Last Kiss (Hitman #3) (9 page)

VASILY

She is a temptress.

I pace in the tiny cabin because I cannot sit, not even for a moment. The blood in my body is running hot, driving me toward the lavatory, but my head tells me only danger lies in that direction. I wish I could plunge my head into a bath of icy water. Or better yet, my hard, aching cock.

I press the heel of my hand against my groin but the discomfort is not alleviated. My own body mocks me, for it will not be appeased by my hand. Instead the pain will linger, like a wound that never heals properly.

I try to distract myself. I pop open my laptop and reserve rooms at three different hotels. I’m not certain where our contact is or what will be our best options. I cannot concentrate well for all my blood is in my groin. My cock pulses painfully with every heartbeat.

“Vasily?” she calls, her voice uncertain.

“Yes, what is it?” I check my watch. Few minutes have passed, and she cannot be ready for me to rinse out the dye. Surely I have more time to gather my composure.

“Are you angry with me? Did my touching bother you?”

“
Nyet
, you are . . .” I search for the right word in my vocabulary to describe her. Dangerous? Yes, but not maliciously so, I do not think. The touch of her hands on my thighs, the tentative and curious caress over my cock all speak of a woman who has only little experience.

She seeks something from me but does not know how to ask, but I know that she is not the woman I should take for a quick fuck in the washroom. I draw a deep breath and then another. And then still another until the pressure below eases. I am not a man who is so enslaved by my desires. I can and will resist the temptation.

“No, Naomi. Your touch was . . . fine,” I finish at last. If I tell her the truth, that her touch made me lose my mind, it is too strong of a weapon to allow her to possess. But no matter how many times I tell my body that it does not desire her, my arousal refuses to abate. She does not respond and the air grows heavy with my regret.

Her presence draws me inexorably back. The plush carpet of the plane cushions my feet and muffles my approach. It is the only excuse I can provide for the scene that greets me. Naomi’s head is tilted back against the wall, uncaring that the dark dye is leaving streaks of brown against the cream interior. Her delicate neck is exposed, and the tendons of her throat and bones of her clavicle are thrown into high relief.

Her eyes are tightly shut and her hands . . . oh Mary’s Christ, her hands are tucked beneath her trousers. The expression on her
face is one of frustration as her arm pumps rapidly toward a release she cannot find.

I collapse on my knees and brace my hands—one against the wall to my right and the other on the sink. The force of my arms should buckle the walls if I do not calm myself. All the warnings I have given myself flee. In the face of this erotic vision, I have fallen helplessly into her web.
Take me
, I silently plead.
I am yours.

“Naomi,” I say hoarsely. “Are you in need?”

Her eyes pop open, and to my dismay, her movements still. For a brief moment her eyes hit mine, full of want.

“You can’t touch me,” she cries. “It won’t work.”

“Is this an experiment that you’ve run?” I ask gently.

She nods solemnly. “I tried it once. It was horrible. There was a condom for his penis but not for our entire bodies. I barely made it through.”

I suppress a shudder. My own early experiences with the opposite sex were a mass of confusion, self-loathing, and unwanted lust. I learned to fear sex, then hate it. Later in life, when I was in control, I found satisfaction in unsavory ways. I required pain and near disinterest from my partner.

I do not like that Naomi has this feeling toward sex. For her, it should be wonderful as the books say that it can be—as I’ve longed for it to be but have accepted that it cannot. She has an attraction toward me and I can help her, if I could bring her pleasure it would be one good thing I’ve done in my meager life.

“Is it infection you fear? Or do you view it as unclean?”

“I have a slight case of mysophobia,” she admits.

“I do not know the meaning of that word.”

“It’s being afraid of germs. I’m not paralyzed by germs like a true mysophobic. I just don’t like touching people and people
touching me, and part of it has to do with not wanting other people spreading their germs on me or sucking down their awful cologne or smelling the onions on their breath from the fast-food burger they just ate. And most touches are light. Like a hand passing over the tips of your hair, almost like a bug.”

I consider her words. She is not saying that she does not like to be touched but rather she does not like certain touches. I probe again to gain a deeper understanding. “But it is not a religious thing. Your mother—or someone close to you—hasn’t taught you that your body is unclean?”

