Authors: Jessa Hawke
When she kisses him, she knows that she will run blindly from the room and will not be able to face him again. She melts her mouth onto him, and runs, leaving him behind.
It is only later, at home, sitting on the couch in her cotton nightgown, that she can begin to even consider the situation. Roman. Skinny hips, mafia connections, lust ringing so sharply in his eyes that he does not even bother to hide it. Anton. The gentle giant with the head of a businessman and the soul of a poet. What will happen to her, with nobody to rely on to help run the business? There are offers all around her, but what are they truly offers for? What is it that she truly needs?
She leans her head against her arm as she rests against the arm of the couch. The pillow is soft and firm beneath her, and there is a freshness to her body after a shower that makes her stray towards thoughts she would much rather not be having. They are the thoughts of how the fabric feels against her skin, like a soft, familiar kiss, and they bring, unbidden, Maks’s face to mind.
She will always love her husband, but he is far away now. And she is left behind in the corporeal world, with financial troubles and a lonely, cold bed. She bends her knees and lets her hand stray onto her stomach, delicately stroking the soft skin there, and then dip into the pink fold of her underpants. Her mind wanders, and for the first time since Maks left, she allows it to.
Blini frying. The sharp tang of sour cream as she lays great, heaping dollops of it onto each perfectly round crepe. She is so busy that she does not notice, at first, that someone is moving behind her in the storeroom. A man comes, and loops his arms around her waist, and she lets out a cry of surprise, turning around to beat at him wildly with her spoon, the only protection that she has.
He lets out a loud laugh, and she realizes that it is Roman. He is so close to her that she can smell the flour he has brought in for her on his skin, warm and yeasty, and delicious. The spoon drops from her hands at the look in his eyes, so knowledgeable that she knows what is to happen has been inevitable from the first moment he laid eyes on her. The spoon clatters onto the floor as he backs her up against the table and she feels her bottom slide into the sharp metal edge, somehow not bothering her in the least. He is sliding her apron to the side and her blue-patterned dress up her knees and thighs, pressing his warm lips into her neck. He quickly unbuttons the top of her dress and presses his face into the swell of her cleavage, the sensation sending hot shivers all the way down her stomach.
And she strokes herself in the living present, parting her lips to find a sweet spot.
Suddenly, he is torn off of her body, and she realizes that they have not been alone for at least a few seconds. From the jumble of the men on the floor, she realizes that Anton has torn Roman off of her and they are tumbling over the ground, each with a firm grip in the other, and their bloodlust as they tackle each other spurs on a feeling in her that is like a pleasure edged with pain, her blood roaring loudly through her veins.
She almost doesn’t catch how it happens, the turn from the fight into something else, but when she sees it, she knows. Roman has somehow gained the upper hand and has pinned the great elegant bulk of Anton to the ground. A look passes between them that is one of first sheer rage and utter jealousy, a silent battle over ownership of a property, but then the memory of Maks passes between them and they both soften. Suddenly, while Nastya holds her breath, Roman lowers his mouth to Anton, and pierces him with his tongue.
Such things are not allowed where they come from. But they are in a new place now, a place that celebrates the forbidden. As she imagines what they do to each other, she probes herself, hooking her fingers inside for a place that only she knows.
It is masculine, their kiss, and in wrenching off their clothes, they appear almost to be fighting again. With a groan, Nastya sinks to the ground on her knees, and adds her own feminine touch to the art of their undressing. They allow her to slide her slim fingers over them, buttons too delicate to rip, and she catches Anton’s eyes as she unbuckles his pants. She knows, in that moment, that she wants to be the one who undoes the beast.
She has not seen a member so large in her entire life; certainly Maks was not this large. But she keeps her eyes locked on Anton’s as she lowers her mouth on him, allowing her tongue to slide over him as he looks down at her unbelievingly. Behind her, she feels Roman lifting her dress again and sliding down her underpants, applying his own tongue to her in the manner in which she is ministering to Anton.
