Page 33 of Hold the Line

His mouth finds the back of my neck, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along my skin, then across my shoulders, licking and sucking lightly over the fresh marks he left earlier. “Moya soroka,” he whispers against my ear. “My loud, beautiful magpie. You have no idea how long I have wanted this. How many nights I lay awake thinking about you.” His fingers thread gently through my hair as he continues murmuring, switching between Russian and English like he can’t decide which language can hold everything he feels. “You’re mine. I was so scared… but I’m here now. I’m not leaving you again. Never again, Cole.”

I shiver under the gentle onslaught, my eyes fluttering shut as his hands keep roaming — soothing over my chest, my stomach, my spent cock, like he needs to touch every inch of me to convince himself this is real. His lips press another kiss behind my ear, warm and lingering. “You feel so perfect. So good for me. I love how loud you are… how you take everything I give you.”

After weeks of silence and hurt, the tenderness is almost harder to handle than the rough fucking. But I don’t pull away. I just melt back into him, letting him hold me, kiss me, whisper all the sweet, quiet things I never thought I’d hear from Viktor Petrov.

Then, slowly and carefully, he pulls out. I whimper at the loss, already missing the stretch and fullness, but before I can complain he’s moving. So fucking gentle it makes my chest ache. He disappears for just a second and returns with a warm, damp cloth from the bathroom, wiping me down with slow, tender strokes — between my thighs, over my stomach, across the mess we made. His hands are careful on my oversensitive skin, like I’m something precious he’s afraid of breaking now that the storm has passed.

When he’s done, he tosses the cloth aside and pulls me into his arms, rolling us so I’m curled against his chest. His massive frame wraps around me completely, one thick arm banded across my waist, the other hand sliding into my hair, stroking gently. I press my face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in — sweat, cologne, and that familiar scent that’s always been just Viktor. For the first time in weeks, the constant ache in my chest feels a little lighter.

“You learned Russian,” he murmurs after a while, amused. I can feel the rumble of it against my cheek. “All by yourself. Off the internet.” He lets out a soft huff that might actually be a laugh. “Russian is not an easy language. Most people give up after a few months. You… you sound terrible, by the way. Your pronunciation is awful.”

I snort against his skin, too exhausted and happy to be properly offended. “Fuck you. I was trying.”

“I know,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of my head, his fingers still carding gently through my hair. “And I am genuinely impressed. No one has ever done something like that for me.” His voice drops softer, more serious. “Thank you for learning my language just so you could reach me.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I just press closer, letting the warmth of his body and the steady beat of his heart settle something deep inside me that’s been raw for far too long.

Ihave not slept this well in four fucking years.

When I wake up, the first thing I notice is warmth. Cole is wrapped around me completely — one leg thrown over my thigh, arm slung across my chest, face pressed into the crook of my neck like he crawled inside my skin while we slept. His dark curls tickle my face, and his breathing is slow and steady against my collarbone. For a while I do nothing but lie there, letting the unfamiliar peace settle deep in my bones. My hand moves on its own, fingers threading gently through his messy hair, stroking slowly as I look down at him.

He looks younger like this. Softer. Twenty-seven freckles dust the bridge of his nose — I have counted them more times than I will ever admit. They stand out against his golden-brown skin in the early morning light filtering through the curtains. My chest feels too full, too warm. This is what I have been running from. This quiet, devastating intimacy. And now that I finally have it, I do not know how I ever thought I could live without it.

I try to move carefully, untangling myself from his hold so I can slip to the bathroom, but the second I shift, Cole’s eyes snap open — panicked, still hazy with sleep. His arms tighten around me instantly, grip surprisingly strong for someone half my size, like he could crush someone smaller without even trying. “No…” he whines, his voice is rough and broken from sleep and everything we did last night. “Please… don’t go. Not again.”

I freeze immediately, one hand still cradling the back of his head. “Shhh… soroka,” I murmur, pressing a slow kiss to his forehead. “I’m just going to the bathroom. I’ll be back. I promise.”

But Cole refuses to let go. His arms stay locked around me, leg hooked tighter over mine, face buried deeper into my neck like he can physically stop me from leaving. I can feel the tension in his body, the fear that still lingers even after everything we shared last night.

I raise an eyebrow at him. “Do you want to come with me, Cole?”

