Varian Krylov (6 page)

As if he was about to kiss her he leaned forward, bringing his mouth so near hers he could feel tiny, rapid gusts of her breath on his lips. But before their mouths would have touched he took hold of her wrists, forcing them back, back, behind her, all the while making her lean farther and farther back, until he planted her hands for her on the smooth surface of the table, so that her torso was suspended at an alluring angle beneath him. Then, with a grin, he straightened up, squatted a bit, grasped her legs behind the knees, and rose, tilting her hips to an advantageous angle. He had her 49

perched wantonly at the very edge of the table, legs bent and spread, ready for the taking.

Fuck, it was a pretty picture—one that was made irresistible, unforgettable, by the expression on her face. Desperate, fearful anticipation. The look of someone who knows that in taking what she wants, she will be leaving something of herself behind.

Slowly, watching her face the entire time, he slid the thick length of his needful cock into the close, wet grip of her.

Inside her, he waited. Savored. Let linger the visceral awareness of what he was doing to her. What she—all this—was doing to him.

Then he began to move. To fuck her. Because their bodies were barely touching except where her cunt gripped his cock, every tiny bit of friction between their flesh was loud. Vivid. He speculated that her body might be as unused to this kind of fucking—the way their bodies were fitting into each other in this moment, with no kiss, no embrace—

as she was unused to this kind of fucking—being with a man who didn't know her, didn't love her. It made him feel wicked. And feeling wicked made him hot and hard and hungry.

To him, his body felt like water, a tide flowing into her. Slow. Each time he rolled in she had time to feel how he pushed her body open, and every time he receded back, he knew, she felt his body pulling at her. Slow as he was going, she was already all quivery, already making the sweetest little noise with each change of direction as the wave of him rolled in, then out.

Hot and hard and hungry. He wanted. Needed. More.

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He fell over her, planted his hands beside hers, let their bellies press together, warm and moist. Brought his face close to hers, made her see how he was watching her. Hearing her. Taking in the little furrow at the center of her forehead, the way her top lip was quivering, the way her eyes would hold his gaze for a while, then flicker down along his body, blatantly taking stock of him, until they would settle on the sight of his cock slowly drilling in and out and into her cunt.

Now and then he'd thrust hard, driving his cock in deep, hold himself there, and pulse into her with tiny thrusts taking him that little bit deeper, over and over, knowing he was pressing against her clit each time, Her little noises were turning into whining moans, and she kept shutting her eyes tight, then opening them and panting when he'd back off, denying her climax.

Fucking delicious.

But a little too easy. For her. She needed more than a fuck and another climax from him. A hundred enticing ideas buzzed his brain, intensifying the thrill of every thrust as he pumped his hips rhythmically between her thighs. She was close. Her body tense and quivering as it sought him, every exhaled breath a needful moan.

He stopped. Drew back. Let his cock, throbbing in protest, slip wetly from her cunt. He stood there, looking down at her.

As the silent seconds dissolved, her look of surprise transformed to consternation, and then embarrassment. Reclining there, her legs still spread for fucking long, humiliating seconds after he'd stopped fucking her, her cunt exposed, open, swollen, vivid and wet.

"Get up."

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He didn't bark it like an order, like some guy playing at being dominant. He just said it, softly. She stood. He put his hands on her shoulders and, without a word, turned her away from him, then closed in on her until the fronts of her thighs were pressed to the edge of the table, and his groin was pressed against her ass.

She was already breathing differently. Bending his own body forward he began forcing her down, onto the table. Her resistance wasn't slowing him down much.

"Wait!"

He didn't wait. Using the weight of his body to hold her down, and his arms to bend her unwilling elbows, he forced her forearms down to the surface of the table. Bent over that little bit more, her body offered him easy access.

"Wait!" Her voice was louder this time, and had the catch of a sob in it. "Don't do that! I don't want you to!"

Her body struggled to twist, to roll over underneath him, but the geometry of skeletons was against her. Wrenching her neck around she was staring up at him, over her shoulder, eyes and mouth open wide with fear. His smile didn't seem to reassure her.

