63

Oleg
Story’s scent surrounds me. I dream I’m grinding against her ass, one hand possessively cupping her breast.
No, not a dream.
I blink in the morning light. I’m in my little lastochka’s bed with a raging hard-on shoved between her legs like a heat-seeking missile going for home.
She’s awake. I know because she pushes her ass back against my lap and moans softly. I pinch and rub her nipple between my thumb and forefinger, pluck it into a stiff peak. My hand is under her tank top-apparently it sleep-walked there. My dick is still in my briefs, fortunately.
I’ve never wanted to speak so badly. Fourteen years since my tongue was clipped, and this is the moment that gives me the most pain. Because I have all manner of dirty-talk swimming in my head, and I don’t have a way to get it out. To check in with her. Make sure she wants to get what I want to give.
But she told me earlier, didn’t she? She made it clear what she wanted.
I bite her neck and slip my hand down her belly and into her pajama bottoms. She opens her knee for me. I suck in a breath when my fingers stroke past her silky landing strip and over her slit. She isn’t wearing panties, and she’s hot and wet for me. I run the pad of my finger through her juices, dragging them up to swirl around her clit. It stiffens and lengthens under my touch.
The memory of making her come the last time gets me harder than stone. I want to take my time with her now, but I fear I won’t have the finesse. Not with my head still aching and my stamina so low.
I catch her throat with my other hand and pull her head back to my shoulder as I slide my finger over her sex, listening to her little gasps and mewls.
You want me to touch you here? To make you come? Or do you need my cock?
I wish I could fucking ask her. But I can’t, so I use my fingers to please her. I circle her clit until she squirms, her little whimpers growing more desperate, then I screw one inside her. I love the way her legs clamp closed, and her hand presses down over the top of mine.
“Your fingers are as big as some guys’ cocks,” she moans.
I love that she’s dirty-talking, but mentioning other guys’ dicks makes me want to kill every guy she’s ever been with.
“You’re not going to hold out on me this time, are you?” She rocks her hips taking my finger deeper.
Aw, fuck.
Now she’s getting it.
I slip my finger out and sit up.
Story sits up, too. “What?”
Okay, I was working up the strength to climb out of bed for a condom. But I remember she set my wallet on her nightstand when she washed my jeans. I point to it, and she snatches it up. “Condom?” She sounds breathless.
I love when she reads my mind.
I take the wallet, flip it open, and pull out the condom.
“Let me help.” She pushes me to my back. I hide my wince when my tender head hits the pillow. I’m too fascinated by my shalun’ya-my bad girl-to care about the pain. She straddles my legs, ripping the condom wrapper open with her teeth.
I tug the hem of her tank top twice and lift my chin. I’m being demanding, but I can tell she likes it because a naughty smile curls her lips, and she whips it off over her head and throws it to the floor.
Ah, those glorious tits. Her nipples are pale-peach tipped-and sweet, making the sight of her breasts feel like an unexpected gift.
She pulls my briefs down to free my erection and wraps her hand around the base. “Wow.” She sounds impressed. “It’s, ah, definitely bigger than your finger.”
I hold up my hand for comparison, and she smiles, her gaze lingering on my face.
“I didn’t expect you to be quite so…”
I go still, worried about what she’s going to say.
“… aggressive. It was hot.”
It takes a couple seconds for me to get over thinking it was a complaint. I hadn’t meant to be so dominant, but it had been hard to hold back all my pent-up desire for her. Story’s been my obsession for a long time now. But to hear she liked it, that she wants that, makes the motor inside me roar to life. Whatever stamina I was afraid I didn’t have appears. I could fuck this girl all night long if it was night.
Which it isn’t.
She lowers her head and slides her mouth over the tip of my cock. My head nearly explodes with pleasure. And pain. But the pleasure. I groan out loud, surprising myself because I generally try to stop myself from letting any sound emerge.
Story slides her mouth down and up again, raising gooseflesh all over my skin. She pins her gaze to mine watching the havoc she wreaks as she takes me into her mouth again and again.
It’s all too much. I’ve waited too long for this moment without ever believing it would happen. And fuck, I’m not going to come in her mouth. Not when she told me plainly that she wants me to give it to her hard.
I grip my own dick, which makes her pop off. I pull her pajama bottoms off. I want to put my mouth on her dripping cunt, but I have more confidence about what I can do with my cock. Not having a tongue to please her fucking killed me last time.
You’d think after so long I’d have accepted my fate. I’m not a wallowing fuck, but Story awakens the need to be so much more than what I’ve been for the last years-barely half a man.
She props herself up on her forearms to watch me roll the condom on. She liked me aggressive, so I grab her thighs and tug her to the center of the bed, showing off my strength.
Her breathy laugh makes it so worth it. “Ooh, there’s Big Daddy.”
Big Daddy. I don’t know enough American pop culture to be sure I understand the moniker, but I get the gist. She’s my shalun’ya, and I’m the guy in charge. The guy who’s going to fuck her until she screams.
I position myself between her open thighs and rub the head of my sheathed cock over her slit. I need to be inside her like a bear needs his first meal after winter, but I force myself to push in slowly, knowing I’m big, and she’s a little pixie.
