Oleg
Closing time. I can’t fucking believe it. I haven’t missed more than one Saturday night show at Rue’s in nine months, and that was to go to Maxim and Sasha’s destination wedding.
I sit in the parking lot and watch the back door. The band’s van is parked out back, and so is Story’s Smart Car, so I know they’re still inside. I’ll just wait until I see her get safely in her car.
I spent most of the week in bed, recovering. And tonight… I just fucking overslept. I laid down to rest my aching head this afternoon, never dreaming I wouldn’t be up and ready to head to Story’s show on time. I didn’t set an alarm because I didn’t think I’d need one. I’d sooner puncture a lung than miss a show.
But when I woke up drenched in sweat with a foggy, aching head, it was already midnight. I had to scramble to take a quick shower and drive down here. I shouldn’t be here. I have no idea who’s sending men after me or how they tracked me down the first time. I should leave before I put my lastochka in danger. But she seemed like she really wanted me here, and the thought of letting her down kills me.
I blink, trying to get my thoughts straight.
Story comes out alone. Her shoulders are hunched, and she walks quickly toward her car. It’s unlike her-she’s usually surrounded by friends and hangers-on. Guys and girls who want to fuck her. Friends who think she’s cool. People who want her at their after-parties to make them happen.
Tonight there’s no smile on her face. No cocoon of a crowd.
Dammit. I did let her down.
As if she senses me, her head turns, and she looks right through my windshield. There’s an accusation in her gaze. Like she’s pissed I didn’t come. That thought blows through me, straightening my spine, puffing up my chest.
I’m out of the Denali before I even think, but things immediately go sideways.
A guy in a bomber jacket with a beard that needs trimming emerges from the shadowy corner behind her. “Get in the car or your girlfriend’s dead.” The Russian words are for me. The gun is at Story’s head. I put my hands slowly in the air. Look around. A car speeds up and stops between me and the mudak with Story.
I see one guy driving, another in the passenger seat. I slowly open the back door of the car. Not because I’m getting in, but to check to see how many guys I have to kill.
It’s empty. Easy. I just have to wait until that gun moves away from Story’s head. I’m not taking any chances where she’s concerned.
I’ll wait until we’re in the car to kill them both.
Except the asshole seems to know what’s important to me because he grabs Story by the arm and brings her to the car. “Get in,” he barks in heavily-accented English. He doesn’t move to open the door for her.
She looks at me with panic in her eyes, and I try to project calm. I won’t let them take her. No fucking way. I will sacrifice myself in a heartbeat before I let anyone touch a hair on her head.
Of course, that’s what they’re banking on. I’m sure the plan is to torture Story to make me sing. Spill the identity of every client Skal’pel’ cut into.
Fuck! How could I let her get involved in this shit?
Story pulls the handle. I palm my gun, keeping it hidden behind my back. Our eyes meet through the back seat of the car.
I just need the right moment.
A distraction. The gun pointed away from Story.
My beautiful, brave swallow reads my mind. She rams her guitar case into her captor’s belly. I take the shot across the back seat, then shoot the guy in the front passenger seat.
I have the driver’s throat in my hand. I snap his neck.
I shut the back door and wipe my prints from the handle. Running around to the other side, I shove Story’s captor’s body in the back seat, shut the door and wipe those prints, too.
Story’s backed up, shock still frozen on her face. Her eyes are twice the size they usually are.
Fuck!
I point to my Denali, praying she won’t run from me, but to my relief, she dashes to the Denali and climbs in. She still trusts me. Even after what she just saw.
I roll down the window on the driver’s side, put the car in drive and shove the driver’s foot over to the gas. Then I steer through the window to get the car out of Rue’s parking lot. When I get it into the alley, I point it down the street, jogging with it for a half a block until I’m sure it will keep going straight onto a major road.
I whip around to see headlights behind me, but they’re my own Denali, Story behind the wheel.
That’s my girl.
I run for it, throwing open the driver’s door as she climbs into the passenger side, acrobatic as ever.
I’ve never felt the need to speak more. I reach over and take Story’s hand at the same time I take off out of there, driving backward down the alley with my lights off until I’m out of the neighborhood.
The fact that she hasn’t spoken scares the shit out of me. I’m sure she’s in shock. I can’t say how fucking grateful I am that she got in my Denali of her own volition.
Because if she hadn’t, I would’ve had to force her. Story is no longer safe. That much is clear. Because I don’t know if I eliminated the real threat tonight or just another hired gang.
