The Siren's Dance (20 page)

“Proud of it, are you?”

His brows pulled down in his perplexed puppy look--the one that had led her to false conclusions about his intelligence. “Not especially. I was just counting the seconds until my turn to examine you as thoroughly.”

“Examine?” It sounded so clinical, like one of the National Ballet’s aloof doctors who looked at the alignment of your joints and reported about them to the director without ever addressing you about your own body.

He cupped her behind with one hand and her sex with another, each caress triggering shivers of unknown pleasure. “I want to discover what you like.”

She would have to learn her preferences along with him.

He yanked the blankets off the bed like a magician revealing a successful illusion, and she laughed. Stas had never made her laugh.

“Lie down.” Sergey nuzzled her shoulder, circling her waist and applying gentle pressure. “I want to do this right.”

At the press of her weight sinking into the bed, the kiss of the soft sheets on her body, she sighed. “Have I mentioned how much I like fine linen? And gravity?”

“I’m going to give you so much more to like.”

He trailed his lips down her chest, plucking once at her nipple, then laving a hot line toward her navel. He swirled his tongue around the indentation, then dipped into it, increasing the heat inside her, concentrating it like a burning coal at a single point at the top of her sex.

When he spread her thighs, the
vila
blew her sirocco wind so hot Anya felt she might actually ignite. Perhaps the ghost lent her a preternatural excitement over what he intended, because when his prickly jaw trailed down her belly, she was only excited, not embarrassed over his gaze or his mouth exploring her most intimate parts.

His tongue was velvet when he parted her folds, but he said, “You’re like satin, so slick, so wet for me.”

Each stroke sent a lush, ripe wave of pleasure through her, made her body open wider of its own accord. When his mouth locked on to that tiny burning coal, she jerked off the bed, overcome with the sudden intensity. No accidental brushing of that sensitive spot, no friction rubbing against a seam of a pair of slacks--none of it had hinted at the bliss to be unlocked in that tender part of herself.

He sucked her again, grazing her with his teeth. Instinctively, she flailed, trying to get away from the intensity. But his firm grasp on her hips held her fast. Before he took a knee to the temple, he wisely retreated, chuckling. “I take it sex is like food. You feel each and every of your fifty years without.”

Demyan had molded her, yanked her body into the shape he wanted, stroked her when her positions and postures pleased him. He would tease her with a fingertip flicking at a nipple through her leotard, the brush of his knuckles over her mound, a line traced from her sex up the seam of her buttocks. Each time it was a test. Hold still, don’t move a millimeter.

She’d always passed, hoping her victory would earn her new, more satisfying caresses. Instead, he instructed that her body belonged to him, and he would satisfy its hungers when he deemed the time was right, when it would improve her dancing, not diminish her energy. She’d submitted, told herself his erotic game of self-denial would be worth it in the end, when he married her and made her his prima.

“Shh, Anya, what is it?” Sergey supported his weight on his elbows, lying between her legs with one palm on her knee. A breeze had begun to ruffle his hair.

“I’m sorry, I just… I was thinking how long I’ve waited for someone to touch me like this. Will you make love to me now?”

His gaze dipped to her sex. The hunger in his eyes reminded her of how she’d felt just before devouring that slice of chocolate cake. “Please.”

“Not yet. I want you good and ready.”

She only vaguely understood what he meant--something to do with his size and the way her body would accept him, the way it had opened, flooded, was begging to be filled by him, as if without him inside her, she was as good as a ghost again.

But then he lowered his head and stole every thought with his mouth on her, bringing her so fully to her senses that she might catch the bed on fire just from the heat of her skin. The
vila
swirled like a fiery tornado inside her. At the place where he lashed her, laved her, she burned hot, hotter, with a molten pleasure very close to pain, until he took her over the edge, and she screamed with the pure joy of it.

Sergey surged up to kiss her, unconcerned that he carried the scent of her on his lips. He paused to hover over her, to see her radiant complexion blushed with heat and satisfaction, her hair a sable fan on the white pillow.

