I haven't touched myself. Not once. But I come anyway, my cock pulsing, spilling into my underwear as wave after wave of pleasure rolls through me. It's intense and overwhelming and almost painful in its intensity, and I have to grip her thighs to keep myself grounded as I ride it out.
When it finally subsides, I'm left trembling, my forehead pressed against her thigh, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Kazimir?" Her voice is soft and uncertain.
I look up at her, and I know she can see it in my eyes—the raw vulnerability, the desperate need, the proof that this isn't about duty or obligation.
"That's what you do to me," I tell her, my voice hoarse. "That's how much I want you. I didn't even touch myself, and you made me come just from tasting you."
She stares at me, her eyes wide and shining with unshed tears.
"Do you believe me now?" I ask, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh. "Do you understand?"
She doesn't answer with words. Instead, she reaches down and cups my face in her hands, pulling me up to her. When I settle beside her on the bed, she buries her face in my chest, and I feel the dampness of her tears against my shirt.
I wrap my arms around her, holding her close, and for the first time since this all began, I feel like maybe, just maybe, she's starting to believe.
23
SVETLANA
After Kazimir gets up, at my request, and goes back to his own room, I lie there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, my body still humming with the aftershocks of what he did to me.
Three times. He made me come three times, and he never once touched himself. Not until the end, when he couldn't help it anymore, when just the taste of me was enough to make him lose control. And even then, he didn’t touch himself. He just lost control. I would never have thought that could be so erotic, but the thought that Kazimir came in his pants just from going down on me sends a thrum of arousal through me all over again.
I press my hands to my face, feeling the heat in my cheeks. My thighs are still trembling, my core still pulsing with the memory of his mouth, his tongue.
I sit up slowly, pulling my robe around myself, tying it with shaking fingers. The room feels too quiet now, too empty without him in it. I can still smell him on my skin, and I want to lie there and bask in it, in the pleasure of what he just did for me.
My gaze drifts to the dresser, and I see the box he brought home. He must have brought it in before he went to bed, and Istare at it, wanting to go and look again, and feeling inexplicably scared all at the same time.
I stand on unsteady legs and walk over, reaching into the box. The yellow fabric is impossibly soft, light, and fragile, and I feel tears well up in my eyes again, my throat tightening as my hand tightens around it. It's so small. So impossibly small. I can't imagine a human being needing something this tiny, can't imagine holding something so fragile, so dependent.
I can't imagine it being mine.
I press the fabric to my chest, closing my eyes, and for the first time since I found out I was pregnant, I let myself really think about it. Not as an abstract concept, not as a problem to be solved or a burden to be endured, but as a real thing. A real person.
A baby. My baby. The thought terrifies me.
I've spent so long telling myself I don't want this, that I can't want this. That bringing a child into this world—into my world—would be the cruelest thing I could do. I've convinced myself that the only merciful choice is to let it go, to not let it exist in the first place.
But sitting here, holding the tiny blanket, feeling the softness of the fabric against my skin, I feel something shift inside me. I hear myself think a question I've been too afraid to ask.
Would I want this baby if I felt loved? If I felt safe? If I felt protected?
The answer should be simple. It should be no. This baby might not be Kazimir’s. It might be the product of the most horrific thing that could happen to a person, to a woman. And I’ve never known if I even wanted children, outside of the expectation that the kind of man my father wanted to marry me off to would want them.
But the answer isn't simple. Because sitting here with the memory of Kazimir's hands on my body and his words in my ears, I feel like maybe, just maybe, I could want it too.
I set the blanket down carefully, my hands shaking, and press my palms to my face. I can't do this. I can't let myself hope. Hope is dangerous. Hope gets you killed.
Stop it,I tell myself again.He's lying. He has to be lying. Men like him don't fall for women like you. They use you and throw you away.
But what if he's not lying? What if he means it? What if he really does want me, wants this baby, wants to build something real?
I walk to the mirror and look at my reflection. My face is flushed, my hair tangled, my eyes bright. I look like someone who's been thoroughly ravaged, claimed.
I look like someone who's wanted.
