“Lili,” he repeats, hard teeth. “You don’t tell me what to do.”
Finally, the threat of roughness.Make me struggle, she wants to beg.Fuck away this pain.Make her feel the hurt in her body, not the hurt in her head.
But instead of tightening his grip on her, thrusting into her harder—fuckingher—Aleksandr keeps moving slowly, maddeningly. This visceral, terrifying gentleness, a fullness that hurts in a different way than before. The presence of him with her, looking at her, now.
It terrifies her; she wants to cauterize herself, not reveal herself. She wants him to be brutal, to take without consideration for her; to make her feel insignificant, worthless, that freedom in nothing,please, nothing—
His hand finds her neck, fingers still tangled in her hair. Not choking her, but holding her, gently.
When Aleksandr kisses her again, Lili starts to cry. Her head hurts, and her body aches. She needs to make this stop; needs to find something familiar, the flare of superficial pleasure to end this. Desperate, she reaches between them to try and touch herself.
But he grasps her wrist, and presses it back against the wet marble, tangling their hands together.
“Don’t,” he murmurs against her ear. His breath makes her wet skin rush. “Don’t, I’ll take care of you.”
A sob breaks in her chest. The agony, felt—it bursts with ruthlessness inside of her. As she starts to come—gasps hitching on her tears—he kisses her again, guiding her through it, and she holds onto him so tightly she can’t tell if she’s struggling for more or begging for it to end.
When she comes, she’s barely in her body to feel it.
A sharp intake of breath against her lips, followed by a harder thrust against her hips. Then, the feeling of him finishing inside of her as she’s drifting back.
Aleksandr looks at her, then. A few breaths linger between them, him still inside her, still holding her. Tears track down her wet cheeks, shower running. The sobs shaking her slowly settle, receding back inside.
He looks at her and it’s not expectant, but patient.
She doesn’t want to know what he’s waiting for.
Afterwards, wearing a clean white shirt of his and drinking warm coffee, Lili roams around the apartment as Aleksandr checks emails on his phone in the kitchen, absently running a towel through his hair.
The loft is softly flooded with morning. It’s a steady, peaceful light. A fragile calm has settled in her lungs. Her phone lies somewhere, abandoned with her clothes from last night. Her hair drips onto the floor, wet and freshly combed, as she wanders into one of the other rooms near his bedroom.
It’s his study, or office. Bookshelves line the walls, tall windows looking out at sun breaking into the narrow Tribeca streets. Restored wooden desk, papers, fountain pens, a pair of glasses resting on a slim gray laptop.There’s an Eames chair in the corner, a stack of books on the coffee table, a worn leather couch. A few canvases lean against the wall, tucked out of sight. It looks lived-in, like he spends time here.
Lili takes a sip of her coffee and tilts her head, reading the titles on his bookshelves.
Judt, Thucydides, Pamuk, Rilke.
She frowns: Calvino, Gramsci, Baldwin, Foucault—
“Judging my taste in books?”
She turns around. Aleksandr watches her from the doorway.
He isn’t wearing a shirt, which is—distracting.
Lili looks back to the books, tracing her hand over their spines. Still feeling unsteady on her feet, susceptible and soft after the shower, she grasps for the safe distance of intellect.
“Did you hide the Friedman before I came over?” she asks.
He laughs. “You didn’t give me much warning.”
Lili flushes.
Footsteps, as he comes up behind her. Placing his hands on her waist, he presses a kiss to the side of her neck. Lili’s eyes flutter closed for a second. Hesitation catches; she feels both fragile and safe, a foreign feeling.
“You’re a confounding mix of mischief and petulance when you’re drunk,” he murmurs.
“I am not,” she protests, turning in his arms.
