by Jess Bentley
“Yes!”
I thrust up, taking her all at once in a smooth motion that impales her sweet, lithe body on my cock. She throws her head back in ecstasy, a guttural cry exploding from her throat. Submitting to me completely, her body welcomes me and I hold her desperately, thrusting into her and watching her face change as she moans with joy and satisfaction.
I want her to come first, so I lick my thumb and strum it across her sweet pink candy button until she begins to swivel her hips desperately, trying to find that bliss. She breaks out in a fine sweat just before she comes and I know this is it, this is the moment. I drive to the center of her, exploding at the same time, pinning her to me so she can accept every inch of me, every ounce of my cum.
We are locked like this for a long time, panting and grasping each other tightly. I love how she fits me, how she feels like a part of me I was always missing. And she is so tight and wet, always ready for me.
But we can't stay on the sofa forever. I wrap my right arm around the small of her back and stand. She giggles and locks her ankles behind me as I climb the stairs to the bedroom… now our room. The guest room, where she used to sleep, is now her personal library and study.
“You don’t have to carry me… I can walk!” she smirks against my neck. But I notice she doesn't make any attempt to climb down.
“Walking is too good for my little princess,” I inform her.
“I'm not a princess!”
“Yes, you are,” I tell her as I set her on her feet, pushing her hair back behind her ears. She stands at the corner of the bed, beautiful and graceful, a humid sheen of sweat between her small, heaving breasts.
“Actually, maybe princess is not quite the right word,” I suggest, swiping the box from the top of my dresser.
“Is there a better word?”
I drop to my knees in front of her, drawing my face along the smooth under curve of her belly, back and forth, drinking in her deliriously intoxicating scent. When I pull back, I hold the box out in front of me. She looks down at me with curiosity that quickly turns into something like alarm.
“What is that?” she whispers, eyeing the box suspiciously.
“Oh, this?” I ask, shrugging.
She nods urgently. I can tell she's afraid to touch it, so I open it for her, watching her intently as her eyes widen even further, the faint glow from the shimmering rock reflected on each iris.
Her fingers fly up to cover her mouth... that sweet, shy gesture surprise.
“Kita… my beautiful Nikita, will you marry me? Would you be my bride?”
She bounces slightly, stretching her ankles like when I saw her the first day. A huge bubble of love rises in my chest and bursts, turning to fireworks that warm me from the inside. She doesn't even know what she does to me.
“Are you serious?”
I tug her hand down, pulling the ring from the box and sliding it over her knuckle. It fits perfectly, just like I knew it would. Then I switch the antique Russian ring to her other hand.
“There, I think that's a double omen, don't you?”
“Daniel… I don't know what to say!” she whispers. Her eyes are glimmering with wetness, her cheeks flushed to a candy pink tint.
“Just answer the question, Kita. Will you be my bride?”
“Yes!” she yelps. She drops to her knees in front of me and throws her arms around my neck, dragging me close as she is shaking with laughter or tears, I can't tell which.
I have to admit, some part of me was afraid she wouldn't say yes. Some part of me was terrified that asking her would frighten her away. And as soon as I felt that terror, as soon as I knew that losing her would propel me back to a life with no song in it again, that's when I knew I had no choice. I had to ask her.
And now we’re going to be all songs, from here on out. Our new song, together.
Epilogue
Kita
Daniel holds my hand, tugging me gently toward the door. I don't even know why I am resisting, but I sort of want to be coerced. I don't think I could make it there on my own. I need him to pull me forward.
And so he does. He keeps tugging, and I keep trudging along next to him because I want to please him, even if it scares me half to death. No matter what.
As we climb the flagstone steps, the door suddenly opens and an older woman tumbles out, squeezing through the door jamb as two other young people are pushing through at the same time. She wipes her hands on a towel that she picks up from around her waist and then throws her arms out, her ample chest sloshing jubilantly from side to side. She's shouting at me, grinning widely through tear-streaked cheeks.
Daniel glances down at me, nudging me further forward. I just gape at him in shock.
“Well, go on then,” he encourages me with a smile. “She's waited almost ten years to see you again, you know.”
I lean toward him. “But Daniel, I don't speak Russian!”
He flinches back for a second, then shrugs. After a moment’s thought, he pivots toward the woman and throws out his arms, pulling her into a crushing embrace before reaching back to snatch my hand to drag me forward again. He babbles a bunch of words I don't understand to her and she nods, clapping gently under her chin.
I just stare at him, dazzled by yet another of his many wondrous talents. He speaks Russian. That is awesome.
I creep forward and the woman grabs my arm, crushing me to her bosom and swaying back and forth, weeping into my hair and laugh-crying the whole time. Even though I don't understand what she's saying, I'm swept up in the emotion of it all and clutch at her tightly, trying to plod through the emotions I don't even understand.
This is my grandmother. My babushka. This is the home where my mother grew up.