Story’s eyes are wide, and her breath rasps in and out, but she’s craning her neck, looking over her shoulder. She hasn’t shut down completely.
I want to tell her it’s okay.
I won’t let anyone hurt her.
I need her to come with me to lie low for a while.
I want to say I’m sorry. So fucking sorry. Nothing surpasses my anguish at having put her in danger this way. I made her a target. It’s unforgivable.
“Where are we going?” she asks once.
I reply with what I hope is a reassuring squeeze of her hand. Her phone rings, but she doesn’t answer it.
I drive straight to my place in Ravil’s building-what the neighbors have dubbed “the Kremlin” because the entire building is filled with Russians. When I park and turn off the car, Story turns to me. Her face is pale and serious.
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
Fuck.
I get out and walk around to open her door, but she’s already hopped out, her guitar strap looped over her shoulder.
I cup her face and peer down into it, stroking her cheeks with my thumbs.
She nods. “I’m okay.”
Fuck. Her mind-reading thing only makes me twenty thousand times more addicted to her.
I draw in a relieved breath and nod back. I take her hand and lead her to the bank of elevators, swiping my card that gets me to the top floor. The penthouse suite Ravil shares with his cell.
Since he had a baby boy in November, I keep waiting for Ravil to kick us all out-to move us to a different floor, so he can use the penthouse for his new family. But apparently, his new wife Lucy doesn’t mind.
The other newlyweds-Maxim and Sasha don’t seem to mind communal living either. Which, frankly, is all the better for me. It’s harder to disappear in a smaller group, and disappearing is definitely my game.
My suite has its own entrance from the elevator hallway, which is good because it’s late. Even if it weren’t, I wouldn’t subject Story to the chaos of the group right now.
I think the private entrance is supposed to make up for the fact that I don’t have a view of the lake, not that it matters to me. My floor-to-ceiling windows look out over the city.
I swipe my keycard through the lock and push the door open. The shades are drawn, and the suite is dark.
Story steps in, and I flick on a lamp, so she can see. Everything in the penthouse is expensive and tasteful, but the decorator Ravil hired got the message that I wasn’t interested in anything fancy, so she left it mostly empty. There’s a minimalist king platform bed, low to the ground, and a large overstuffed chair. The end tables and dresser are mid-century modern teak. There’s a small table with two chairs in front of the window. It’s probably all expensive-I don’t know. I don’t care about any of it. It’s a place to sleep-that’s all that matters to me.
“This is your place?” She looks up at me.
I nod.
She still seems shaken and stiff. I can’t stand it. I would do fucking anything to erase what just happened back there. What she saw me do.
Fuck!
She sets down her acoustic guitar and takes off her wine-colored woolen coat, draping it over the neck of the case. “Where’s the kitchen?”
I lift my brows and mime eating.
“No, I’m not hungry. I just think it’s weird that you don’t have one.”
I nod. I don’t know how to begin explaining that I live with seven and a half other people-six Russians, one American, and a baby named Benjamin.
She kicks off her combat boots and heads into the bathroom. She’s in a corduroy micro-mini, frayed at the edges, with a pair of pale pink tights on underneath. On top, she’s wearing a skin-tight t-shirt with a rainbow across her chest and the sleeves cut off. I think it might have belonged to a child before it became Story’s.
“Wow. This is… beautiful.” She opens the shower door and takes in the giant shower. She turns on the water and looks over her shoulder at me. “Looks like there’s room for two.”
It’s not flirty, she almost sounds… vulnerable.
She needs me. It’s my job to take care of her. I follow her in, stripping off my clothes as I walk. She drops her skirt to the floor at her feet and shimmies out of the tights. I tug the t-shirt off over her head and unhook her bra. I don’t feel the aggression I felt last time. The wild storm of lust that made me rough and crude with her. This time, the need to take care of her is too strong.
She just saw me kill three men. She saw that, and she’s still here with me. She didn’t protest me bringing her here, and she hasn’t tried to leave.
She asked me into the shower with her.
But she’s not okay. I know that in my bones, and my need to soothe her comes first.
I know I’m right, when she just turns and steps into the shower. It’s like she wants to wash off the events of the night. I finish undressing and step in behind her, shutting the door.
I don’t crowd her, but she comes to me, her fingers coasting over my hairy chest.
“Why didn’t you come tonight?” she asks.
