15
Polina
Lev knows he’s losing.
We’ve been playing durak for almost an hour at the kitchen table; the rain has just started outside, and a bottle of wine between us is steadily going down. He picked the game up fast, because he picks everything up fast. Fast isn’t the same as good, though, and the look on his face when I take another trick tells me he’s been expecting to beat me since he sat down.
“You could have mentioned you were good at this,” he grumbles.
“You never asked.”
He squints at his remaining cards, and I top off my glass and wait, because patience is the only real weapon in durak, and I have considerably more than he does. At least I do here, at a kitchen table in the middle of nowhere with no pager going off and no one needing anything from either of us for the first time in longer than I can remember.
He plays his card, but it’s the wrong one. I cover it, and a frustrated look makes me smile into my wine.
“Best of three.” He pretends to sound annoyed.
“We’re already on three.”
“Okay, then. Best of?—”
The power goes out, interrupting him and shrouding us in darkness with the rain hammering the roof. A beat of quiet passes, and then thunder rolls through the walls close enough that I feel it in the table under my hands.
“Storm took the power,” I observe.
“Clearly.”
He stands from the table, opens a drawer, and strikes a match against its box, the small flame pushing back the dark. He lights two candles, setting one on the counter and carrying the other back to the table. The flame throws amber across the angles of his face, and the kitchen shrinks to just the two of us and the small circle of light between us.
He looks at my cards, which remain fanned out in my hand, and then looks at me. “The universe decided you’d won enough for one night.”
I set my cards on the table with a giggle. Outside, the storm settles into a steady rhythm with rain that means hours and not minutes. We’re not going anywhere.
He refills his glass and holds my eyes over the rim with a sly smile. “So…”
“So,” I repeat.
The candle flickers between us, and I’m all too aware of how quiet the rest of the world has gone.
I stand, and he watches me come around the table. When I stop in front of him, he tips up his chin and something in his face goes still. I reach out and start on the top button of his shirt, working it open slowly to show that I intend to take my time with him tonight.
He holds eye contact as I take his wine glass and set it on the counter, and then take his hand and pull him up.
He follows me silently down the hall.
The bedroom is darker than the kitchen. The single candle that I set on the nightstand does what it can, but mostly, it’s shadow and the sound of rain.
“Sit,” I order.
He takes a seat on the edge of the mattress and watches me saunter over to the dresser. Inside the top drawer, folded beneath a spare shirt, is a tie. I take it out and fold it.
I’ve seen him command rooms without raising his voice. I’ve watched men step back without fully understanding why. He carries a natural authority, and there’s no impatience in it tonight. Just attention, absolute and unguarded. He’s sitting where I put him, watching me, and waiting.
When I tell him to lie back, he does it without argument. He drops his weight back against the mattress and settles his arms at his sides. The act of him allowing me to take control, even for just this moment, sends heat straight through my center.
I climb onto the bed and straddle him. He’s already hard through his trousers, and when I settle against him, his breath punches out. He reaches for my thighs, and I look down at his hands.
“Not yet.” I shake my head.
