Alison’s shocked eyes had told Natalya the moment she’d worked it out. Because while Requiem had claimed dozens of women over the years—aggressively, powerfully, confidently—no one had ever taken Natalya.
Nabi had come closest; Requiem had indulged her more than most. But it had still meant nothing and hadn’t crossed her strictest of lines—she’d never allowed such a liberty as kissing or this particular intimacy.
No one had crossed that line until Alison.
Alison had withdrawn her finger and whispered “Oh,” her eyes bright with emotion.
Natalya had found no words sufficient to tell her to stop whatever that look was. How could you put a concept so big into sliced up, rearranged spreads of letters? How could you explain the threats to her body and soul that she’d experienced so young? That in order to feel strong and protected, she’d allowed no one to touch her beyond the superficial?
The act of touching others was nothing to her. Getting people off meant the power was hers, the control hers, and her invincibility was assured. But to allow someone inside you—in every sense—that meant something.
Alison’s hand had cupped Natalya’s reddening face, eyes filled with questions.
Natalya hadn’t been able to explain the heat in her own cheeks. It wasn’t shame. Not embarrassment. Whatever it was, it had burned across her skin, and she’d wrenched her head away. She hadn’t the words for any of this.
But Alison hadn’t wanted her words. Instead she had laid herself across Natalya’s body, pressing her belly, breasts, and thighs against Natalya’s; she’d threaded herself under and through her arms, merging with her. She’d kissed her once more. Thoroughly. Because she now could. Then she’d rocked against her.
Under those delicious, intoxicating, soft kisses that had felt like a fever to Natalya, and against the sweetness of Alison’s body, rhythmically sliding against hers, Natalya had burned from the inside out. She had gradually come apart, gasping in a shuddering orgasm that, for the first time in her life, had absolutely nothing to do with power. It had to do with something else entirely. Something she hadn’t been ready to think about.
“Where were you just now?”
Alison’s voice broke into Natalya’s memories, and she blinked back to the present. Her fingers drifted through the rose petals on the sheets and she glanced up. “That night together. After your concert. When I came back for you.”
There was a nod, like she already knew. Maybe Natalya always had the same distant look on her face each time she thought of that experience.
Alison pushed her flat onto her back, pressing their bodies together. The weight and warmth was reassuring in its familiarity. “I’ve been thinking of you all day,” she said against her throat between feverish kisses, “thinking of all the ways I’m going to have you. All the ways you’ll know you’re mine.”
The words took a moment to penetrate the fog of Natalya’s overheated brain. Her breasts were seized by hot, frantic fingers, and then a tongue and teeth asserted their claim on her.
But Natalya was still stunned. How had she known?
“They can look at you,” Alison was murmuring. “All your fans, outside the Musikverein every night. All those women, all those men who want you. I see their eyes. I’m not blind. I recognise the look. I see it in the mirror every day.”
Alison sucked hard on her nipple, causing Natalya’s back to arch. “I see your eyes too,” she said. There was a pause and only cold air, as her soft lips lifted off Natalya’s breast.
Alison’s knowing gaze met Natalya’s surprised one. Her small hands were suddenly tugging at Natalya’s boy shorts, pulling them down, but Natalya did not, could not, break the gaze. Alison’s fingers gave one final, sharp tug, and Natalya was naked, exposed. Her arousal on display.
“I see your eyes too,” Alison repeated quietly.
Natalya watched her uncertainly, even as she felt a hand dusting her source, tracing her quivers. Finding the telltale wetness betraying her sharp need.
“And I remind myself that your fans can want you all they like, and you can appreciate them admiring you, but they’re not who you chose, are they?” Alison studied her.
“No.” Natalya looked at her directly.
With a nod of approval, Alison made her way down Natalya’s body. She breathed hotly over her intimate flesh that was trembling to be touched, straining for attention.
Natalya closed her eyes, waiting, her breathing harsh and fast.
She felt Alison pause her inspection and heard her almost idle question. “Did you kill her? The masseuse who hurt your scar today? Because I know masseuses. Especially the expensive kind at that fancy salon you like. Unless specifically asked, they leave scars well alone. So I’m guessing that was no masseuse. I’m almost afraid to ask who she really was.”
Natalya’s eyes sprang open. She glanced down to find Alison watching her closely, her look hard to decipher. Natalya should have known better. It was something they both had in common—a sharp eye for details. She usually appreciated that quality in her lover.
“It was touch and go. But no. Still alive.” Natalya left her tone deliberately light. Alison could take it any way she liked.
“Did you have her then?” Again there was the strange expression.
The harsh, unspoken awareness hung between them—that this was what Requiem did. Requiem fucked anyone who fucked with her, one way or another. Of course Alison knew that better than anyone. But in some twisted way, this topic usually fell under the category of things from Requiem’s past they never discussed.
But today the past was the present. It was a reasonable question.
Natalya licked her lips. “No.” She added conviction to her voice. “No.”
Alison’s eyes glowed, and their faint glint of possessiveness, fear, and tension slipped away. Desire and warmth took their place. “Good,” she said lightly, as though Natalya had merely confirmed she’d picked up milk on the way home. “And now I’m going to make you forget anyone but me.”
Natalya shivered. Alison’s tongue was suddenly driving between her legs, and Natalya cried out at the sensation. Her fingers spasmed and clutched at the sheets as her body was plundered by Alison’s nimble tongue.
Natalya hovered between states of being as those demanding lips blew on her, pulled, licked, nibbled, and claimed her. Natalya gasped as the wetness flowed from her. Inside, it felt as if a wolf was howling, as though Requiem was crying out in abandonment, as Natalya twisted, moaned, shuddered, and finally came hard against the feverish mouth of the woman she had claimed as hers.
Hers.
“I feel.” Natalya exhaled the words so softly, unaware she’d even said them until the blue eyes halfway down the bed blinked up at her.
“Mmm,” Alison whispered against her flesh. “I know that. You pretend it’s only ever with a cello in your hands, but I know better. I’ve seen it. Especially fear.”
An objection flew to Natalya’s lips at this outrage. It died at Alison’s next words.
“When I told you my sister was coming for a visit.” Alison’s eyes danced with mirth. “Who knew even the scariest assassins have in-law anxieties?” Her look dared Natalya to deny it.