I doubt that’s really true. But Dom doesn’t seem worried. He grabs my hand and says, “Come on! You can bring your drink.”
Once we’re alone in the hallway again, I say, “Where’s your brother? Does he know I’m here?”
“Not exactly,” Dom admits. “He’s out of town right now. But it doesn’t matter—I’m going to tell him. You’re not a secret, Lara.”
I don’t share Dom’s confidence that Ivan Petrov is going to be cool about me poking around his house. Still, it’s useless to argue that point when I’m already here.
“What do you want to see next?” Dom asks me. “I was going to show you the greenhouse, the garage, the kennels . . . but I get the feeling you’re not a big fan of dogs?”
“I am . . . I mean, I like them. But they scare me. When they’re big dogs.”
“Ours are very well trained,” Dom assures me. “The alpha, Volya, he’s a sweetheart, really.”
I’m sure it’s true, but just thinking about those big, brawny beasts is making me feel sick and sweaty again.
“What about your room?” I ask him quickly. “Where do you sleep?”
Dom pauses, surprised.
“You want to see it?”
“Of course.”
“Alright then.”
He takes my hand and leads me to the east wing of the monastery.
15
Dom
As you become more clear about who you really are, you'll be better able to decide what is best for you - the first time around.
Oprah Winfrey
I don’t know who’s more nervous as I lead Lara toward my room. There’s an unspoken tension between us. The hope or fear or anticipation of what might be about to happen.
I’ve wanted to fuck Lara since the moment I laid eyes on her.
But that was weeks ago, and things have changed since then.
Now I know her better than I did then. I like her. I respect her. And, yes, I’m still extremely fucking attracted to her. But she’s a virgin.
I’ve never been with a virgin before. Not even my own first time.
I want her so bad that I can literally taste the anticipation in my mouth—that slightly acidic bite of adrenaline. Yet the idea that I might hurt her or upset her is holding me back.
Lara’s the one who asked to see my room, though. That’s got to mean something, doesn’t it?
My room is one of the stranger spaces in the monastery. It used to be an attic for about four hundred years. It’s located right under the peak of the roof in the east wing, so the ceiling is heavily sloped in both directions. At the edges of the room you can barely stand up, but in the center, the peak is almost twenty feet overhead. There are no windows in the usual sense. Instead, I installed two massive skylights directly above my bed.
Sometimes I bring tools and engine parts up here, when I have a complicated project that I want to work on in peace and quiet. Because I knew Lara was coming over, I threw all that stuff in my closet. But it still smells like engine oil in here, and also a bit like fresh-baked bread, because I’m above the part of the kitchen where our chef bakes a dozen loaves every morning.
I don’t have many books and barely any decorations. However, I do have several shelves of LPs and three different turntables.
Lara runs over to the records immediately.
“What are all these?” she says teasingly. “Did the monks leave them behind?”
“Ha ha,” I say. “Very funny. I like the way records sound. Plus, the album art—you don’t get that with digital music.”
“You can touch this, and hold it in your hand,” Lara says.
“Exactly.”
“What’s your favorite album?” she says.
“I dunno. All of them,” I laugh.
“Put one on,” she coaxes me.
I run my fingers down the spines. So many to choose from . . .
At last I pull one off the shelf, sliding the vinyl disk out of its protective sleeve. I place it down on the platter, flipping the switch so it begins to spin, then setting the tonearm in place above the outermost groove.
There’s a mild crackling sound, then the horns come in, and Frankie Valli croons:
You're just too good to be true
Can't take my eyes off of you
You'd be like heaven to touch
I wanna hold you so much
At long last, love has arrived
And I thank god I'm alive
You're just too good to be true
Can't take my eyes off of you
Lara seems perfectly content to listen, her big, dark eyes watching the record spin around. But as soon as the tempo starts building up to that bombastic chorus, I can’t help myself. I grab hold of her and start dancing her around the room, twirling her across the bare boards of the attic floor.
Every time I touch Lara, I’m reminded how small and slim she really is. She tends to favor oversized t-shirts, and loose clothing in general. And her hair is so straight and dark that it gives her a certain kind of presence, like an exclamation point on her person.
But when I hold her in my arms, I realize how fragile she really is. It fills me with a powerful urge to protect her.
Her head only comes up to my chest. I rest my chin on top of her head, smelling the fresh, clean scent of her hair. Her hand is tiny inside of mine. Her fingers are slim and cool. They slide between mine, linking us tight.
I really do love this song.
I start singing along, quietly at first, and then a little louder.
I love you, baby
And if it’s quite alright
I need you, baby
To warm the lonely night
I love you, baby
Trust in me when I say . . .
I’m aware that I’m a fucking terrible singer. I can feel Lara shaking with laughter against my chest, though she’s trying to not let me hear.
I just sing louder than ever:
Oh, pretty baby
Don’t bring me down, I pray
Oh, pretty baby
Now that I’ve found you, stay
And let me love you, baby
Let me love you . . .
She can’t help it. She’s laughing so hard that there are tears running down her cheeks.
“What is it?” I ask her with pretend seriousness. “What’s so funny?”
“N—nothing . . .” she giggles, trying to cover her mouth.
“What? You know I tried out for The Voice once.”
She doesn’t even try to cover it up now. She has the most infectious laugh. It shakes her shoulders and convulses her with little snorts. It’s completely adorable.
“You’re not laughing at me, are you?”
She mouths, No, but she can’t even get the words out.
“Oh, you’re in so much trouble.”
I pick her up bodily, throwing her down on my bed. I’m tickling her and kissing her all over, demanding, “Take it back! Tell me I’m a good singer!”
“Nooooo!” she squeals, laughing even harder. “I—I can’t. Because . . . you’re just so . . . so awful . . .”
I don’t know when it happens, but tickling her and kissing her turns into just kissing her, and wrestling around on the bed turns into me pinning her down, kissing her deeper and harder and much more intensely.