The bigger man is nude, his great chest towering over her, but instead of feeling diminutive in his presence, Anastasia feels herself grow bold. She ducks her head towards the piece of skin between his balls and his anus, and from the great, hoarse groan above her, she knows that it is she who is in control. Her excitement builds at her own motions, but also from the intense slickness that is growing within her nether regions. She hears the unzipping of Roman’s pants, and feels, as she encloses Anton’s penis with her mouth, Roman probe against her once, then twice, until finally he pushes inside of her, and an ache is fulfilled.
They work in tandem. There is something that is so fitting, but also so wrong about the scene that she can see it from the side, and it is the very wrongness of what is happening that spurs her own. Everything is wet behind her, and she can hear the slickness of her opening against the long, thick rope of Roman, and she can feel Anton engorge until there is nowhere left for him to go except to give himself over completely to the feel of her mouth. It is the release of power, the obvious giving over to a smaller soul that shakes her own body, the knowledge of it all, even as Roman hits the spot inside of her that feels so good she begins to cry.
She joins with her imagination as the feeling of being cared for twice over fills her. In the safe cocoon of their imagined bodies, Nastya is cradled, and feels, finally, the surge of her own power. When she pulls her hand away from her pants, she is sticky with her own juices. She draws her hand in front of her face in wonder, and then draws a finger into her mouth.
She tastes like sunshine, like her blini.
Warm night lulls her to sleep, finally, and she knows that just for that night, she can package away the sweetness of her dream. She can bury beneath it the worry of what to do with the dream that Maks began for her, the one that she feels compelled to continue, because this is her home now. She can bury beneath the sensual luxury of being with two people at once the final question of which one she must eventually choose, if she decides to choose at all.
She thinks of her favorite dish, the kuliebaika, the four-sided pastry dough with the minced fish in two corners, and sautéed mushrooms in the other two. Blini saturate the layers of the savory, buttery, warm, and sandwiched between the best of both worlds. Right now, it is not hard at all to imagine that she and the food she makes are one.
There is no separating them.
THE END
Forever My Heart
Rain was pounding against the windshield, assaulting his ears with a torrent of staccato splashes that filled the small car with tension. He was pulled over on the muddy shoulder, and the sky was beginning to fade toward the silky purple of twilight. Already the highway was deserted, not uncommon in this pocket of the midwest; you could drive for an hour without seeing a gas station, a house with plumbing, or anyone younger than forty-five. Most everywhere was flat, but where there were trees, they were dense and clustered together so that you had to go abnormally slow, even for curves, or risk hitting a deer or even a farming vehicle. William had just learned this the hard way, after swerved to avoid a John Deere tractor trundling along in the lane ahead of him, unseen as he zipped around the group of trees curving with the road. Admittedly, it was his fault, and he hadn't expected pity or even necessarily kindness, but after his tire car slid to the other side of the road and clipped against bark and bush, the man driving the tractor didn't stop or even slow down. He turned his head as Will's fiat screeched to stop, averted his gaze, and kept going. Will sat, stunned, for several minutes, trying desperately to reign in his heart rate. He was afraid to assess the damage, even though he knew waiting would only make things worse. And then it had started to rain.
Ten minutes went by, and he turned on his hazards. No cars had passed, and he fingered his cell phone, wondering what to do. Service was spotty at best, and the last gas auto repair place he'd seen was an hour back. It was also doubtful they would be open; most things tended to close around five PM here. Will had only stayed in the tiny Ohio town a handful of nights before finally deciding to take the private practice offer and uproot his life from California, but he was counting on it to stay as sleepy and quaint as it seemed from those visits. Though only thirty minutes from the nearest major town, Davinia resembled something you only saw in movies anymore. Almost everyone went to church, a one room affair with an enormous cross on its roof; babies ran around on sidewalks and were picked up by neighbors taking an afternoon stroll; dogs wandered into your house, and you were simply expected to deal with it. He spoke openly to customers at a diner, in the strip mall, at one of the town's three gas stations, and almost every person was as warm to him as they were to their friends and family. It was like someone had placed a glass case over the town the years before and allowed nothing to get in that didn't match its small-town motif. After the brutal year he'd had, he needed slow, simple, and safe.
