Already hard, my cock rests snugly against the crease of her ass. For a moment, I fantasize about an ass wank, as dirty as the idea may seem, but I wore her out last night. The stress of our fucked-up situation is a lot for a delicate, kind-hearted woman to handle. The filth of the world hasn’t desensitized her conscience, the way it has mine. She’s like the angel on my parents’ grave, a compassionate innocent who saves lives without asking questions. The hell I dragged her into is no doubt exhausting on both a physical and emotional level. She needs her rest.
Reaching for the bed curtain on my side, I pull it open. The room is dark. I check my watch. It’s after ten. Even at this time of the year, the sun is up by now, but the heavy curtains in front of the windows keep out the light. I disentangle myself carefully from Katyusha and get up quietly, taking care not to wake her. The darkness is so thick I have to feel around to find my pajama bottoms on the floor. After pulling them on, I use the light of my phone so I don’t bump into the furniture on my way to the bathroom, where I grab a robe.
I tie the belt around my waist as I make my way to the kitchen. Tima glances up when I enter. A knowing smile flashes over his face as he shifts his gaze from my unclothed state to the clock on the wall. I never sleep in. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together, but he’s wise enough not to make a comment. I have a high regard for his culinary skills, but my private life is none of his fucking business.
“I left breakfast in the warming drawer,” he says. “Omelets with cheese and grilled tomato for the little rabbit.”
I narrow my eyes at the term of endearment.
“I look out for her when you’re not home,” he says, pouring coffee into two mugs. “She could do with a little friendly company.”
Only the fatherly way he says that prevents me from planting my fist into his face. Yeah, I’m a jealous asshole, possessive enough not to trust a sixty-year-old cook.
After Tima has set the omelets, quartered oranges, and coffee on a tray, I carry our breakfast back to the bedroom. The path to the sitting area is clear. I make it there without falling over anything and deposit the tray on the table before opening the curtains. Sunlight pours inside. The bright rays catch dust particles in the wedges they cut through the room. The sky is such a brilliant blue that it momentarily hurts my eyes. The thick blanket of snow that covers the ground sparkles like glitter. It’s a glorious winter day, a good day for being outside.
The thought knocks my heart off kilter, punching me with an unpleasant dose of guilt. My world turns askew. I’ve always condemned keeping birds and animals in cages. Knowing I’ll be walking through the door into the beauty of the winter’s day while keeping my biggest treasure behind the lock of a gilded cage only adds to the weird notion that the pieces of my life are misplaced.
Misplaced, but for a good reason. Neither of us likes this situation, but it’s necessary.
Tima is right, however. Katerina needs company, stimulation, and friends. The current arrangement is hardly healthy. Not to mention, I’m not being a good boyfriend. It’s her first visit to Russia, and she hasn’t seen anything apart from the inside of this house. It bothers me to restrain her freedom, but I’m afraid to let her out. Although… maybe if I plan it to the last detail and take the utmost precaution, I could show her some of the sights. She gave me a huge concession last night, letting me touch her while her heart is still unhappy with me. It’s only fair that I show her I’m making an effort too.
To say I’m relieved at finally having access to her body again is an understatement. It’s not just the physical relief of blowing off sexual steam. Reclaiming what belongs to me on every intangible level is much more important. I want everything—her body, her thoughts, and her love. She still feels betrayed. I get that. Which is why taking her outside of these walls will be good for both of us. One, it’s important for her mental health. Cabin fever has never been conducive to anyone’s wellbeing. Two, it will help me get back into her good graces.
The more I think about it, the more the idea grows on me.
The object of my thoughts stirs. A soft sigh escapes her lips as she turns on her back. Her dark hair splays over the white pillow, the waves looking soft and silky. However, the usual glow of her golden skin is absent. She looks so fragile, so utterly vulnerable as she lies there, a tiny shape under the mountain of blankets covering the king-sized bed, that I almost go back on the promise I’ve just made to myself to take her out.
Her long lashes lift. Blinking, she takes in the room. Her rich hazel gaze settles on me.
I feel the smile that stretches my lips somewhere behind my breastbone. It drifts to the cavity between my ribs and settles there with bittersweetness. “Good morning, my love. I brought you breakfast.”
Clutching the sheet to her chest, she sits up. “What time is it?”
“Don’t worry about the time. You needed your rest.” I pick up the tray and carry it to the bed. “Tima made omelets.”
“That smells good,” she says with a weak smile.
“You must be starving.” Heat shades my voice as I add, “After last night.”
A flush works its way over her cheeks. She’s not shy about sex or her body. What bothers her is her surrender. I know my kiska well enough to understand that she feels like she’s lost a battle. Well, too bad. Our relationship isn’t a war she should be fighting.
Balancing the tray on one hand, I put a plate and mug on the nightstand on her side. She watches me with her lip caught between her teeth, her waves deliciously untamed. I’ve always found a woman who’s just woken up sexy. There’s something alluring about that natural beauty before it’s been touched by brushes and makeup, and there’s no woman sexier or more alluring than my Katyusha, even when she’s scrunching the sheet in her small fist as if her honor depends on it. We finally took ten steps forward last night. I’m not going to let her hide from me now and take us five steps back.
Hooking a finger into the sheet between the curves of her breasts, I tug gently. She holds on, clenching her fingers tighter. I don’t let her off the hook. This isn’t a war. There’s nothing to lose. I’m not stripping her of her dignity or pride. I simply want things between us the way they used to be. I want her to be comfortable with her nakedness around me, like she’d been the morning after the very first time I’d claimed her.
After another beat of me tugging and her pulling, she lets go. The fabric slides over her breasts and pools around her waist, unveiling her like a stunning life portrait. Unabashedly, I stare at her curves and the pert pink nipples that top them like cherries. My cock comes to life, tenting my pajama bottoms and showing her in no uncertain terms what she does to me.
Her gaze moves south. She only graces my erection with her attention for a second before she focuses on my face.
My smile is like a door hanging on one hinge—crooked and unstable. I have a good mind to forget about food and have her for breakfast, but in the light of day, she’s skittish. The moon was kind. It let us hide in the shadows and commit sins we can’t face under the judgment of the sun. That’s all right. I have patience, a lifetime of it where she’s concerned.
“The food is getting cold,” I say, breaking the tension by walking to my side and getting in under the covers next to her. I move carefully, making sure I don’t topple the tray, and when I’m settled with my back against the headboard, I balance the tray on my lap.