perfectly acceptable to pull over to piss.”
Her mouth forms a circle of horror, and then she digs into her bag, pulling out a bottle of hand purifier. Thrusting it at me, she orders, “Use this after you are done voiding. I don’t like urine.”
I take the bottle. “You don’t seem to mind my come.” I throw the bottle up lightly and catch it.
“It’s not the same thing.” She harrumphs and closes the car door.
I walk backward down the median with the tag in my pocket, waiting for her to signal to me. She waves me forward. I turn, jog a few paces, and turn back. We repeat this several times until she finally emerges from the vehicle and gestures for me to return.
“How far is that?” she asks when I near.
“Approximately four hundred feet.” I hold the door open, aware of an oncoming Audi traveling at a swift distance. “Get in and move to the driver’s side. Your head should be below the window.” She hesitates. “Now, Naomi. Go.”
I slam the door shut behind her regretfully. It would have served as a nice shield. Pulling out my gun from my shoulder holster, I wait for the car to near. I jump lightly in place to loosen my muscles, allowing my right hand to hang freely along my thigh. A glance to my left reveals Naomi pressed up against the passenger window. I bang my elbow against the glass, causing her to scurry back.
The car is almost upon us. The lights flash once, twice, and then it’s gone. I turn and raise the gun almost reflexively before it finally registers the Audi was no threat. Almost regretfully I round the front of the Fiat and climb into the driver’s seat.
“What was that? Did you think they were going to shoot at us? Why did they flash their lights?”
“They flashed their lights to tell me that I am an idiot for standing in the middle of the road. You were to remain with your head below the dashboard,” I remind her, pulling into traffic and then maneuvering the car into the slow right lane. Not for the first time today I wish for a different car. An Alfa Romeo? We would be in Venice by now.
“I had to see what was going on and I couldn’t do that with my head down,” she argues.
“If there was a gunman, he could have shot you between your eyes.”
“No way. That only happens in the movies. A bullet’s trajectory would be moved by impact against the glass, not to mention the vehicle was moving at a high speed.”
“Nikolai Andrushko once shot a Chechen warlord in the left eye in a vehicle going 110 kilos per hour while the warlord’s vehicle was traveling at an equally swift pace.”
“I don’t believe it,” she says stubbornly. “The thickness of the glass, as well as the velocity of the bullet, not to mention wind speeds, moisture in the air. And besides, if a gunman was that good, hiding behind the leather seat wouldn’t be the safest place. Probably the safest place is the engine block. How do you know that this Andrushko character made the shot? It’s probably a myth.”
“I was driving the Audi that Andrushko was sitting in,” I told her.
“Oh . . . well he was a very good shot, then.”
“Da, one of the best,” I agree.
“Where is he now? We should fly him down and then you can drive, I can work on my computer, and Andrushko can protect us.”
“He is . . . dead,” I say.
“Was he killed by another shooter? Because we should get that guy instead.”
What do I say? Your brother and I faked the killing of Nikolas Andrushko, but he now lives happily ever after with some bosomy farm girl from America? “I believe he is unavailable currently. You will have to endure my protection services.”
“Is that a sexual innuendo? You know I have a hard time catching on to those.”
I smile because she might have problems catching them with other people, but she understood mine. “I will protect you all night and into the dawn.” The clock indicates that it will take us three more hours to get to Venice. I enjoy hearing her voice and want her to talk. “How was it that you came to be in the hands of Hudson?”
“Oh that?” She scrunches up her nose as if she’s smelled something bad. “That was my attempt at being normal. You see, in the United States, kids in college and sometimes even high school kids go to resorts in Mexico or the Caribbean for vacation. They imbibe lots of liquor and have random sex with stra
ngers.” My knuckles tighten around the steering wheel at the thought of her with another man but then I remember her . . . idiosyncrasies. She would not have been comfortable there with the strangers and the noise. “Daniel encouraged me to go. I skipped a lot of grades and didn’t have many friends my age. He said it would be good for me. But it was so . . . noisy and you couldn’t step out of your room without someone running into you. People were very clumsy, too, always spilling their drinks or spitting it out. It was very disgusting so I went for a walk on the beach.”
“You were taken then?”
“Yes. I think they were going to—you know—hurt me like they do to women.” She meant be raped. “But I convinced them that I could make them a lot of money if they would only give me a computer.”
“And you spent eighteen months in Hudson’s basement,” I conclude for her.
“It wasn’t as bad as it seems. It was quiet there. He left me alone mostly. There was one guard who was kind to me. His son was autistic. He brought the son in to meet me and we discussed trains. Trains are like—” she searches for an analogy which is difficult for her.
“Bees to honey?” I supply.
“Yes. That’s a great comparison. We love the orderly nature of them. How the tracks can switch back and forth. The timeliness of them. The way we can track their routes. It’s fascinating and kind of relaxing.” She makes a face. “It’s too bad we got shot at on the train before because it would have been awesome to take the train to Venice.”
“It is better to be safe than sorry,” I say, repeating a famous U.S. idiom.
“What about you? What’s the story with you and the painting? Why go to all this trouble? Can’t I just buy your way to power?”
“Do you know the story of Pablo Escobar?” She shakes her head no. “Pablo Escobar controlled the manufacture and distribution of cocaine the mid-1980s to the mid-1990s. He was purportedly one of the wealthiest men in the world at the time of his death. What made him so powerful, however, wasn’t just the money or the violent way he exercised his authority, but that the people of Colombia revered him. When he died, twenty-five thousand Medellín citizens came out to mourn his passing. He built churches and schools, fed the poor, nursed the sick. And for this, they helped hide his men, his coke, his guns.
Last Kiss Page 21
