Amour Amour (39 page)

After the couples unload, the elevator finally reaches the floor where all the Aerial Ethereal performers live. It’s a Tuesday night, quiet. Along the hotel’s carpeted hallway, room service trays and dirtied plates sit outside of a few doors. Others have curled magazines that they haven’t brought inside yet.

It’s weird—rooming here and not being in the circus. But aspiring to be. Maybe it’s why I enter the suite late every night.

One of the doors cracks open, a few down from Nikolai’s. I slow my pace, recognizing the voices before I see their bodies.

“Did someone piss in your Cheerios as a kid?” Timo asks, a smile in his light tone. “Come on, old man, stretch your mind that far.”

John backs into the hallway while Timo leans his shoulder on the door frame. “You’re only slightly amusing, you know. Actually, that’s giving you too much credit. You’re like two-percent amusing,” John says, surly as usual. “And half of what you say, I just start tuning out.”

“You forgot your hearing aid again?”

John looks as unamused as he claims to be. I pause mid-step, more than curious about the development of their relationship. And then John says, “You are by far the most annoying human in this hallway.” Then he tilts Timo’s chin and kisses him.

Timo reciprocates, his lips rising in a smile. Their bodies pull closer together, attracted more than their words let on.

John breaks away first and then kisses Timo’s forehead. “See you tomorrow.”

“If you need directions back here,” Timo says, “there’s this thing called Google maps on this thing called the internet.”

John flips him off.

Timo winks and then shuts the door.

The moment John spins around, he sees me and pauses like I caught him in a walk of shame. He is epically private about his sex life and diverts the topic when Camila and I bring it up. So I’m not surprised when he groans like I ruined his master stealth plan.

I immediately start laughing.

John shakes his head at me. “You—are just the bane of my existence.”

I bite my gums to try to control myself. “You consider everyone the bane of your existence.”

“Because everyone is horrible,” he refutes. “I have many banes.” He walks closer, and I can’t hold this one fact inside anymore.

“Hey, John, remember when you told me
you fuck a Kotova and you go directly to hell?
” My eyes dart from him and Timo’s closed door, the suggestion hopefully clear.

“I’m currently in hell.” He glowers. “I realize that. Thanks for reminding me,
Thora.
” I swear the corner of his lips curve upward as he passes me, unable to suppress the burgeoning happiness.

“You love it in hell, John?” I laugh into a bigger smile.

He spins around, walking backwards to the elevators, and he says, “All my friends are here. So it beats everywhere else.”

Friends.
He admitted to having multiple friends. My cheeks hurt.

He turns around, back facing me, and waves. “Night, Thora. Keep making stupid decisions.”

“Night, John.” And he disappears around the corner.

* * *

I scrub the resin off my hands in Nik’s bathroom sink. About to take a shower.

He enters, leaning a hip against the counter. “I missed you coming in.”

“I didn’t want to wake you.” He was asleep on the couch, ESPN on mute in the background. When the channel isn’t on reality television, Nikolai plays sports on cable, mostly football and MMA. My tastes—
The Vampire Diaries, Bitten, Witches of East End
and
True Blood
(RIP)—are outliers here. Still, I seem to fit in just fine.

Instead of talking, he stands behind me, his hands lowering to my waist. My heart double-skips, not immune to his advances, even living together now, even after we’ve run around the bases. He pulls my back into his chest, away from the sink.

My body heats. “I have…to…” My thoughts pop the moment he lowers his head to my neck, kissing me right
there.
A certain place throbs for more.
Shower. You need to shower, Thora.
“I smell.” Why did I just say that?

I feel him smile into my neck. “You smell fine to me.”

That’s what every girl loves to hear.
Fine.
Not like vanilla or roses or a fuckable scent. Fine is
you’ll do for now.
I rotate and put my hands on his chest. “I…would rather smell like soap.”

He stares down at me, his gaze raking my frame. “I’d rather fuck you.” And then he lifts me up, splitting my legs apart and setting me on the counter. I can’t combat him, not when his lips meet mine and his tongue skillfully slips into my mouth. It’s an eager, aggressive kiss that steals breath and puts me in his possession.

