Last Kiss (Hitman #3) (29 page)

VASILY

“Did you put the soundproofing in so I couldn’t hear the helicopter or so that no one could hear me scream?” Naomi asks as she collapses against the sheets.

The white sheets and the white walls could be blinding to some but it only serves as a focus. There is nothing I want to view other than Naomi.

I prowl up her body, licking my way from her cunt to her breasts. “The helipad was a bother to you,” I say noncommittally. I am not certain if she would be pleased or offended that some of the
boyeviks
call her a very loud girl, but in Russian, so she may not understand regardless. “It is for the safety of the workers,” I declare piously. “If they heard you they would be distressed by their own performances in the bedroom. The
pressure would lead to more failure and then women all over Russia would blame you for their lack of orgasms.”

“You lie well, Vasya,” she says. I shiver at her use of my diminutive on her tongue.

“You are a
dachniki
living here.” I smile. “A summer person even though you are here year-round.”

“I like that,” she says. She comes to Moscow if I am gone too long, the helipad making it easy for her to travel but she prefers to spend time here at the
dacha
in her retreat of white silence.

Dostonev was disappointed when I could not present him with the painting, but he has not called in my favor yet. With Elena gone and the
Bratva
under my control, I was able to bring Katya back from London. His passive acceptance over the loss of the painting was an acknowledgment that his threats lacked any teeth. I still owe him and I will repay, but not with pieces of my heart and family.

That Katya was alive was met with astonishment and interest. Instead of viewing me as a monster willing to kill his own sister, my deceit helped to humanize me to the young
boyeviks
. I still might have to kill many of them for the lustful glances they shoot her way when they believe I am not looking.

She spends much of her time in London, though, as it has become her home. But we are together again.

And I am lying with my beloved.

Lowering my face between the valley of her lush breasts, I whisper, “It is no lie. Should any of them behold you in this state, they would be struck blind by your beauty. They would be forced into the woods, where they would tear at their skin in despair or sit outside your doorstep and waste away until they were nothing but skeletons until they had but one more view of your perfection.”

“Is that how you feel?”

I take her hand and place it on my cock. “I feel as if I could fell a thousand giants when your hand is on me. Does it not feel strong as steel? A blade worthy of your sheath?”

She strokes me roughly just as I like. “I don’t think the blade is a good comparison word for your penis. A blade would really hurt me. I’m not into that kind of pain and even if I was, wouldn’t that ruin your pleasure because you wouldn’t be able to fuck me for a long time? I think a knife wound takes a month or more to fully heal. And depending on the knife, it could damage nerve endings, which would result in declined sensation. How about just your cock in my pussy?”

I smile against her skin, licking the inner curve of her breast. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her nipple tighten and lengthen, readying itself for my mouth. “You may call it whatever you like so long as you keep touching me in this manner,” I reply.

“Okay. I enjoy rubbing your penis. The heavy ridges of your veins creates an interesting contrast. When you get very hard, as you are now, the head juts out.”

“The head would like for you to squeeze him in your hot little hand.”

I take one delicious nipple inside my mouth as she continues her explicit and heat-inducing examination of my shaft. Her back arches to shove the nipple deeper into my mouth. I suck hard, so hard she gasps and is unable to continue speaking.

My hand dips into the well my mouth drank from just moments ago. She’s slick, juicy, and ready. I bring my knee forward to press her thighs apart, and she guides my cock to her entrance.

“Naomi, will you instruct me?” I ask, poised to thrust forward. I want to gaze into her blue depths, just for a moment. It
takes her great effort to do so, and my heart leaps as those eyes make brief contact and then slide away. “You are so true, so beautiful.” I stroke her cheek.

“I want you inside me.”

I push inside, just a little. “You need to be more explicit.”

She slaps me impatiently on my flank. “All the way. I want you to fill me up with your cock.”

I do as she asks and then . . . pause.

“You are playing with me,” she says.

“I am,” I respond solemnly. “I enjoy hearing your voice. I enjoy hearing you describe the filthy things we do in your very remarkable way. So, Naomi, tell me. What is it that you want me to do?”

“I want you to pump—no thrust. Thrust is a better word. Thrust inside of me.”

I start to move, slowly dragging my cock along her swollen tissues. Her mouth falls open and a moan colors the air.

“At what pace should I move?”

“Faster,” she says, and thrusts against me. At her command I begin to thrust faster, drilling into her fiercely enough to make her breasts shake in her chest, hard enough to push her palms into the headboard, deep enough to feel her womb at the end of my cock.

I push her knees up higher, press her thighs open wider so that there is no place inside her that is untouched.

“What else?” I say through gritted teeth.

“Touch my clit.”

My hand trembles with passion as I place it over her mons. I pinch her little organ between my fingers, and her hips rise off the bed.

“I live to be inside you, Naomi. Everything I do in Moscow,
in London, in Hong Kong, is to be able to come here to our
dacha
and slide my cock inside your sweet cunt and fuck until we are mad, mindless things.”

She does not respond with words, only with increasingly louder moans of pleasure. Her face is rapt and her body is tense under mine. Ready to receive, ready to give.

I drive her into the mattress, following her, and drive into her lush body again and again, because we are hurricanes of need. Our mouths feast upon each other and our hands knead, stroke, and strike skin against skin until we are a blur of ecstasy.

In the wreckage of our lovemaking, we lay breathless.

“You are my heart,” I murmur against her hair when I’m able to speak and form thought again.

“You know what, Vasya?” Naomi sits upright, captivated by a thought.

“What?” I trail a lazy finger up the knobs of her spine.

“You and I are like the Caravaggio.
We
are the Caravaggio.”

“How so?” I’m bemused.

“You are the
volk
and I’m the Madonna. You devoured me in the woods just like in that painting!”

“So as long as we are together, the power of the
Bratva
will be unimpeachable?”

She nods solemnly. Naomi so rarely tells a joke. She is very literal and in this moment, I do not know if it is joke or real. I think and then come to the conclusion I do not care. For she is not entirely wrong. I am the wolf of Russia, and she is the woman who saved me and in doing so saved many others. Without her I am nothing. So . . . we are the Caravaggio painting come to life. The
volk
and the Madonna. It is
good.

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