“No. My body is fine. I’m immune to my own germs.” She rubs herself slightly, slowly as if testing the sensation, and my eyes are pulled like magnets to her movements. I clench my fingers into tight fists to prevent myself from replacing her hands with mine. “But sometimes . . . it’s that I can’t always bring myself to orgasm with just my fingers. I need more pressure and rotation. A velocity faster than I can move my fingers.”

She pulls her fingers out with a sigh as if giving up. No, this will not be borne.

“You would perhaps like a firmer, faster touch than one you can generate yourself,” I suggest.

“Yes and I don’t need for it to be penetrative. Just on my clitoris.” She taps her button through the top of her pants and I shudder with surprised need.

“Would you allow me to assist you?”

“How?” she asks, part in suspicion yet also intrigued.

It is hard to speak. Every organ in my body from my tongue to my cock is swelling in excitement. From my position, I can smell her arousal. Breathing through my mouth instead of my nose is of no help. It’s almost as if I can taste her now. I lean forward.

“I will rinse your hair and then wash my hands for five minutes. It is the amount of time a surgeon spends cleaning. You can time me. After, I will touch you with just my fingers in whatever way you tell me is pleasing. You shall direct me as if I am merely an implement of your gratification.” I hold my breath with hope as she considers my proposal.

“Like I touched you? Over your clothes?”

“Over or under. Whatever you desire. But I would guess that the exterior of your clothes has more offensive toxins than your delicate and clean skin.” It is an educated guess that this line of reasoning will work.

She licks her lips. “Will we do it in here?”

“No, there are two seats that can be made into a bed. You will be more comfortable and it will be easier for you to control what touches you.”

She nods in agreement. “Let’s do it, then. I’ll rinse my hair. If I close my eyes, I won’t see the muddy water. You can make the bed.”

“I am your servant, Naomi,” I say, lowering my head so she does not see my expression of triumph. Rising to my feet, I hurry to pull out the bed. I inexpertly lay a sheet across the cushions and then toss the other blankets aside. While the water runs, I wonder if I should disrobe. I decide to remove my shoes and socks and belt, but leave the shirt and pants on. I will rely on Naomi to lead me.

When she exits the bathroom, her hair is wrapped in a towel and for once she looks unsure.

“Come,” I say, passing her. “Watch me while I wash.”

I use nearly the whole bottle of soap, lathering each digit and the valley between each finger up to the elbow. For good measure, I wash my face as well, scrubbing every surface roughly. I can feel her intense gaze of me the whole time.

Sopping wet when I am finished, I turn to her, not bothering to dry myself. “Shall I use a towel or air-dry?”

“Towel is acceptable,” she says. While I’m drying off, she adds, “I know you washed your face but you can’t wash your tongue. I’ve read that some men, um, go down, on women. But we just agreed to the touching.”

“You are not afraid of my mouth germs,” I reply, unbuttoning my sodden shirt. “You already tasted me, remember?” I refer to the glasses of vodka she has drunk. “Perhaps you are becoming inoculated,” I whisper as I lead her over to the bed. “Shall we begin?”

Naomi climbs onto the bed, but casts a furtive, worried eye toward the cockpit door. “Will the pilot come out?”

“No, not unless I ask him to.”

I wait for her invitation but she fiddles with the collar of her shirt. Anxious and diffident, her vulnerability tugs at some dark place inside of me. I want to protect her from all slights, hide her from insensitive and callow individuals who would categorize her as . . . defective because of her differences. These urges are not wholly unfamiliar to me. I am fierce in my devotion to my sister, my true family, but Naomi touches me in a separate way—one born out of lust and want more than brotherly concern.

“What’s our current altitude?” she suddenly asks.

“I do not know but I can ask. Why?”

“I was wondering whether I will be a member of the Mile-High Club after this.”

I swallow a chuckle. As solemn faced as possible, I say, “No, I’m sorry, Naomi. You can only be a member of the club if you engage in fucking.”

Somehow, for the first time, she understands that this is a joke and she gives me a shy smile in return. “If you say so, Vasily.”

My name sounds like music coming off of her tongue. “I shall do whatever it is you like, Naomi. I only ask that you say my name again.”

“Vasily,” she says immediately. Her face is devoid of emotion again, so I’m unsure whether now she is the one teasing me.

“Later. I will tell you later when I want you to say it.” I smile now and why not? Rather than pacing the confining spaces of this luxurious cage or trying to sleep, I will be spending the next few hours between this woman’s soft thighs bathing her in orgasms. Plural.

