Varian Krylov (3 page)

"Don't do that."

He said it softly. Tenderly, even. He took her hand from his zipper and coaxed her back up. She was a little stunned. If a guy had ever turned her down for a blowjob, she couldn't remember it. He stared into her for a few seconds, smiled, then opened the slider and led her inside.

Slowly, his eyes locked on hers the whole time, he guided her back until her shoulder blades and her ass bumped against a smooth, vertical plane of wall. Holding her there, he moved in close, until his thighs touched hers, until she could feel his breath on her lips. Still looking, still staring into her. Something like regret started to erode her arousal, but then he sank down, onto his knees.

The bass in her chest thrummed hard, quickened. She watched as he slid the tongue of her belt back, through the loop of her slacks, through the silver buckle, off the prong, and it flopped open to hang heavily from her hips. So quick. His hands. Her slacks unhooked, unzipped. His fingertips touched her hot, bare skin, slid down, 21

catching the waistband of her slacks, then her panties in a single smooth gesture, and pulled them down midthigh. Thrumming bass, staccato, hard, fast.

He was looking at her. At her sex. David never did that. Just gaze at it from inches away.

Hot. Her face was hot. She wanted him to get back up. She moved, maybe she was going to step aside, walk away. But he caught her thighs in his hands and silently coaxed her to be still. She couldn't stand this. It was too intimate. She'd never let a man use his mouth on her until they'd been together a while.

His breath was hot and damp on her bare skin. Did he like her smell? Did he like that she was waxed bare?

Anxiety and anticipation mingled. His warm hands slid over her skin until her thighs were wrapped in his embrace, one hand curving against her ass. Please. Fuck.

She needed him to touch her.

His lips brushed faintly over her smooth mound, the caress of his breath teasing her. He looked up at her, took in her look of frustrated want, and touched her with his tongue.

A tiny, soft, wet touch against the soft, wet, pink flesh. All the heat in her body rushed in to that tiny point where the tip of his tongue had touched her. When he did it again, she whimpered as all that heat pulsed and surged and seemed to roll inside of her.

Each little touch was a taunt. To prod her need. Vex her arousal. But he kept his caresses so small, let so many seconds tick away between, she was almost in tears of frustration. She tried to widen her stance, to spread her legs, hoping desperately to feel 22

his tongue slide back, lave over her wet sex. Fuck, she needed him to really eat her. But his embrace tightened, cinched her legs tight together, making all of her, except the very front of her slit and just the tiny bit of her not hidden between her smooth, waxed lips, inaccessible to his mouth.

Each tiny little touch of his tongue made her wiggle in her torment, made her whine and whimper. Every time the tip of his wet, pink tongue made contact with her, her body tried to meet it with her climax. As if it knew it would get nothing more from him, as if it sensed that these taunting kisses, so faint, so infrequent, would have to be enough.

But then, fuck, god, yes, he pressed his open mouth to her, his lips sealed themselves against her soft, smooth flesh, and his slippery tongue pressed forward, between her lips, into her slit, laving at last all her wet inner folds. She shuddered and whimpered and flexed against his embrace, dying to spread for him, dying for him to fuck her with his mouth. When he withdrew his tongue and its textured surface slid back over her, rubbing all along her wet, needful sex, ending with a devastating little flick over her clit, she shuddered, groaned, and thought her knees might give.

Hardly conscious of what her body was doing, her legs flexed, trying to open, her hips tried to press forward, to drive her sex against his mouth, but his arms circled tighter around her, immobilizing her, keeping her shut tight.

More, tiny, darting touches of his tongue to her, her trying to stifle the little sobs and moans threatening to squeak out. It was torture, keeping her climax so close for so long, threatening to keep her in this anxious suspense forever. But slowly, slowly, with each little brush of the tip of his tongue, that aching, throbbing pleasure built, gathering, 23

gathering, and he'd lick, and the feeling would swell, and that little touch would land again, and the thrill would rise up, until finally another stroke of his tongue fluttered over her and a great well of pleasure flooded up and spilled over. He lightly lapped, prolonging her delicious agony, gripping her in his imprisoning embrace as he squeezed every drop of pleasure from her body. He held her as she shuddered and panted and finally calmed. At last he opened the constricting circle of his arms.

