“Fuck Katya—”
The built-up pressure spurted heat to the back of my throat. His hand shook—his thighs shook—and the sheer vulnerability of that one moment was worth every tear in the world. I had never been more turned on than hearing his internal roar vibrate through my skull.
He guided me off, hand still firmly tangled in my now-ruined hairdo, and took in the way I gasped for air while trying to keep my lips tightly sealed. Literally drowning in his cum.
“Swallow it for me,” he uttered. I did, reveling in the way it made his eyes spark. “That’s a good Kotik.”
He gently wiped away the mix of tears and mascara with histhumb, then lifted me up on his lap again with a satisfied grunt.
His soft lips closed on mine.
It was unexpected that he would kiss me after that, but it was passionate, and heated and so… so tender. When he pulled away, his expression changed from the glassy-eyed intoxication to realized surprise.
“Katya, you’re so wet,” he whispered, searching my face. “God, but you are perfect.” His fingers brushed the soaked fabric between my thighs, testing it. “So perfect.”
The nylons painfully dug into me as he pulled them down, bare fingers rubbing against my swollen flesh. His touch was maddening, and I couldn’t help but grind against his hand.
God—but his pants were still undone, and cock wet with my saliva against my leg. I shifted, desperate to feel him that way—inside—but he pulled me back.
“No,” he murmured, shaking his head. “Katya, it drives me wild how hungry you are, but not today.”
In hindsight, I was glad he didn’t let me.
I gasped, unable to use words because his fingers entered me. The heel of his palm ground against my already sensitive clit. His mouth closed in on my neck as I threw my head back and arched against his chest, allowing him to hold me up. This wasn’t like the first time, I didn’t need warming up—I burned. Every movement of his fingers brought me to the edge, until one applied just the right amount of pressure.
And I came.
The moment slowed around us, exhaustion setting in and threatening sobriety as our blood cooled. He pulled me closer, lips brushing mine again. Slower, drawing out each lack of breath.
“I love you,” I rasped against him, because there was nothingleft to say and the words had been begging to get out for months—no matter where I was, no matter how angry or scared I was. No matter how many times I told myself it was something else. I loved him.
He pushed the sweat-clumped hair out of my face, taking it in as if for the first time.
“I am in love with you, Katya. I am so in love with you.”
25
VitaliAndreevich Konstantinov: The Record Skips
Ionly heard static before there was music.
And then the music wouldn’t go away, even if I hated the song. I woke up with the same line on repeat over and over and over again.
It can make a man crazy, and I’m not crazy.
I think I will die I think I will die I think I will die—die young,the song ricocheted in my head.
And you listen to something enough, you start believing it’s God giving you signs. Trying to get through to you through verses overheard in passing cars.
Just noise noise noise.
That’s how it was until I saw her.
And then Yekaterina Petrovna became my song, and she was stuck in my head on repeat, and probably would be for the rest of my life.
Even before I knew her name, although it didn’t take long to learn it. People aren’t careful. They leave records all over.
Sign here, sign there. Have to file you away. Have to track you from the moment you are born to the moment you die and put you in a little file atZAGs. But it’s not justZAGs. They spread you out across four different institutions—no central data system. I’d know. I died. But it doesn’t matter who I died as, because that person was a mistake forced to live as a mistake.