Taking two pillows, I motion to her to raise her ass, and slide them beneath her. She looks curiously at me.

“These are to make it easier for me to touch you in only the places you desire. Now shall I remove your pants or will you?”

She hesitates only for a second and then lies back, arms stretched above her head. Her hips are canted upward in a provocative position. Her sprawl is nothing short of an invitation. I do not wait for words; this is enough. With shaking hands, I unzip her pants, revealing her plain white panties that are as erotic as any concoction of lace and satin. Although I will want to adorn her in those someday. I want to see red silk contrasted against her smooth skin or black lace tangled with her blond curls.

My toes curl in anticipation as more of her delectable flesh is revealed. There is a slight dampness I can see on the cotton, likely from when she touched herself. “I like cotton,” she says and again there is an air of defensiveness that she ordinarily doesn’t reveal.

“You are a beautiful woman, Naomi.”

“You’ve probably seen sexier underwear.”

“No,” I answer, unable to wrench my eyes from her core. I pull her pants completely off so that her lower half is bared to my
hungry gaze. Already I’m imagining what she looks like beneath the white fabric. Will she be wild and untamed or trimmed into a thin patch? Will her lips be pink or brown? How many strokes will it take until the wetness from her pussy coats the inside of her thighs? “No,” I say in a stronger tone, “I have not seen sexier. Now tell me, Naomi. Where shall I touch you first?”

NAOMI

I hesitate to answer. I’m a mixture of worried and aroused. Worried that he’s somehow missed a spot on his hands, and aroused as I realize that he cleaned his face precisely because he wants to put it between my legs and lick me there.

I’ve never had that happen before. I’ve never even entertained the thought. It seems a little too wicked even for my own fantasies, and I’m cringing at the thought of Vasily sticking his nice, clean face there and finding that I’m all wet between my legs. He doesn’t like touching, like me. What if he’s repulsed by bodily fluids, like I am?

“You look . . . unhappy. Shall I wash again?”

I lick my lips, thinking. “Maybe for a minute more.” I’m stalling. As he obediently puts his hands back under the running tap, I wonder at him. He’s been watching me far closer than I had
assumed. He’s already figured out several of my peculiarities—my faked seizures, my purpose for putting my mouth where his was. No one’s usually interested in Naomi Hays enough to decipher why I do the things I do, but this man watches me like a hawk, and figures me out.

I’m not sure if I like being figured out. It makes me vulnerable in ways that him finding me masturbating did not.

At last he turns, demonstrates his hands, and then wipes them off on a paper towel.

“I’m acutely disturbed at the moment,” I blurt out, sitting up on the bench. “I think I shall return to the bathroom so I can finish myself.”

“
Nyet
,” he says, and there is a hint of amusement in his voice. “You agreed to let me help you. Think of what I can do for you, Naomi.” Now his voice is soothing, delicious, liquid like honey. “Think of how my fingers and my mouth can move and bring you to pleasure. Think of how I can suck on your little clitoris until you can no longer stand it . . . and then I will suck even longer.”

I shudder at the visual for its disturbing arousal. The truth is, I want to experience what he’s offering, but I’m afraid to. I’m afraid I won’t like it, and then I’ll feel even more of an outsider, more
weird
than ever before.

And what if I disappoint Vasily? Will he think it’s because of the way my brain functions? I don’t want him to think of me as “less” in any way, and I’m worried I won’t be able to experience the pleasure he wants to give me. All of this makes my anxiety ratchet up until I’m practically trembling as he gestures for me to sit back down on the seats.

“So,” he says, sitting across from my pallet. “Tell me what
you wish for me to do.” He sets his hands on his knees, palms up, as if preserving them for touching me.

For some reason, his businesslike posture makes me feel a bit better. This is another scientific experiment, I tell myself. Right now we are setting up the hypothesis. “I believe,” I murmur, thinking, and wet my dry lips with my tongue. “I believe that I will have difficulty coming even if you assist me.”

“I do not believe this,” he states, still all business. “Will you allow me to touch you freely?”

I nod. That’s really the only way our scientific experiment will work. “I shouldn’t influence you.”

“Shouldn’t you?” One eyebrow raises.