She felt strange. She couldn't remember that last time she'd been held for so long in such delicious suspense, or when she'd cum so hard. But she didn't feel at all sated. She was absolutely dying to be fucked.

To be fucked. Taken. Held down. Ridden.

Judging by the way he was grinning up at her, his eyes bright with hunger, she was going to get just what she needed. He rose, his body, his hands, traveling over her like they were taking possession of new terrain. Standing, looking down at her, he smiled like he was amused by something, evoking a spontaneous smile from her in the midst of her trembling need. Then he kissed her. She hadn't wanted that before, but now, after, she wanted it.

His tongue slid into her mouth, tasting of her sex. It was like a drug working on her body, doubling her arousal, her need. Panting, he ended his hungry kiss, and with another odd little grin, started unbuttoning her blouse. Panic seized her, and she caught his wrist in her hand. His eyebrows rose and his mouth curved in an expression of amused surprise.

"I want . . . this. You," she stammered, flustered. "But I . . .please, leave the blouse on."

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His hands slipped obediently away from her button, but then he took hold of the hem, gathering upward. She snapped. Her vision blurring with tears of panic she caught his hands again, suddenly afraid again that he was going to make her fight him. That she'd lose. That he'd . . .

"I'm afraid," he said quietly, his eyes guiding hers toward something near his hands, "that I got some blood on your shirt. From earlier. You should take it off. Let me wash it."

A small bright stripe of blood stretched along the fabric between his thumbs.

"I can give you a shirt to wear, if you're shy," he added with surprising, sweet gentleness.

* * * *

But there was no way, he'd done nothing to make her think he'd hurt her. Force her.

"I'm sorry," she breathed from some parallel dimension. "I need to go."

"All right."

He used a soft voice. He wouldn't argue. Trying to keep her there seemed like a very bad idea, if she was feeling like he was some kind of threat. He'd let her go. Live with the mystery.

She'd already frantically zipped and buckled up and was half way to the front door. He walked slowly after her. Not too fast. Not too close. She opened the door, called back with a broken “sorry,” and was gone.

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That was a first—a woman running off crying after he'd licked her to orgasm. He made himself a fresh vodka tonic as he wondered over her possible pasts. Molested as a child? Date rape? A violent assault? Or just fucked up—so repressed that a good climax sent her over the edge? Who fucking knew? Poor thing.

Something about it wasn't right, though. Everything about her had struck him as strong. Not the shy delicate type. Not the wounded type.

The image of the stain kept coming to him, like it was burned onto his retina, the final living image.

His vodka tonic in hand, he wandered back to his room, thinking he'd change, go to bed. But he was too wired. The accident, her. All that buildup, and no fuck to undo the anticipation. He could still taste her. The recognition, the acknowledgment of it got his dick a little hard.

He roamed aimlessly back and forth through the house, a little too disturbed by her to jerk off and go to sleep.

The stain.

From outside, a bright light blared on the living room curtains, trying to get in.

Headlights. Brushing the curtain back, he peered into the dark and rain. She was still there, in his driveway. In her little convertible, engine running, rain slanting through two violent beams of halogen light. Another minute or more slid by.

He skidded his feet into a pair of shoes, crushing the stiff backs under his heels, and started soaking up the rain. Robbing the flagstones in the courtyard and the concrete drive. For all the tinted windows revealed, there might have been no one inside her car. It might have been a humming empty shell. He tapped at the glass, rain-beaded 26

in symmetrical chaos. No sound, no sign of movement. He was getting drenched. He pulled on the door handle.

She was hunched against her steering wheel. His core turned to ice with a sudden dropping feeling, like being in a plane that suddenly loses a few thousand feet.

But then her still, silent body moved. Straightened.

Some evil wizard had stolen her life and turned her into a crash test dummy.

Smooth face void of expression. Blank eyes. He couldn't even tell if she'd noticed him.