How many women had he made come, turned rosy with gratified desire? But their pleasure had never lodged in his heart with this fullness that pressed up into his throat.

Her gaze fell from his eyes, and she brought a hand to his lips, pressing her fingers to the traces of her moisture there before she raised up her head to kiss him, opening her mouth to him the way she’d parted her legs.

When his breaths started coming faster, he broke the kiss and feathered more along her cheekbone, her temple.

“Inspector Yuchenko, that was very pleasurable.”

He grinned, full of hope her orgasm had seeped into her soul, had begun to heal the wounds Demyan had done to her sense of worth. Since when did he think sex could do things like that? Probably about fifteen minutes ago, when he’d learned Demyan hadn’t touched her.

She wriggled lower, so that his hard tip prodded at her opening. “This part next, I hope?”

God, she felt good. The slick satin of her, all that delicious wet heat she’d offered him. His cock strained, trying to inch forward like it had a mind of its own, like it could command his hips by force of its own will.

Want. Want. Want.

A lick of that dark hunger took hold of him, low in his gut, twisting his insides with a desire that raised his balls, tightened his pelvis, turned his cock hard as steel.

He wanted to keep this woman, possess her, make her his forever.

Slide in. Feel her right against your skin. No latex between you. Come inside her.

He shook his head, trying to rattle the unwelcome voice of desire right out his mind. Safe sex was a rule he lived by. Then again, he’d never had sex with a ghost before.

“Is something wrong?” Her eyes had widened, just a bit of pleading. “Please will you--”

Furious with himself for letting a drop of doubt enter this moment, he stroked her hair. “Anya. Do not beg. Never. You can have me however you want, as many times, as gentle or hard.”

With his every word, her smile grew wider. “I’ll take all of that then, plea--”

“Don’t say please. Just take what you want.”

“Okay.” She reached down to grip him, swirling the head of him against her wet heat.

Oh, God, she felt good.

He cleared his throat and tried for a light tone. “I’d like your expert opinion on a subject. Is it possible to impregnate a
vila
? Because if not, I’d very much like to enjoy this next part without a condom.”

She pressed her lips together thoughtfully. “I suppose it’s a bit like eating. Every time I go ghost, I’ll come back empty.”

It should have been funny, and for God’s sake, he’d brought it up, but the word empty hit him like someone had dropped a brick between his shoulder blades. He wanted to fill her--with his body, with love, with more of those moments of happiness he’d glimpsed.

Hell, even though that whole Mister-Nice-Guy-Sixteen-Month-Plan had been bullshit, with Anya he might actually like settling down, taking a baby stroller out on his runs.

In her hand, against her slippery sex, his cock was getting more insistent. He had to clench his ass to keep his hips from bucking so he didn’t thrust right into her. Stronger than the familiar, mindless desire to bury himself in a woman, this urge was primal and particular. It was for Anya. He wanted to be as close to her as possible, to fill her with everything he had. That strange dark hunger squeezed his balls again. God, he might come just like this, in her hand.

“No,” she said, seemingly out of the blue.

His heart sank all the way down to the churning desire in his pelvis. He swallowed. “No, what?”

“No, it is not possible to impregnate a
vila
. A condom isn’t necessary.” She reached around and grabbed his ass. “And I mean now, Sergey Yuchenko.”

The command might have been more effective if she weren’t laughing at herself the moment the words spilled out, but he didn’t need to be told twice. He took himself in hand, found her opening, and thrust once into her impossibly tight sheath.

“Oh.” Her exclamation was half surprise, half pain.

Shit
. He stilled. “Are you hurt?” All that tonguing, and then he got so desperate he forgot to open her up with his fingers.

“I don’t think I was as ready for that as I thought.” Bravely, she tried for a smile, but her lip trembled.

He shifted his weight onto one knee so he could pull out of her. “Here, let me--”

“No. Don’t. I’m fine. Really. The sting’s already fading.” As she spoke, her inner muscles relaxed around him, making way. “Please, again, but slower.”

“Only if you don’t say please.”

Laughter filled her eyes. “Now, and gently, you brute!”