Oh. I realize he’s right. If I’m to have a control point for this experiment, I need to keep all other variables constant. That means he needs to touch me in the ways I instruct him, otherwise there is no way to determine if it’s Vasily that will give me pleasure—or lack thereof—or his procedures. I nod. “Very well.” I sit again and spread my legs wide.

“Will you remove your panties?”

I consider this. In the past, I’ve touched myself through my panties and through direct skin contact. Direct skin contact works more frequently, so I say, “Panties off.”

“Shall I remove them?”

I appreciate that he’s allowing me control of the situation. I feel more at ease knowing that we’re both following scientific principle. “If you’re doing the touching this time, you should remove them,” I instruct him. I put my legs together obediently and wait.

His hands, so clean they are slightly cool from the water
temperature, brush against my hips. I shiver involuntarily, and his gaze flicks up to my face. “Would you like a safe word?”

“A safe word?”

“A word you say that will tell me you wish to go no further?”

I frown. “Won’t you stop if I say ‘no’?”

“Some women say no when they mean yes.”

Some women are stupid, then
, I think, but don’t say this aloud. “All right. A safe word.”

“Pick something that would not come up in normal conversation.”

I think for a minute. “Dyspepsia.”

His brows furrow with confusion. “Dyspepsia?
Chto eto znachit
?”

Despite not knowing Russian, I understand what he is asking. “It’s the scientific term for indigestion, however, if I was having a conversation, I would say ‘indigestion,’ so ‘dyspepsia’ would not come up in a normal situation. It’s a good word to use.”

He looks at me, and then throws his head back and roars with laughter.

I’m feeling a bit defensive at his laughing. I don’t understand it. “What’s so funny?”

“You will never be predictable, will you, Naomi?”

“I’m quite predictable,” I tell him, pushing my panties off since he’s busy
laughing
at me. “I like to eat the same things and sleep in the same position. I count stairs when I go up them. I eat my food in a clockwise manner and I don’t like odd numbers of things. You’ll find that I’m quite predictable in many ways.”

“Quite,” he says, but he’s still smiling even as he takes my panties from me before I can shimmy them off my legs.

His fingers graze against my calves and I feel another shiver moving through me. I don’t like to be touched, but his casual
caresses aren’t causing revulsion in me. I feel shuddery and weak, but it’s not . . . bad. This calls for further investigation. I nudge one of my feet against his hand.

“Do that again.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

“I’m not sure.”

His fingers brush over my calves again, caressing them. Again, I feel fluttery and strange. I’m not sure if I want to kick him away. Not yet. I watch his hands as they move over my legs, like I imagine a sculptor would on marble. Caressing. Possessive. Enticing.

He has big hands. I watch them as they glide over my skin, noting the differences in our skin tone. He is more golden; I am pale and chalky because I’ve spent the last two years in hiding. His fingers are bigger than mine, and callused, his nails cut blunt.

“Is this touch pleasing to you?” he asks me. It’s clear I should be giving him feedback.

But I don’t know what to tell him. “I find it oddly disturbing,” I say at last. “Unsettling.”

“But pleasant? Sex is not a relaxing thing. It is driving your body, heart, and mind to the brink so you may enjoy the crash.”

It definitely feels as if I’m heading toward something. But I’m silent and he stops, his hands resting on my legs.

I frown at him and wiggle a little. “Don’t you want to go higher?”

His eyes seem very blue when he looks up at me, and he’s smiling. I think that means he is happy. Or pleased. Or trying to seem so for my sake. “
Da
, I want to go higher. But is it what you want?”

“I need more stimuli for this hypothesis,” I tell him, and open my legs again. “I feel we should progress more quickly to a
centralized area. It will take me a very long time to come if all you do is touch my legs.”

His shoulders shake for a moment and his head ducks. I frown, wondering at his quaking, and then a small, muffled snort escapes him. “Are you laughing at me?” This is extremely distressing. I feel stupid all of a sudden, and I close my legs shut so hard that my knees bang together.

“I do not laugh at you,” he burbles, clearly trying to hide the fact that he
is
laughing. “Simply at the idea of me petting your legs for hours and expecting you to orgasm.”

I scowl at him and wrap an arm around my legs. “I don’t want to do this anymore. Go away.”