The kids run back up to the front door, from behind, shouting and laughing and ushering us all back into the house. The rooms are small and cramped, with low ceilings and simple furniture. The air is warm and damp, sort of humid with cooking smells. It smells like brisket, and my mouth instantly starts to water. I hear my stomach growl and squeeze my middle tightly, shocked at how loud that was.
Babushka spins around and squints suspiciously at my middle.
She jabs a finger in my direction and asks me something, then raises her eyebrows at Daniel.
He chuckles, drawing me closer and slipping an arm around my waist. His other hand drops to stroke my round, protruding belly fondly. After a brief conversation, babushka starts clapping again and we have to go in for another round of strenuous, Russian-style hugging.
And even though I’m a little bit shy, I'm starting to love this. She must recognize me, though to be honest she just looks like every National Geographic picture of a Russian grandma I ever saw. I wish that I felt naturally close to her, or that I recognized her. But I don't. I was born in the US, and so I only spent a little bit of time with her during trips that I can't recall at all.
But here with Daniel, I don't feel awkward. He'll translate for me and I can accept her loving welcome.
He gazes down on me finally, pressing a lingering kiss against my forehead as he strokes my belly again, for the millionth time since I told him we were expecting a baby. I was completely surprised, but I guess I shouldn't have been. Since we were making love practically every day for months, it had to be inevitable, but I've been so focused on programming my app, writing the business plan, and generally being the happiest woman on the planet that I wasn't really paying attention to my cycle or anything.
Then one day morning, Daniel was staring at me when his expression got suddenly serious. He knew right away, even before I did. He's so in tune with me, it was crystal clear to him.
I needed more proof, but the doctor confirmed it right away. I'm having our first child in six months. Starting our life together with a bang, as they say.
Babushka grabs me by my shirtsleeve and starts pulling me toward the kitchen, explaining things to me in her lisping, gentle dialect that she knows I don't understand at all. But it doesn't matter, somehow
we are almost communicating. She's dragging me to the kitchen, where we will do things that women do together, I suppose. Cooking, chatting. Just being together in the same space.
And I have to admit, gathering over food is something that is so uncomplicated it's probably universal. I'm fine. I'm totally fine.
But when Daniel nods at me and edges away, I start to panic all over again.
“Um, excuse me? Where are you going?” I ask through a plastered-on smile.
He grins. “You're in good hands,” he assures me. “Just do whatever she says.”
“Whatever she — I really don't understand! Please don't leave me.”
“Oh, you can handle it, my kitten. I know you can,” he winks at me. He picks my hands up and kisses my knuckles quickly and then pushes off, disappearing through the low doorway, back the way he came.
I look at my short, full-figured grandma and just smile awkwardly, shrugging. I hope that seems like I just offered to help. Hopefully I don't burn the house down or anything.
She squints, smiling so big it closes her eyes. Then she pushes a colander full of beets toward me and hands me a short, wooden handled knife. Beets. Okay. I pick one up and hold it in my palm, then take the knife in the other hand and pantomime scraping the skin off. Then I look at her and raise my eyebrows, like, is this what you are asking me to do?
She holds up a cartoonish okay sign with her fingers, then switches to two enthusiastic thumbs-up that she shakes in the air until her blouse ripples with the effort.
Okay! We’re making progress. I'm peeling beets with my grandma!
I settle into the activity pretty quickly, at first trying to keep the bright purple liquid from staining my palms, and then just giving up. So, I'll be wandering around with violet hands. Maybe that's a common sight around here. It's not the worst thing, anyway.
Halfway through the basket, I notice how comfortable the space is. I hear more voices far away in the house, and see people periodically poke their heads into the kitchen, waving at me shyly, grinning with familiarity. I always smile back, but I don't know who they are.
In some ways, the sound of their voices far away in the house is more familiar to me than their actual faces. I do sort of remember hearing this kind of rhythm and sound when I was little, listening to my dad. But although I know these are my uncles, cousins, and aunts, I wouldn't be able to recognize them on the street.
I hear a ruckus at the front door, a dog barking and exclamations. Babushka pushes herself away from the counter, clapping her hands and wiping her palms on her apron. She chatters to me enthusiastically.
I just stand there for a few long seconds, not sure what to do. Eventually babushka sort of gives up on me, shrugging in frustration and waddling out of the kitchen.
When Daniel reappears, I breathe a sigh of relief and glare at him meaningfully. It worked out okay, and it wasn't very long, but I'm still not thrilled about being abandoned here. I see him reach out with his hand, gesturing to someone in the next room. Then he pulls her in.
And I don't understand.
What am I seeing here?
The woman looks at me intensely, blinking her bright green eyes, before reaching up to push her straight, blonde hair behind her ears.
“Mama?”
“Kita!” she murmurs before throwing her arms out. I run across the kitchen and crash into her, holding her tightly around her middle. We stand together, sobbing until our bodies are trembling, wrung out like dishtowels that have been holding liquid for too long.
Finally I push back from her, looking her up and down.
“Mama, I can't believe it! How did you… Where have you… It’s been forever, and I don't even know what to ask!”