Feeling a sudden driving urge to taste her skin, he raked his claws up her back, into the wild mass of hair at the base of her skull, baring her nape, descending on it open-mouthed and hungry, sucking and biting until she whimpered. When he looked, gooseflesh covered her arms and neck.

"You don't want me to what?"

"Please. Galen, please."

"You don't want me to what, Vanka?"

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"No anal."

"Never done it?"

He reached down with both hands, palmed her muscular, round cheeks and spread her.

"No!"

"You've never let a guy fuck you in the ass, Vanka?"

"No."

"How do you know you won't like it?"

Beneath him she writhed violently, trying to shake him off, but he only had to put a little more of his weight on her, and she was practically immobilized. Leaning on her like that, it was hard, getting his hand down, around the base of his cock, but he managed without giving her too much wiggle room.

He felt her give up. Resign herself. It was in her tense, unbreathing stillness.

With one hand closed tight over her wrist, and the other wrapped around the base of his shaft he brought the swollen head of his cock against her opening, and with one slow and fluid movement of his hips he drove the entire length of his cock into the warm, slippery grip of her cunt.

"You tell me," he breathed behind her ear, "if you change your mind."

Beneath him the body he'd made rigid with terror softened and breathed. The girl inside was back. Still sheathed to the hilt, he stood up.

"Now," he said, pressing down gently on the small of her back, "arch your back a little more, and stick your ass up a bit."

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It surprised him when she did it. Her trust had to be pretty low at this point. But, then again, that was the point of her being with him at all, wasn't it?

Beginning to move inside her, to fuck her slowly, but deep, with the force of rolling waves, he looked down to take in the delicious view of her ass, the hills of her two cheeks rising full and round, sweeping down in admirable curves to a deep, tempting cleft between and sleek plains of back, thighs, disappearing over the horizon of her hips.

And her back. Damn, he loved her back. The soft contours of her muscles were in fine relief, now, as she held herself up on her forearms. The lone, defined hill of a single vertebra, pressure-pale, at the apex of her spine before it dropped down and away with her lowered neck. The dramatic sweep of wheat-hued skin up from the twin smooth planes running parallel on either side of her spine, up and over her shoulder blades. Her shoulders, her trapezius muscles. The way they flexed as her body took the shock of his thrusts.

He could have gone on like that, standing over her. Fucking her. He could get himself off that way, no question. Hell, he could probably get her off like that. But it felt cold. He felt far away from her. He wanted her close. Wanted her heat, the feel of her skin against his. The feel of their bodies trying to fit together.

He sank down, slid his forearm under her, curved his fingers against her ribs, his other arm supporting him, mirroring her arm supporting her.

Now he could see her face. Now that he could watch, he was ready. Instead of those long, sliding, friction-making strokes, he sank into her, until his hips were crushed right up against her ass, and, holding her down, holding her against him, he pumped 54

into her, breathing, grunting, panting. And with every jolt of his hips she groaned, whimpered, desperately sucked in fresh air each time he knocked a breath out of her.

He watched her. At first, she looked fortified. Like she was willing her body to endure an assault. But then, little by little, thrust by thrust, she let her guard down, let herself be soft. It wasn't pain. It sounded like pain. Looked like pain. But it was something else. Her lashes were wet again; the corner of her lip was tugged down, her eyes shut tight. And the sound, like a wail of pain, swelled and died and rose again. She was cumming. Crying and shuddering, loud and violent.

It seemed like he'd been holding on forever. Delaying over and over again, each time he'd been close. Now, finally, he let the feeling of her—the grip of her cunt on his cock, her body quivering, hot and strong beneath him—the sound of her groaning out her climax, the startled, overwhelmed look in her eyes overtake him. His own orgasm ricocheted through him so powerfully he called out her name, once, like you'd call the name of someone lost in a dream as you woke.

"Vanka."

He whispered it, now that they were done. They lay there for a long time, panting, their breaths slightly out of phase, his sounding with hers, passing, lagging, catching and passing again. Her cunt felt with excruciating sensitivity the slow progress of his cock as he pulled out. Then he pulled her up with him as he stood.