Yeah—that shower is not happening.

His movements are more rushed than usual, no slow build up. He practically tears off my shirt, my bra, shorts, panties, and he pulls off his shirt, steps out of his pants, all in between a make-out session that numbs my lips. I moan the minute his fingers graze the spot between my legs.

He covers my mouth with his palm—since we don’t live in this suite alone. I’ve found it hard to restrain noises. My mind wants to shut it down, but my body loves the climax too much, always on its own agenda.

He kneads my breast, and then pushes into me without hesitation. I shut my eyes tightly, the fullness great, but the pain…not that much. It’s less than it used to be, so I know in time, it’ll all go away. It’ll feel better.

He kisses me again, trying to distract me, trying to wrap me in more pleasure. I clutch his arms while he thrusts into me, harder than usual. I open my eyes, and he’s absorbing my body with that intensity, in the way we fit together. His cock sliding right inside—I buck up, a cry stuck in my throat.

I reach out and accidentally splash the running water from the faucet that I never turned off. Still needing support, I cling back to him, now sufficiently wetting both of us. I don’t care much. The pain is starting to dissipate as my climax nears.

I meet his penetrating grays, and it sends me over.

“Nik...I…” My toes curl, my body clenching around him.

He says something in Russian, as if I can translate. I swear he does this to torment me. He kisses my cheek and then presses me to his chest, lifting me from the counter. While his hardness still fills me, he carries me to his bedroom, setting my back…on the desk.

He pounds against me, not finished yet. A layer of sweat coats my skin and his. He keeps his hand over my mouth and uses the other hand to lift one of my legs higher.

My eyelids slowly close, drowning in the way he thumps against my body: the melodic, hard,
fast
rhythm. Each time he slams into me, it’s like he’s trying to expel his pent-up emotions. I realize I should’ve asked how his day was, instead of worrying about a shower.

He rocks harder, and my noise dies in his palm.

Then he pulls out—
ow
—still erect, and he carries me to his bed. He tosses me on the mattress, tiny and little enough to throw me around. Usually it’s fun. But tonight, I think I need to ask, “How was your day?” I pant out the words.

He gives me a look like I asked about nuclear warfare in bed. And he crawls on top of me, kissing me deeply before he grips his shaft and slides right back in.
Owww.
I let out an audible cry, of pain, and he combs my hair affectionately, slowing his movement, only for a second.

This position is harder for me. Regular missionary—it’s like our hips don’t align right unless I have a pillow under my ass. And he’s not putting one there. Normally, he’ll turn on his side, making it more comfortable and easier.

My breath is shallow, and I close my eyes and just relax more. If he doesn’t want to talk yet, then I’d rather this be pleasurable. After another minute or two, he hits a peak. He’s gentler when he pulls out of me this time. So I think he’ll finally exhale, slow down, and hold me.

But he steps off the bed and yanks me to the edge. My heart hammers. And he lowers his head between my legs, kissing the spot—
holy…shit.
I reach out and clench his hair. I turn my cheek into the metallic comforter, noticing that he strokes himself at the same time his tongue flicks—

I moan.

He stares at me with a smile in his eyes.

This is more. Than what I thought would happen. Right now. I can’t even quantify how much time has passed. All I know is that he’s harder and I’m wetter. He flips me over, lifting me on my knees and hands. This is not going to go well.

“Nik,” I warn him, my heart thrashing. This is the worst position for us. He climbs onto the bed, kneeling behind me. He’s too tall. I’m too short, and our pelvises do
not
line up.

“Stay still,” he says.

Well no way am I going to move. He grasps my hips, lifting me higher so that I meet his cock, but now my knees are no longer on the bed. He slips in from behind. My arms quake, my fingers just barely touching the mattress.

I have very little support, but he has no trouble bracing my body weight. He leans forward, pushing even deeper, just to kiss the back of my neck. I shut my eyes and drift in the pulsing pleasure.

Maybe fifteen minutes later, he’s successfully fucked his emotions out. And I’m too exhausted to move or even consider a shower.