Over the patter of the rain against the car's roof, he thought he heard the rumble of an engine. His pulse sped up, and he wondered if he should dart out and try to flag down whoever it was. Janie had been the one who was good with car stuff, and he'd never once actually changed a tire in his thirty-five years. He could see in his rearview mirror now that it was a pick-up truck. It was probably a man, Will guessed, and ashamed though he was to emasculate himself in front of a stranger, he feared being caught on these roads after dark more. Just as he was reaching for his door handle, the gray pick-up truck slowed dramatically and turned on its right blinker, pulling up nearly a hundred feet behind him before cutting its engine.
Will's hand was frozen on the door handle now. He couldn't see the driver; they were pulling on a big black sweater and pulling the hood over their head behind a wide silver mirror. He thumbed the lock on his Fiat as the door to the pick-up swung forward and the driver hopped out, trudging through the rising mud with the heavy black boots. The sweater fell shapelessly to mid-thigh, but the person looked like they were about 5'6---shorter than Will, but maybe stronger. He looked at his clean white sneakers and dress slacks, cursing himself for not checking the weather before he left. The person strode up beside the car and stopped, and Will peered into the hood to try to get a better look. The rain streaking down the glass obscured the person's face, but he could see honey blonde hair and pale skin, which wasn't much indication; then the person rapped on the window sharply and Will started, blushing as he started the car and powered his window down. How rude of him. He was sure this guy was going to give him an earful.
It was lucky the cold spray of rain hit his face just as the wind blew the hood off the person's head, because Will's mouth fell open in shock at the same time. It was a young woman, with a sprinkling of freckles across her nose and sparkling brown eyes. Her hair was wavy and rain-dampened, and she laughed as she pulled the hood around her heart-shaped face, sweeping her wavy locks to one side before tucking it back in. "Damn wind," she said, and her voice was low and smooth. She showed teeth that were white but slightly crooked, and it added charm to her friendly grin.
"Sorry," Will said thickly. He had nothing else chambered, and his thought production had come to a stuttering halt for the moment.
The girl took no notice. "Need some help?" She asked.
Will blushed a deeper crimson. "How did you know?"
She chuckled. "Your hazards are on. How long have you been sitting here?"
"About ten minutes," Will admitted, his face burning with shame. "I have a flat."
"And you thought it might fix itself?" She said conversationally. Her tone was friendly, and her lips were twerking up at the corners. Will was flagellating himself mentally for never learning how to maintain his own car.
"I don't...I've always had someone with me," he explained. His blue shirt was slowly soaking through with rain water, and he welcomed the distraction.
"You're in luck," the woman said, leaning against his door. "I've changed so many tires I should have a medal for it. You got a jack?"
Will nodded, blinking against the rain as he fumbled for the trunk button. It sprang open, and he rolled the window up and stepped out of his car. The woman was already rummaging in the back, half of her body inside the car as she lifted the flap covering the inner storage space. He started to tell her what was what, and then closed his mouth as she found the correct tools and went to work changing tire. The hood slipped off again while she worked, and he handed her tools and watched her. The rain darkened her hair to an almost brown, making her shining caramel eyes even more striking. Her legs were quite well muscled, he could see, and this translated to the curve of her ass being generous even through her jeans. He studied her face again as she was lowering the car and he was placing the ruined tire in his trunk. She was much too young to be admiring, he realized, and felt the burn of shame again. He'd been alone for a while, even when Janie had still technically been around. His ex finally walked out after they hadn't spoken a word to each other in weeks.