She felt weak. Physically. Drained. Euphorically exhausted. It seemed she was inert, that every movement her body made was directed by his. He'd stood her up. Now he turned her to face him, lifted her chin so he could see her face. Stare through her eyes, as he had earlier. Read her thoughts. He gave her what seemed to be a 55

questioning smile. Then he pulled her against him, and put his arms around her. His body was so warm, felt so strong. Gentle and safe. Not at all the way he fucked.

When he let her out of his embrace, he took her hand and led her back, through the bedroom, into his obscenely swank bathroom. He flicked the light on, and she caught sight of their reflections in the mirror, and felt suddenly, sickeningly more vulnerable than she had for the last hour, through all he'd done to her. Weird, seeing her naked body so close to his, as she stood there staring back at herself, her whole body reduced, in that moment of perception, to a raw, frightening nakedness, and a white square of gauze covering part of one breast.

Behind her, he put his hands lightly on her bare shoulders, looked with her at their mirror images, smiled, kissed her neck, then turned and dipped out of the frame of the mirror as he opened the tub faucet. She, her mirror image, was alone for a moment.

Overcome suddenly by embarrassment, then panic, she forgot the mirror. A familiar sensation demanded all her attention.

"Galen."

"Hmmm?" He looked up at her from over his shoulder as he held his hand under the gush of water shooting from the faucet.

"I think the condom broke."

He looked down and looked back up at her with a funny little smirk.

"I don't think so."

He rose to his feet and turned to face her. He was still somewhat hard, and the condom was still on, and she could see a mass of whitish fluid collected at the end of it.

Transfixed, pulled between revulsion and a kind of admiration, she watched him remove 56

the condom from his penis, pinch off the end, and squeeze the tiny whitish balloon he'd formed.

"Looks watertight to me," he said, carefully scrutinizing how the tip was bearing up under the pressure.

She was more embarrassed than ever, now.

"Can I have a minute alone, please?"

"Need the toilet?"

"No, I . . ."

Damn, she was an idiot. She should have just said “yes.”

"What's the matter? Is it getting messy down there?"

Well. Now she wanted to kill him. At least that was how his words were making her feel. But his voice was so mellow it almost soothed, and his expression just seemed

. . . warm. She just stood there, struggling for what to say, what to do, as he poured some rose-colored liquid under the faucet and a white foam hillscape began advancing across the flat, gray plane of water. Then he swiped a washcloth from one of the cupboards, perched on the edge of the tub, and dipped the cloth into the steaming, sudsy water.

"It's just sex, Vanka."

He reached out and hooked a hand behind her knee and coaxed her forward, toward him.

"We just fucked. Why should your body's reaction to that be such a big deal?"

She couldn't believe she was letting him do this. The slight roughness of the hot, wet cloth felt good as he slid it up the inside of her calf, past her knee, up, along her 57

inner thigh, gently massaging as he went. He looked up at her with a strangely sweet smile as he dipped the cloth back into the foamy tub, and did the other leg. Only the vaguest notion that she'd normally feel utterly humiliated at being cleaned up like this by a lover penetrated the euphoric haze his touch was working over her. But she gasped and jumped, suddenly, vividly awake as the rough, hot cloth brushed against her sex.

She wanted to pull away, but the gentle curve of his hand at the back of her knee closed hard, held her there. Then he kissed her, so softly, so sweetly at the front of her thigh, then her hip bone, then on the soft, ticklish flesh just inside, and rubbed her gently with the cloth. Fuck. It felt really, really good. She sighed as she gave up fighting, let go of wanting to fight, of the idea that it was weird. Then she whined a little as she felt her sated, exhausted body suddenly charge back to life. She'd have fucked him again, right then, if he'd asked her.

Instead, he stood, tossed the washcloth into one of the sinks, grinned like he knew just what she was thinking, and gave her a tiny kiss on the lips. Then he turned off the faucet.

"Between my knee and your incision, this'll be a bit of a trick. But a bath sounds nice, doesn't it?"