Cole, still half-asleep and clearly not ready to let go of me yet, actually nods against my neck. His arms stay locked tight around my torso, and he mumbles something sleepy and stubborn into my skin. “Not lettin’ you out of my sight… not again…”

I should probably argue, tell him it is only the bathroom and I will be right back, but the way he is clinging to me — like I might vanish the second he loosens his grip — makes it impossible to deny him anything right now. I slide one arm under his back and the other under his thighs, then lift him easily. Cole makes a small, surprised sound but immediately wraps his legs around my waist and buries his face deeper into my neck, refusing to let go even as I carry him through the apartment like it is the most natural thing in the world.

It is absurd. I am a 6’6” hockey player walking naked through someone else’s apartment at dawn with another naked man wrapped around me like a koala. But it feels strangely tender, almost sacred. Cole’s weight is warm and solid against me, his breath tickling my skin, and for the first time in years the constant knot of fear in my chest feels a little looser. I carry him into the small bathroom, careful not to bump his head on the doorframe, and set him down gently on the edge of the sink counter so he can stay close while I take care of business. He does not let go of my arm the entire time, fingers curled loosely around my wrist like an anchor.

When I am done washing my hands, I turn back to him and he immediately reaches for me again, sleepy eyes half-lidded but still watching me like I might disappear. I step between his legs, cupping his face with both hands, and press a slow kiss to his forehead.

“I am here,” I murmur against his skin. “I am not going anywhere.”

Cole eventually jumps down from the counter with a reluctant grumble, still hovering close like he cannot bear even a foot of distance between us. He digs around in the cupboard under the sink for a moment before pulling out a fresh toothbrush, still in its packaging, and hands it to me without a word. I take it, and we stand side by side at the sink, brushing our teeth in comfortable silence.

I keep stealing glances at him in the mirror. His dark curls are a complete disaster from sleep and sex, his golden-brown skin marked with the evidence of last night — hickeys blooming across his neck and shoulder. He looks thoroughly wrecked. Beautiful. Mine. Every time my eyes drift to him, I feel that same tight pull in my chest, the overwhelming need to keep touching him, to make sure this is real.

Cole, on the other hand, has his eyes narrowed the entire time, watching me with sharp suspicion, like he is reading every micro-expression to see if I am even thinking about leaving again. It hurts more than I expected — knowing I caused that kind of fear in him. I reach out and brush my thumb along his jaw once, just a small reassurance, and his shoulders relax fractionally, though the narrowed look stays.

We eventually get dressed — me in the clothes I wore yesterday, Cole throwing on a pair of sweats and one of Lena’s old hoodies that is far too big — and make our way to the kitchen for coffee. The moment we step in, we are met by Lena. She is already wide awake, perched on the counter with a mug in her hands, grinning like a complete lunatic.

“Finally!” she exclaims, her eyes sparkling with pure mischief as she looks between us. “You two are very loud, by the way.”

I glare at her instantly, heat crawling up the back of my neck. Cole, without missing a beat, snatches a kitchen towel off the counter and hurls it directly at her face. Lena ducks, laughing brightly as the towel sails past her head.

Cole immediately launches into bickering with his sister, still half-asleep and clearly not in the mood for her shit this early. “You are such a nosy little gremlin, Lena. Don’t you have tattoos to stab into people or something?” he grumbles, voice scratchy as he moves around the kitchen like he owns it. Lena just laughs, swinging her legs from her perch on the counter, looking far too pleased with herself.

I lean against the wall with my arms crossed over my chest, and watch them. The easy, sharp way they snap at each other feels strangely warm in my chest. Family. Real, messy, loud family. For years I have kept myself at a distance from moments like this, convinced I would only ruin them. But standing here, watching Cole throw insults at his sister while she fires back twice as fast, I feel like maybe I am allowed to be part of this.

Cole starts making coffee without being asked. He pulls out two mugs, then pauses and grabs the bag of dark roast I usually drink. He makes a fresh pot just for me — strong, black, no sugar, the way I like it. The realization settles deep. He knows. He has always known exactly how I take my coffee. For me, he makes a whole new pot. Meanwhile, he fixes his own with way too much sugar and milk, reaching for the can of whipped cream on the counter like it is a requirement for survival.