She nods, then shrugs, then sort of looks at the ceiling like there's some kind of answer there. I know exactly how she's feeling: there's an avalanche of emotions inside of her and she can't figure out which one she is supposed to express first. I feel that way sometimes. It is something we have in common.
I can't believe she's here!
“Let me look at you!” she demands. She pushes back from me, inspecting me from top to bottom. Her eyes settle on my pregnant belly, and she jerks my left hand forward to inspect the ring on my finger. She twists, turning to look at Daniel without letting me go. I'm glad she's not letting me go. I'd like to keep touching her for a long, long time.
“You?”
“Definitely me,” he grins, shuffling over to walk behind me. He smooths my hair and squeezes me from behind. Just this brief contact helps to settle me, center me. I'm beyond thrilled that she's here, but so nervously excited that I'm afraid I'll just vibrate myself into a pile of dust on the floor. Daniel's presence calms me down, just enough.
“I still don't understand…”
“Well, it's sort of a long story,” she begins carefully. I search her face, noticing the light creases around her eyes. The last four years have not been easy ones for her, I can tell.
“You don't have to explain,” I whisper.
“Oh, I want to! I owe you an explanation. It's just that when I returned here, the political climate was not very favorable to Americans. Even though I was born here, they looked at me suspiciously. I was detained. Not officially, but unofficially.”
“But, Mama, it's been years since we spoke…”
She doesn't say anything, just looks at me. And I realize, it was years for her too. I can't even imagine how hard it was for her. Being unable to reach out, unable to ask me how I was doing.
I draw her close again, holding her tightly. At least now she can know how happy I am with Daniel. How it all worked out like some kind of magical fairytale.
A thought occurs to me, and I pivot, squinting at him.
“Did you… have something to do with this?”
He shrugs one big, muscular, superhero-sized shoulder and stares manfully out the tiny back window. I don't know what he thinks he's looking at. It's not like looking away from me makes him invisible or anything.
And I am so excited, I could just kiss him right here. I'm not sure how my almost brand-new old grandma would feel about that, though, so I resist.
For now.
“Your fiancé is a very clever man,” my mother whispers, bending close to my ear. “You made an exceptional choice.”
I take her hand, squeezing it tightly in mine the way that I used to do when we sat together on the sofa, each reading our own books. The way we used to do when we talked sometimes, when we cuddled in bed late at night. I never want to let her go again.
And staring at Daniel, I never want to let him go either. He's given me more than I could have ever dreamed to ask for. He's like some kind of magical sorcerer, knowing exactly what I need and somehow being able to make it all happen.
My daddy is going to be a daddy, I think as I rub my belly and turn toward my mother, drinking her in with my eyes again.
I feel like luckiest girl in the world.
The End. Thank you for reading!
Please continue on for an extra read at no additional cost: My book, Bossy: A Virgin CEO Romance
BOSSY
Copyright © 2017 by Jess Bentley
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Opening
Harper
Numb with grief, I sit in front of Jayson Satyros. His massive desk may be a huge barrier between us, but our losses have brought us together. “I still can’t believe it.” Even seeing my father’s coffin, with his smiling face displayed in a photograph perched on top of the glossy mahogany, hasn’t yet made it real.
“Look, I get it. It’s an enormous shock, Harper. I’m sorry,” says Jayson, looking for a moment much older than his thirty-five years. He rubs the bridge of his nose between his dark eyebrows. For a moment he c
loses his eyes, and the heavy fringe of lashes softens the look of his strong jaw and cheekbones.
Jayson buried his older brother and sister-in-law yesterday. Had things been different, I’d never have missed Dmitri and Ione’s funeral, but I had my own father’s to sort out.
“So…have you thought about the future yet?” asks Jayson.
I shake my head, folding the edge of my black skirt between my fingers. It’s a bit short, but it’s black, and I hope that’s respectful enough. I found it hanging in my closet a couple of days ago, likely where my mom had left it two years back, when she died. “It’s difficult enough to deal with the present.”
“You know, my brother found Mitch invaluable to the Satyros Corporation. They were much more than employer and employee. Mitch was also his friend.”
I nod, wishing my father and Dmitri hadn’t been so close. My dad wouldn’t have been on the plane that crashed, taking the only person I had left in the world. Mitch’s tradition was to accompany the Satyros family on vacations, in order to deal with any business matters that might arise. His loyalty to Dmitri and the Satyros Corporation ended up costing him everything.
“I took the liberty of making some inquiries.” Jayson shuffles some papers, though he doesn’t look down at them. His dark eyes remain on me, the gravity in his expression doing nothing to mar the classic perfection of his features. Before the crash, I would have been giddy to have so much of Jayson’s undivided attention, but today, my heart won’t muster even a slightly rapid pulse. I remember when I worked at Satyros over the summer and I would find myself slick from him just walking by my desk. “How much do you know of your father’s finances?” he asks.
That’s an unexpected question. With a shrug, I say, “Not much. It wasn’t my business.” My stomach clenches with sudden anxiety. “Why?”
“Your mother’s illness was… expensive. My brother offered to help, but you know how proud your father is… was.”