DIMA
Natasha is incapable of walking, so I scoop her into my arms.
I love the weight of her soft body against mine, the way she turns her face into me, tucking it against my neck, looping her slender arms around my shoulders. She smells like ginger and peaches with the faint scent of pine and sunshine from her time outside.
I want to lick every inch of her.
And I will.
Because this is the only option available to me as far as I can see. I won’t let Ravil or anyone else put pressure on Natasha. And I’m unwilling to use her pressure points. There’s no way on Earth I could ever threaten her and still be able to look at myself in the mirror.
Hell, I may not be able to after this, but it won’t be because I’ve hurt or scared her.
It will be because of my trampled vows to Alyona.
And that’s why I simply can’t open that box up and unpack it with Natasha. I’ve already done everything else with her. I’ve held her hand. Kissed those sweet, soft lips. I’ve fucked her in several positions. I’ve spanked her, tied her up, had my cock in her mouth and her ass. The only thing I can keep back now is my memories of Alyona. Our bond. Our story. To share it with Natasha seems like the ultimate betrayal, and I can’t do that.
I sit her on the bathroom counter while I turn on the water. Natasha’s hair is adorably rumpled, her eyes glassy bright. While the water heats, I trace my index finger along the delicate curve of her collarbone to the hollow of her throat. Her nipples stand up in stiff peaks. Since I’ve neglected them sorely, I lean down to take one into my mouth and swirl my tongue around it before I give a hard pull.
Natasha whimpers, her hands flapping loosely at my arms.
I strip out of my clothes and then stand between her open knees, palming her ass to lift her to straddle my waist. Once more, she drops her head to my shoulder, as docile as a babydoll. I step into the shower and set her on her feet, keeping a hand at her waist to keep her steady. Her legs don’t seem to hold her. She’s drunk on orgasms.
She blinks, those sea-green eyes tracking across my chest and down my abdominals to the part of my anatomy that’s still thrilled to see her.
I wash, giving her time to gather herself.
“Dima…” she croaks. She drags the backs of her knuckles across my tattooed pect.
Something has shifted between us. I want to bring it back to the dominant sex tease I had going for the last hours, but the way she’s looking at me is too real. Too honest. Too raw.
I don’t mean to be tender, but I can’t help myself. I cover her hand with my own. She touches my fingers, traces Alyona’s ring.
I should pull away. I should stop this whole thing. I’ve already told her we can’t do this. But I don’t. I’m rendered immobile by her closeness.
“Who did this belong to?” she asks. There’s no innocence in the tone. It’s not an idle question. I realize, with a jolt, that Natasha knows more than she’s let on. Suddenly her demand that I explain why we can’t be together feels like a direct attack on my memories of Alyona.
I catch her wrist and step back, under the spray of water. “Don’t.” I turn her to face away from me-looking at her is too much. We aren’t playing games anymore. We’re light-years away from what we just did in the bedroom.
“Who was she, Dima?”
“Don’t.” I raise my voice. My body registers the question as a threat, my heart thudding too fast, the warm shower suddenly too hot.
“I want…” It takes a moment for me to recognize the tears in Natasha’s voice. “I want to be her.”
“No, you don’t,” I say harshly, even though she’s already breaking. “She’s dead.”
“At least she had you.” Natasha turns back around to face me, and I’m hit by the full force of her pain. Those green eyes overflow with it.
Blyad’. I did this to her. I hurt Natasha.
I lean my shoulder against the tile wall, feeling the weight of three elephants sitting on my chest. All the loss I suffered at Alyona’s death seems fresh again, mingled with the guilt and shame over what I’ve done to Natasha’s gentle heart.
And then I just go dead. I can’t function. Can’t choose. It’s all too much.
And my silence, my lack of response seems to send a message to Natasha because she nods and pulls the shower curtain half-open then steps out.
I’m unable to move. To say any words to fix this fuck-up I’ve created.
“I will call Alex now.” There’s defeat in her tone. Something I never wanted to hear. Why, in the fuck did I push her to this?
But no, she’s not broken because of Alex.
She’s broken because of me.
I stand in the shower, numb. I don’t feel the water turn cold, or track how long it’s been since Natasha walked out of the bathroom.
When she returns, dressed and holding the keys to the Land Rover, my brain can’t compute what’s happening.
“I’m leaving,” she tells me. It’s not a dare. There’s no anger in her deadened tones. She knows I’m going to let her walk out of here. Her imprisonment is over because she decided it was. “I can’t stay with you in this place any longer.”
Somehow, I make myself move. I turn off the water and reach for a towel. “I’ll drive you.”
“No. ” She holds up a hand. “I can’t be with you. I just… can’t. I’ll give the keys to Ravil when I get back.”