He relaxed his control too, just a little, letting his hips begin a shallow version of the rhythm they pressed for, small, easy thrusts, each one stroking his base along her clit before inching in farther, farther. All the while, he watched her face. Desire replaced the laughter in her dark eyes, and her lovely smile fell into an open, panting mouth.

He’d never done this without a condom, never felt the slick heat and friction right against his skin. There wasn’t much hope he could last long, only that he’d be ready for another round soon enough to satisfy her. Then she wriggled her pelvis and her hips opened wider, no longer guarding her depths, but inviting him in.

“I think I’m ready for a little more.”

The words, the gesture--they were an aphrodisiac like nothing else. And fuck, he hoped like hell he would have more to give. He drove into her, aiming for that plum of a spot that spent most women. When he met his mark, her eyes widened but lost their focus. She threw her arms over her head and arched her back.

He was so fucking close, but this… She was a wondrous sight, and his body’s needs fell away, a hum of white noise compared to the pleasure that came from watching her. She rocked her pelvis in counterpoint to him, spearing herself upon him with a perfect grace, as if they’d rehearsed this duet a thousand times.

Then the fluttering contractions of her climax began, reminding him how good every hot, slick inch of her felt around his cock, and then of how when he spilled, it would be inside her, leaving some of himself behind. Maybe she’d never have to go ghost again, and his seed would stay there forever, becoming a part of her.

“God, Sergey. It’s…” She trailed off into indecipherable syllables, which made him quicken his pace and then come on a laugh of pure joy.

“Oh,” she said. “I feel you.”

And then another orgasm pulsed through her, milking the last of his. She gasped a cloud of sparkles like her
vila
skin, and it hovered over her face until each one burst like ice crystals melting into vapor.

He pressed his weight onto her, buried his face against her sweat-slick neck, her hair damp from the exertion.

“That was…incredible,” she said.

He smiled there, against her skin. She’d chosen the perfect word. He’d never have believed sex could be like that. Although, he wasn’t quite sure how to say so without earning some snide reply. If only she could stay with him instead of going off with the
vilas
. Would she even want to? Or if, when she found out he was Demyan’s son, would a tie to him be as loathsome as being shackled to her slipper?

His phone buzzed. Another text from Dmitri.
“We’re coming now. Be there before midnight.”

Gregor’s condition must be worsening.

And Sergey still had no news about authorization from the
politsiya
to enter the
Académie de Ballet
.

And last time he’d come near the place, he’d lost his grip on reality.

Now, in Anya’s arms, in the comforting haze of sexual satisfaction, his earlier panic seemed out of proportion--like a tiny spark that had set fire to all his fears about becoming like his mother. Perhaps all the tinder had burned up and left his mind clear.

He felt like himself again. Sane. Grounded. Able to see a coincidence for what it was, not some frightening nexus of the eclectic parts of his life. And the depth of his desire for Anya--this unfamiliar need to possess? It was a perfectly reasonable response to a woman like her, and to the sad likelihood he would not have the chance to keep her.

Sergey traced the shell of her ear, and she shivered.

“Stop it.” She brought her hand to cover his face and push him away, so he kissed her palm instead, then trailed kisses down the inside of her wrist, her elbow, his mind already set on a leisurely suckle at her breast. But before he reached it, a mark snagged his attention. A peculiar scar, crescent shaped at the lower edge of her biceps.

No. It couldn’t be.

Another coincidence. And a fucking monstrosity of one.

His mother had the same exact scar. The doctors had shown it to him and inquired about its origin after her first suicide attempt, before they moved back to Odessa.

Instantly, his mind raced with bizarre scenarios from all the police department’s freak-factor cases. Men who branded women, people who pretended to be vampires, and worse--was this some sexual fetish of Demyan’s? Had Anya lied about sleeping with him after all?

No. He wouldn’t believe that of her. He would simply ask, before his presently unsteady imagination got the best of him.

“What’s this scar?”

“Where?” She tucked her chin and craned her neck.

“Right here.” He traced the crescent shape.

“I don’t know. Maybe it happened in the river?”