But I've found her, and she didn't run away again.
Now if I can finish this fucking job and get Marat Koslov off the face of this planet, I can focus on something even more important than that.
My family.
22
NOEMI
Fyodor carries Sasha into the room like he weighs nothing, cradling the boy against his chest with one arm while he unlocks the door with the other. Sasha doesn't stir at all. He's soundly asleep and must feel so safe in Fyodor's arms all the way up to the point where he lays the boy in bed and tucks him in.
I'm soaked and so is Fyodor, but we've managed to keep Sasha mostly dry. I stand there shivering in my wet clothes, watching him pull the blanket up over his son and tuck it around his small body. There's something tender in the way he does it now, like he's starting to get the point finally. He's trying so hard, even when he doesn't know what he's doing. It's so amazingly sweet and endearing.
When he reaches up under the blanket and pulls Sasha's shoes off one by one I feel my heart melting. Fyodor didn't have to come out looking for me and I'd have been fine—eventually. But the fact that he did come looking for me, and that he made an effort to apologize means something to me. He really is tryingand not just with Sasha. I'm falling for this man so hard, so very hard.
"I'm going to shower," I whisper. "I'm freezing."
He nods without looking at me, still watching Sasha sleep, and I slip into the bathroom and close the door behind me. The tiles under foot add another layer to my chill as I peel off my wet clothes and drop them in a pile on the floor. My shirt, my jeans, my underwear, all of it soaked through. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back at me, hair plastered to her face and mascara smeared under her eyes.
I turn on the shower and wait for the water to heat up, steam slowly filling the small space. When I step under the spray it's almost too hot, burning against my cold skin, but I don't turn it down. I need the heat to thaw out a little, and the warmth is shocking enough to force my brain to think about how startling change can be to people.
Fyodor is trying to reprogram his brain that's been conditioned to live without concern for anyone but himself and his orders for years. The amount of effort it must take for him to be human must feel staggering.
The bathroom door opens and closes, and I hear the lock click into place.
Fyodor's silhouette appears through the frosted glass of the shower door, and I watch him strip off his own wet clothes and drop them on the floor next to mine. He doesn't ask if he can join me when he opens the shower door and steps in before closing it behind himself. I feel startled and I keep my back to him.
"What are you doing?" I hiss, and I feel goosebumps rise on my arms.
"What do you think I'm doing?" His voice is low too. Neither of us wants to wake Sasha and the walls are paper thin. "It's freezing. I don't want to catch pneumonia."
But Fyodor isn't in this shower with me just to warm up. I know it the minute his icy hands rest on my hips and pull me out of the water. By now I'm beginning to slowly acclimate to the temperature, so the shock of his freezing skin on mine makes me shudder. But more shocking is the hardness squeezing its way between my thighs from behind as he presses his chest flat against my shoulder blades.
"When I said you were mine, I meant it, Noemi…" His hot whisper dusts my shoulder and I lean into him. This time when he says it, I'm not offended. I don't feel controlled. I feel desired.
"Shh," he whispers right into my ear.
I shake my head that I understand and lean back against him, and his hands come up to cup both of my breasts at once, squeezing and kneading them. I almost moan it feels good, but I remember Sasha sleeping in the next room and bit my lip. Fyodor rewards me with a kiss to the cheek, hot and open mouthed trailing his teeth across my skin until he sinks them into my shoulder.
"Good girl," he praises quietly. His hips grind into my back side slowly while one hand slides across my belly following the trail of water that trickles lower across my mound. Then his fingers find my clit and apply pressure making me hiss. "Ah, ah, shh," he reminds me, and I whimper. This could be torture of the most exquisite kind.
Fyodor's fingers stay pressed to my clit, holding the steady pressure that makes my hips twitch forward on instinct. His other hand keeps kneading my breast, thumb brushing over the nipple in lazy circles while his chest stays molded to my back.
He grinds against me again, sliding his cock between my thighs until his thick shaft drags through my folds. His blunt head catches at my entrance each time, nudging but never pushing in, then glides up over my clit where his fingers pin my clit down. The double sensation makes my thighs shake.
I bite harder on my lip to keep quiet. His breath is hot against my ear as he speaks. "So wet for me already," he murmurs. And his fingers finally move—two of them spreading me open while the middle one circles my clit a few times then stops again teasing me.
His hips rock forward harder this time, shaft gliding through the slickness he's made, coating himself completely. My knees buckle a little and he tightens his arm around my waist to hold me up, palm flat over my lower belly again, pressing me back against him. The slick mess my body has made makes every glide smoother and my hips shift back toward him without permission.
He exhales against my ear, "You want it so bad, don't you?" The words are soft, almost a question. His finger pauses, then presses harder, holding my clit trapped while he rocks forward one more time. His shaft glides through the wetness, coating itself completely before pulling back.
He shifts his stance slightly, widening my thighs with his knee. The new angle lets his cock slide deeper between my folds without entering, the thick shaft parting me fully now. Each forward rock drags the head along my entrance, teasing the tightring before gliding up to press against my clit where his finger still works.
I clench around nothing, hips rocking back to meet him. He lets me move this time, matching my desperate little shifts. His free hand slides up to cup my breast again, fingers pinching the nipple just enough to send sparks down my spine.
"So close," he whispers, as his circles quicken on my clit, firmer now, while his hips grind harder, the slick glide turning into something almost punishing. The head catches at my entrance every few strokes, dipping just the slightest bit deeper each time, stretching me open without pushing in.
My thighs shake violently. The tension coils so tight it hurts. I whimper into my arm, muffling the sound. He keeps the pace exact, denying the final thrust, letting the edge hover agonizingly close.