She arches, her head dropping back as she thrusts her hips up to take me deeper.
Blyad’. She needs more? I’ll give it to her. I cage her throat with my hand. I don’t squeeze at all-not even a little bit, but the position itself is dominant. I hold her throat and shove my cock in with a hard thrust.
“Oh my gawd.” Story’s mouth opens wide, her body undulating beneath mine, responding to my thrust.
I ease back then arc in again with force, keeping her from sliding up with the hand around her throat. Her core contracts around my cock. With my free hand, I pinch her nipple then squeeze her perfect breast.
I go slow and hard for a while, punctuating my in-strokes with a pause to let her feel my full length, to get used to me. But both of us soon need more. Story starts reaching for me, holding my sides to pull me in sooner, so I shorten the strokes and increase the pace, leaning one hand against the wall behind her head to brace myself.
“Oleg,” she pants. “Oh my God, yes. Oleg.”
Hearing her chant my name sends my ego on a victory march before it’s even over. The most human part of me that had shriveled up and died turning on a little more each time I drink in her goddess-beautiful face.
Story. I want to chant her name back to her. My lastochka. I shift to lift her legs up to my shoulders, holding the fronts of her thighs, so I can plow deeper. Her cries get louder and more frequent-almost a constant stream of vocalizations.
I pause and arch a brow. You like that, shalun’ya?
Spank me, Daddy. Remembering her squeal when I put her over my shoulder Saturday night, I pull out and flip her to belly, giving each buttcheek a sharp slap.
“Ooh!” She arches her back like a cat, offering her ass up to me. I deliver another two slaps before I push back in, and she moans her contentment.
I hold her by the nape and ride her from behind, glorying in each delicious, dizzying stroke. The room swoops and swims, but it’s from ecstasy not pain. Nothing feels so right as being inside Story.
I stroke down her back with the fingertips of my free hand. Admire the umbrella tattoo on her shoulder blade. Grab a handful of her ass. Hold her hip. I pull her cheeks wide to get at her cute little hole, and she lets out a stream of frantic, garbled encouragement. She doesn’t last long. Four more stokes, and then she comes, her legs straightening and jerking, her inner walls squeezing my cock like a fist.
I fuck her harder and faster to bring on my own finish, and it comes immediately. I plunge deep and hold, reaching my hand under her hips to rub her clit and coax out the rest of her climax. It works. Another gigantic tremor runs through her, and the muscles pulse again, squeezing more cum into the condom. Sparks of light dance behind my eyes. I pull out and topple to my side, my head splitting but my heart, my spirit-something I thought long dead-soaring like a fucking kite.
Story, I want to croon in her ear. Beautiful story. My crazy, wild, naughty girl songbird. What a fucking priviledge to be in her bed. I settle for a soft hum. The sound for how she makes me feel.
I manage to remove the condom and throw it in the trash by the bed before I close my eyes and pass out again.
Story
I’m just out of the shower getting dressed when a knock sounds on the door. Oleg is passed out on the bed, poor guy.
Poor him, lucky me. The guy is a freaking stallion. That was by far the best sex I’ve ever had. It wasn’t any special technique, it was just… Oleg. I love feeling his strength and power. The roughness and dominance to his movements. And yet I’ve also never felt so safe with a guy. This guy is dependable. He comes to every show. Sits in the front with the energy of a bouncer or protector. I never once felt nervous when he was manhandling me. I knew if I said stop, he’d stop. I could relax and enjoy it.
I yank on my sweater run for the door. No one rang the buzzer downstairs, which means it must be a neighbor. Hopefully not to complain about our morning sex session. Not that I was that loud. Or was I? My throat does feel rather raw.
I swing the door open, but when I see the two tattooed guys behind it, I immediately narrow the gap until only my face shows through. “Yes?”
“Hey, Story,” the brown-haired guy says. “I’m Maxim, a friend of Oleg’s. This is Pavel.” He indicates his blond friend. “We met at your show? My wife Sasha talked to you-the redhead?”
“Yeah, hey.” I remember the guy and his friendly wife, and he doesn’t seem threatening, but I don’t know who hurt Oleg, and the guy smashed his own phone like he was afraid of being tracked. Plus, I don’t know how these guys found me or my place.
“I’m sorry to show up here. It’s just that we haven’t seen Oleg since Saturday night, and we were wondering if you know anything? Was he at your show Saturday?”
I shake my head quickly. “No.”
He cocks his head like he knows I’m lying.
“I mean, yes, he was at my show, but I don’t know where he went after that. I mean, I haven’t seen him.” Damn, I’m a terrible liar. I sound breathless, and I’m speaking way too fast.
Maxim’s eyes narrow. He tries to peer past me, and when he does, his shoulders relax. “Oleg, what the fuck?”
I whirl to find Oleg behind me. He pulled on his jeans, but he’s shirtless, and there are no shoes on his feet. He’s certainly not hiding from these guys. Relief flows through me.
I’m suddenly overjoyed to have someone to share the weight of Oleg’s plight with. “He got attacked. Someone shot him,” I blurt, standing back from the door, so they can come in.