He touched her shoulder, softly as he could, then bent down close.

"Vanka. Come back in with me."

Had she heard him? Did she even know he was there? He touched again, stroking her damp hair, tried her name again. She just went on gazing vacantly at his garage door.

"I'm going to bring you inside, all right?"

Nothing changed. He leaned in, killed the ignition, grabbed the keys, got a forearm under her knees, his other arm curved around her back, under her arm, pulled her against his chest, and lifted her out of the car.

"It's OK. I'm bringing you inside, Vanka," he assured her in his gentlest voice, kicking her car door closed.

"Put me down," she said before he'd reached the front door. "I'm not a fucking baby. I'm not an invalid. Put me down."

He put her down. She didn't charge back to her car.

"Come on." He tentatively touched her back, hoping to get her inside before she was as wet as he, a little surprised when she moved toward the house.

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"My purse."

"I'll get it."

He trotted back to the car, reached across the driver's side and snatched her purse up from the passenger seat. Back in the house, he wrapped a blanket around her, pulled her to him, held her, rubbing her back through the blanket, while something he'd glimpsed a moment earlier began worrying the back of his mind. She was quiet and still in his arms, He settled her on the couch. She'd slipped back into catatonia, but every now and then she drew in a sudden, deep, shuddering breath. Her eyes seemed not to see. He lit the fire, went back to his room, and hurriedly changed into dry clothes. When he came back she was still sitting, just as he'd left her, her unseeing eyes staring straight ahead.

It startled him when, a moment later, she spoke.

"This is so ridiculous. I'm sorry."

She was looking at him. Seeing him. He smiled.

"There's nothing to apologize for."

She turned her shell-shocked aspect toward him.

"Do you think I could have another drink?"

"Sure."

He couldn't remember where she'd left her glass, so he got a clean one from the cupboard and threw a drink together for her, shorting her a bit on the vodka. In the morning, she'd be glad. She smiled at him, sad and grateful as he handed her the drink, then took a shaky but dainty little sip. She seemed to want it in her hand, more than anything. A little piece of security.

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"God, you poor thing," she laughed sadly. "You invite a girl in for a quick fuck, and look what you get."

"I didn't invite you in for a fuck."

She gave him a bemused smile.

"No?"

"No. Believe it or not, I'm not in the habit of fucking people I've just met.

Anymore."

He wouldn't have told her, before.

"I invited you in because the accident freaked me out. I was scared. I didn't want to be alone." He couldn't resist smiling and adding, "It was later I decided I wanted to fuck you."

"It was my gauze work, wasn't it? No man can resist a woman with a roll of gauze."

There was something sweet in her attempt at humor when she was so obviously sad. Hurt.

"Actually, it was the way you relentlessly wield a pair of tweezers."

She smiled. He was only half kidding. He perched on the coffee table in front of her.

"Vanka. Should I call your doctor?"

She looked shocked. Then scared. Then amused.

"What? I have one little nervous breakdown in a stranger's house, and you think it's time to call the men in white coats?"

Defensive. He smiled, hoping to calm her.

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"I think someone should take a look at your stitches."

He waited. Watched a little look of surprise pass like a tiny shockwave over her features. Watched her think. Maybe she'd deny it. Or maybe he was wrong. Then she softened and shrank slightly as her defenses came down.

"How'd you know?"

"The blood. I would have seen it sooner. The way you reacted. Got scared. I thought I'd scared you, but it didn't quite make sense. And just now, after I brought you back in. I saw your bra in your purse."

She just nodded.

"So, should I call your doctor for you?"

"I don't want to go back there. Not tonight."

"You may have pulled your stitches. You should at least go and check. Use the bathroom mirror. If it's bad, I'll take you in."

She just sat there, staring into the distance somewhere to the left of him.

"Vanka?"

"I can't."

He took her drink, took her hand, and led her over to the kitchen, settling her on the stool he'd sat on earlier while she dressed his wounds. The first aid kit was still there, still open, spilling over with gauze and medical tape. It was a regular clinic now.