I flinch, the question hitting me like a punch to the gut. I’d tried to tell myself I didn’t matter enough to Story. That she wouldn’t be hurt by my absence tonight, but she clearly was. I trail my fingertips down her face, tracing the water droplets over her nose, then her lips.
“Was it because of those guys?”
Fuck. I don’t want to tell her it was because I overslept. And of course, I don’t have a way of giving her the words, even if I had them. I step into her space, walking her slowly backward until she hits the soft quartz wall. My hands coast lightly down her arms. One settles on her waist, the other wraps behind her neck. I lean my forehead against hers.
“You’re sorry,” she murmurs, doing her trick of reading my mind.
I nod.
When she looks up, there are tears in her eyes. “I’m scared, Oleg.” She sucks in a sobbed breath. “I don’t know what’s happening, and you can’t tell me.”
I wrap my arms around her, and she presses her cheek to my chest, crying. I hold her until her tears subside. It doesn’t take long. She sniffs and pushes me gently back. I pick up the bar of soap and roll it in one hand, then gently begin to suds down one of her arms to her hands, where I massage each calloused fingertip. I turn her and wash her back, massaging her neck firmly, stroking down her sides, gripping her ass possessively.
She moans softly. “Yes.”
I soap the other shoulder and arm, then both her breasts, pressing my thigh between her legs and pinning her against the shower wall. I tug her head back with my hand around her wet hair. She opens her mouth. Our lips connect for a searing kiss then come apart.
“I’m on the pill,” she murmurs.
I check her face to be sure I’m getting the right memo.
“Are you clean?”
I nod. Definitely clean. I’ve only had sex twice since I got out of prison, and both times I wore a condom.
“Me too.” She reaches for my cock.
I wasn’t going to go there unless I was sure she needed it, but apparently she does.
I impale her with my erection in one swift stroke. Being inside her bare is another incredible level. But this isn’t for me. It’s for her. I need to give my lastochka what she needs.
She gasps, lifting one leg to wrap around my waist, clinging to my shoulders for stability. I fill her, pumping in and out, her skin under my hands a form of worship.
Her breath rasps. Her gaze stays on my face, intensifying the moment. She’s searching for something. Connection? Truth? Trust?
I wish I fucking knew how to give it to her. All I know is our bodies, so right together. Our skin, wet and slick. The communion of this act, this coming together for mutual release. I know I need this as badly as she does, even though I’d willingly deny myself the pleasure if it meant I could undo what happened tonight.
I work her ass in my hands, massaging it, stroking between her cheeks. Pressing against her anus.
Her eyes fly open in surprise, and her hips thrust frantically, taking me deeper, meeting my strokes.
You like that? You want my finger in your ass while I make you come?
That’s what I would say if I could just dirty-talk my girl.
I bend my neck to meld my lips to hers, drinking in her gasps as I work my fingertip into her anus. When her head arcs back, I kiss her throat and gently pump my finger in and out, just to the first knuckle as I hold her hips captive and thrust into her.
She shatters-throwing herself fully in my arms, both legs wrapped tightly around my waist as she comes. Her nails score my neck and shoulders, the contracting of her muscles around my dick bringing on my own release. I stay deep but rub her clit up and down over my loins, my erection straining with each mini-thrust. I come inside her, and she squeezes more, milking my dick for its seed. I fucking love that I can feel everything. That I’m inside her without any barriers between us.
“Oleg.” She sounds broken.
I don’t put her down. I don’t ever want to put her down again. I ease my finger out of her ass and wash us both under the water, then carry her out of the shower, still wrapped around my waist. I grab a towel and pull it tightly around her back and ass, using it to hold her against my body. Carefully, like she’s made of glass, I prop her ass on the bathroom counter, the towel tucked softly beneath her cheeks, and I use the ends to pat her face dry. Her make-up left smudges under her eyes, but I don’t know what to do about those. We’ll figure it out in the morning.
I run the corner of the towel between her breasts and down her belly, wrap both sides up to dry her thighs, and then I pull her back into my arms, wrap the towel around her back and carry her to my bed.
Story’s quiet the whole time, watching me with big, brown eyes. I lay her gently down and flick off the light before I lie beside her. The chaotic thudding in my chest is soothed when she instantly rolls into me, molding her body against my side, resting her wet head on my shoulder.
“You’re warm,” she murmurs.
She’s right, I’m burning up. But the only thing I care about is holding Story.