He holds me to his chest, brushing his fingers through my hair. I listen to his heartbeat slow, and I mentally try to reroute my brain to him, to his day. I hate when I’m so consumed by my own that I forget to ask. And I just hope that whatever went down, it’s not catastrophically bad.

It still feels likes he’s inside of me, even though he’s not. I cross my legs some, and then I ask, “What happened today?”

He exhales deeply and stares down at me.

I look up.

“Why do you think something happened?”

I’m not crazy. Am I? I didn’t make this up. “You’re just…more aggressive than usual.”

His brows furrow and his eyes flit down my naked body. “I didn’t hurt you…”

“No,” I say. “I mean, no more than usual.”

He glares. “I don’t enjoy hurting you when I sleep with you, just so you know.”

“It’s better than before,” I assure him.

He nods, relaxing a bit. “You’re right.”

“About…?”

He sighs heavily, another deep breath. “About something happening today.” He licks his lips and stares off for a second. When his eyes meet mine, they’re full of power, of what he always possesses, the unwavering contact. “I don’t know how to say it.”

My nerves escalate, and I sit up, not much. I just place an arm on his chest while he lies on his back. So that I’m the one staring down at him. So that he’s looking up at me. “Let me guess.”

His lips tic upwards. “Okay, myshka.”

I read his body language. He’s content now. Of course. But before, he was stressed. He’s been at work all day, so… “It has to do with Amour.”

He nods.

I take in the time. It’s almost at that five-month mark. Which means— “Elena,” I suddenly say. “It has to do with your partner.”

Surprise coats his face. I guessed right. “I’ve taught you well,” he murmurs.

He can’t dodge this. “What happened?” Elena is supposed to be in her first show next week, the aerial silk act returning to Amour.

His fingers skim the bareness of my shoulder blades. “She was fired.”

My face falls. “What?”

“She wasn’t improving to Aerial Ethereal’s standards, ‘not ready to perform’ they cited, and so management revoked her contract. They let her go this evening.”

My mind spins, trying to determine his sentiments on the situation and my own. He’s upset, I realize quickly. Really upset. The nonstop sex says enough. “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “What does this mean for you?”

“They’re putting the aerial silk act on hiatus, not retiring it but not actively seeking a replacement. I spent
five months
with Elena, training her, working with her. And it’s all a waste.” His gray eyes storm below me.

I touch his strong jaw and kiss his lips gently. “It’ll be okay,” I say. “Helen and the rest of the directors love you.” But I can’t forget how Elena looked at me—in the gym. And I wonder how much time I ate from her training. He’s reading me right now. My lost expression.

“It’s not your fault,” he says.

Why didn’t I question it though? “Did you train her more than you did me?”

He’s quiet.

My stomach drops and I gape. “Nik.”

“I wouldn’t have practiced with her any more than I did, regardless if you were in Vegas or not.”

I want to believe him. Otherwise, it hurts too much to think that I may be the reason his act is shelved for eternity. And the reason why Elena was sent home.

That’s not how this is supposed to go. Not at all.

Act Forty-Two

It’s midnight, the gym empty and only half the lights turned on. The trapeze and Russian swing are shrouded in darkness. I’ve been here since noon and still no one has really filtered inside. It’s Thanksgiving, and instead of sulking about not being with family, not having the money for a plane ticket, I just focus on training.

I breathe heavily, lying supine on the blue mats. I still can’t land everything I saw in Amour, during that climatic group act. Not without being harnessed.

But I’m closer to nailing the aerial silk drop. When I fall, I’m now five feet from the floor, not seven. That has to count for something. Right?

The heavy double doors click open, and I prop my sore body on my elbows. The hall light streams into the darker area of the gym, until the door shuts. For a split second, I wonder if coming to the gym alone was such a good idea. But Nikolai had Thanksgiving festivities with his whole extended family, and I didn’t need him to miss that for me.

“You look exhausted.”

My shoulders sag at the familiar, deep voice. “It’s been a long day.”

Nikolai emerges into the light, his hands in his black slacks. He removes them as he sits in front of me, resting his forearms on his bent knees.

I notice a bit of…I motion to his hairline. “Pie?” I smile.