“
Nyet
,” he says, and in one fluid movement, he drags my entire body against his. “You are still nervous. Still afraid. It is obvious as you act like a virgin and scowl at me when you become uneasy. I will not hurt you, Naomi. Nor will I cover you in germs and filth. My hands are clean.” He holds one up in the air and then gives it a little shake, as if demonstrating. “They have touched nothing but you.” Now the hand comes in and traces along my jaw.

I shiver again, but not out of disgust. It’s a good shiver. I feel my breasts prickle in response, and my hand slides between my legs, wanting to return to the pulsing throb that feels so very good.

“Now,” he whispers, and his face is so close to mine I can see the minute lines around his eyes, the dark blond lashes, the firm press of his mouth.

“Do you wish for me to touch you?”

I nod, sucking in a breath when his thumb skates across my lower lip. I should be thinking
germs bacteria conjunctivitis herpes skin contact pathogens
but all I can focus on is how skittery and excited his touch makes me. My pulse jumps, and I realize that
I’m as aroused now with him talking to me and touching me with his fingers as I was in the bathroom when I masturbated.

He pulls his hand away again, and I realize his other is gripping my shoulder, his arm wrapped around my back. I’m pulled against his chest, and I feel oddly secure here against him. Then, Vasily moves his fingers in the air again, as if to get my attention. I watch as his free hand now moves to my knee and firmly presses it back, nudging my legs apart.

And I’m helpless to protest. I want this. I want to know what’s going to happen when he touches me. I’m throbbing and aching with need, and my breath is coming as small, gasping little pants that are registering even in my distracted mind.

“Are you still unsettled?” he asks in a low voice.

“No,” I whisper, my tone matching his. “I’m aching.”

He groans softly, and then his hand glides up the inside of my thigh, the backs of his fingers skimming along my leg. Then, Vasily’s hand moves and he is cupping my pussy. He feels scorching hot against me, and just the sensation of his skin touching mine is making me anxious.

“You are very wet,” he rasps, and I notice curiously that his breathing is as rapid as my own. One of his fingers presses forward, parting the lips of my pussy and pushing in. “Very wet.”

“I can’t help it. It’s a natural reaction to stimuli, but I understand if it disturbs you—”

“I like it.” His voice is a guttural growl against my ear, and I shiver. I didn’t realize how close he’s pressed to me but I can feel his breath on my neck, and his head is canted toward mine, as if he is telling me secrets. “I like that your wetness is for me.”

“I don’t know if—” I begin to protest, but his finger taps against my clit, and I gasp, completely and utterly distracted by
that quick touch. It feels . . . different to have a man do it for me. Very different. Intense. Raw. I grab his hand at the wrist and press my flesh against his fingers, asking for more.

“Tell me what you want, Naomi.”

“More.” I press his hand again, breathless, and my hips twitch. “Start with an even rhythm and circle the hood of my clit. Over time, speed up and increase the frequency of touches. You can change the pattern as you go but don’t let up until I come.”

He laughs again, and I stiffen, but then his finger begins to move against my clit, stroking it in tiny circles like I told him. “I like that you tell me exactly what you want, Naomi. There are no games with you.”

I’m confused at that. Isn’t that what he wants me to do? But then a second finger follows the first, and he’s rubbing wide circles around my clit, and adding an extra little stroke every now and then, and it feels like he’s taking my flesh between his fingers and just rubbing rubbing rubbing . . . And I love it.

“Just like that,” I tell him, closing my eyes and falling against his shoulder. I hold my knees open wider so he won’t stop touching me, and my hips begin to move, involuntarily following his fingers as he touches me.

“Do you like this?” His voice is rough, biting, and so close to my face.

I nod without opening my eyes, letting the sensations take over. “It feels much better when you do it,” I tell him, and cry out when one of his fingers dips lower and touches me . . . deeper. “What are you doing?”

“I am seeing if you like more touches.” His nose nuzzles against my face, and I press against him, seeming to need his caresses as much as I need his touch on my clitoris. “Are you frightened?”

“No, but I like the other touch better,” I tell him as his finger circles lower. “That one just makes me ache.”

“It makes your cunt ache to be filled,” he tells me. “Someday, you will let me fill it for you.”

I don’t reply; I don’t need to, because he circles a finger at the entrance to my core a moment longer, and then shifts his hand. My fingers graze over his, exploring—I feel too good to open my eyes and leave the sea of sensations—and I realize he’s now working my clit with his thumb. His finger presses deeper again, and I gasp when he sinks it into me.

I’m riding his hand.