“What?” Maxim scans Oleg quickly.
“He got hit over the head and shot in the leg.” I point at the hole in his jeans. I washed the blood out, but the entire thigh area of his jeans is still stained rust.
“Fuck.” Maxim says something terse in Russian to Pavel who appears grim. “Thank you for taking care of him.”
“You don’t have to thank me.” I’m slightly offended. Of course, I took care of him. He’s my friend.
Oleg staggers back toward the bedroom, and Pavel follows him, not offering help but staying close.
“Do you know who attacked him? Did you see what happened?”
I shake my head. “No, he drove my van here to take me home. The next morning, I found him in the back of it, bleeding with a wound on the back of his head.”
Oleg appears with his shirt and boots on.
“Where the fuck is your phone?” Maxim demands. I bristle a little at the way he speaks to Oleg, but it also puts me at ease. They’re obviously comfortable with each other. There’s a rapport. Like I have with Flynn and the guys in the band.
Oleg doesn’t answer. Well, of course not, but he doesn’t try to communicate at all. I’ve noticed him do that with me, too, when he decides he doesn’t want to engage. It’s like he doesn’t even try.
“He smashed it,” I offer, even though I’m not sure Oleg wants me to share that.
Maxim stares at him, like he’s trying to puzzle it out. “Okay,” he says, like he’s got it handled. “Let’s get you home, buddy.”
Oleg looks at Maxim and tips his head my way.
Maxim pulls out his wallet and grabs all the cash in it. I catch sight of more than a few hundred dollar bills. He folds the wad in half and hands it all to me, pinched between his index and middle fingers. “Thank you for taking care of Oleg.”
“What?” I shove the bills back at him, offended. “I didn’t do it for the money.”
Oleg appears alarmed by my tone. His brows go up, and he watches my face carefully.
“No, no, no,” Maxim says smoothly. “I didn’t mean it to sound transactional.” He spreads his free hand in a peace-making gesture. “Not at all. I know you did it because you care about Oleg.”
I calm down a bit.
“But Oleg wants you to be taken care of. Please accept it.” He stretches his arm out toward me again.
I hesitate. I’m still a little offended. Or maybe I don’t like that Oleg’s leaving. He’s leaving, and I don’t have his number or know when I’m going to see him again.
This is so unlike me. Usually I’m the one running from a relationship.
My eyes suddenly get hot, and I blink rapidly. I still haven’t taken the money. I sort of hate that I’m talking to Maxim right now instead of Oleg.
Why is that?
Why is Oleg letting his friend speak for him? And why is he just leaving with them? Is he even going to say goodbye?
It pisses me off. I fold my arms across my chest. “Then let Oleg give it to me,” I challenge.
Maxim pivots, so his arm points toward Oleg. Oleg’s dark brows are down. He snatches the money from Maxim’s fingers and tosses it on my coffee table like he’s throwing it in the trash. He steps right into my space, cupping the back of my head, his mouth descending on mine before I even have time to breathe. To think.
The tears spear the inner corners of my eyes as I receive his kiss. His hand on my waist, his thumb cupping my cheek. When he breaks the kiss, he leans his forehead against mine and stays there. He makes that soft humming sound he did after we had sex. His friends leave the apartment, standing out on the landing to give us privacy.
“Don’t do that to me,” I whisper, hurt still lacing my voice.
He pulls away, worried eyes studying my face.
“I don’t want an intermediary between us,” I explain because he obviously isn’t sure what I’m talking about.
He goes still, almost like I shocked him. Like he wasn’t aware of the way he just faded into the background the moment his friends arrived. He nods and bends his head to give me one soft kiss-a press of his lips to mine.
I don’t want him to leave. It’s crazy how much I don’t want him to leave. Even though I know this thing can’t go anywhere. I know exploring it will only lead to pain and the eventual end. Still, I cling to him. Wrap my arms around his back and press my body up against his in a hug.
“Get better soon,” I say, my voice rusty. It’s a stupid thing to say. It doesn’t encompass one-fifth of what I want to say to him. “Will you be at my show?”
Jesus.
Now I just sound clingy.
He freezes again, which tells me he doesn’t think he will be, but then he gives a single nod.
Hmm. I don’t quite believe him.
But there’s someone after him. Maybe he has to go into hiding now.
Fuck-maybe I’ll never see him again.
I catch his sleeve as he turns. “Oleg-”
He swivels back, that alarmed expression in place.
“Will you be? Really?”
He draws in a slow breath then nods.
I exhale.
“Be careful,” I say because now I feel guilty for asking him to come to my show when he’s obviously in danger.
He nods and catches my hand, squeezing it.
I still don’t want him to go. But his friends shift position in the hallway, and I notice the bulge of a handgun in Pavel’s jacket pocket, and I remember that I don’t belong in his world. Which means he can’t stay in mine.
“Bye,” I say quickly, turning away to pretend I’m cool. Because I am. I’ve had a lot of weird experiences in my short life. I’m in a band, and many of my friends do a lot of drugs. This will become another crazy story. Or maybe I’ll actually write the songs that have been eluding me for a while now.
Why, then, does it feel like such a loss when Oleg walks out my door?