It wasn’t visible unless you looked closely, but even coveredup like it was, the outline of the old, crudely done tattoo still ridged his skin.
Good Boy.
My lips pressed to the letters. His fingers dug into my thigh, but he did not tell me to stop.
I traced each letter with my mouth, reading the braille of a tragic life. A lonely life.
And knew he would never be alone again.
* * *
About Russia,
Pravda- ‘truth’
Stalinka- Stalin-era built housing. Typically housed the elite as they were spacious and well-built. Much more aesthetic than the typical concrete apartments.
24
NeverAlone
He would never be alone again.
I wanted to say it, but more than that—I wanted him tohearthe words. Maybe it wasn’t words he needed.
My hips rolled forward, mouth skimming along the letters. A groan vibrated through his throat, pulse quickening against my lips.
The piano bench whined beneath our shifting bodies, cracking the silence around our breathing and my sobs. A car horn went off on the street below, and someone shouted, but inside this skeletal, new beginning of a home—our home—it was just us.
I pressed my forehead against his. “Can I?”
“Kotik…”
His stiff cock pushed against my inner thigh, but his hands held me in place, ready to bruise.Don’t move.
I rested two fingers against the next button of his shirt, so close to exposing the hollow beneath his collarbones. All of ithidden away behind green-black colors under his skin. His jaw locked, and a tremor ran through him—so faint I’d have missed it if my legs weren’t straddling his thighs.
“Just… slow,” he conceded, his grip on me loosening.
I fumbled with the button, working it loose, then set my lips against the sculpted chest exposed to the frigid air. And then the next, and next, my mouth trailing behind my busy fingers.
Carefully, I eased myself off of him. He watched me, his jaw wound tight and shifting, but moved his arms out of my way as my mouth counted out the spaces between his defined abs. The salty skin breathed beneath me, muscles flexing, then letting loose. Every time he sucked in a breath, I lingered and waited for him to relax before continuing on.Trust me.
The expensive cologne faded, and I indulged in the intoxicating decadence of his skin. Slightly musky, intimate,his. And mine, because no one else would be allowed near him.
I’d never allow anyone near him.
“Katya…” he rasped as my teeth grazed the skin where a trail of hair ran from his navel and disappeared under his low-riding belt buckle.
I gazed up at him, already on my knees between his thighs. Vitali’s shoulders strained and sweat glistened on his temples. The thinning of his mouth let on to gritting teeth, and the thought flashed through my mind that he might strike me. I sat very still.
His pants bulged a hand-span away from my face, and I could almost see him pulsing. I’d beg him if he didn’t say anything soon. I never thought women did it without being asked, never mind wanting it. But I had to gulp down saliva looking up at him past the landscape of his hard body. Vitali Konstantinov wiped my mind of all else.
His arm flexed, the tendons tight and fists curling.
“Can I?” I asked again. At this, he suppressed a shudder and reached down to lightly caress my cheek.
“Kotik, there are scars…”
