by Meg Jackson
“Good, baby,” he whispered, the words a heated whirlwind in her ear. “That’s what I like to hear.”
His fingers found her slit. Her back arched against his chest. His hand on her waist demanded movement, and her hips took over, moving her up and down on his huge cock as his finger circled her clit over and over again. She was warm and wet and dripping down his manhood, her throat opening in a moan each time he buried deep inside her, an aching need each time he slid out. He moved his hand from her waist to her chest, massaging her small breasts one by one, owning her body by giving her everything she needed.
Ricky’s stomach was kindling, small flames licking upward. Each stroke drove him deep inside her, and each stroke was wind across the fire, sparking it higher and higher. Her cheeks were burning, her body made of trees, the fire spreading in the dark night of her lust, lighting it all up, consuming everything in its path. His finger never left her swollen clit, never ceased its terrible, blissful torture.
“Look at me, Ricky,” he said, his words seeming far away and inside her at the same time. “Look at me when you come.”
She turned her head. His eyes were there. His finger moved upward, striking her clit like a match, the last spark before the whole forest blew, her body collapsing in dreadful ecstasy. Her limbs snapped as twigs, her toes curled as leaves, her whole body rushed upward as she came, filled with his cock and trapped by his eyes.
“Good girl,” he whispered, and with a shudder he burst upward into her, a rain that made the embers of her climax glow, filling her with a wet softness that massaged and soothed the ache inside her, an ache that belonged to Cristov and Cristov alone.
12
Ricky groaned as she opened her eyes. She was damn sore. And no wonder why; the heavy body next to her, breathing softly, had left her that way.
I did it again, she thought. God….dammit.
Well, there was nothing for it. No use trying to change the past; all Ricky could do was worry about the present. And at present, her body was urgently craving the bathroom (and, after that, a trough of water to soothe the sandpapery feel of her tongue). She tried to move as slowly and lightly as possible to avoid waking Cristov. She couldn’t deal with a full bladder and a heart-torturing gypsy at the same time.
“Oh no you’re not.”
His voice surprised her into stillness, her hand still holding the edge of the comforter up.
“You promised, remember?”
His voice was thick with sleep as he slipped an arm around her and pulled backwards so that she slid into his warm body. His cock was hard against her ass and, despite herself, she felt her heart quicken.
“I have to pee,” she said, desperate to escape his grip. He growled against her neck and she shivered, then willed herself to stop reacting to those strong arms, woven with colorful ink, that held her against his hard, washboard stomach.
“Mmm,” he said, releasing his grip. “Fine.”
“And I don’t remember what I promised,” she snapped, getting her attitude back as she shimmied away. She looked back and caught the sly grin on his face.
“If I was a real bastard,” he said, “I’d tell you I was promised another round in the morning. But since I’m not, I’ll settle for the truth.”
“And that is?” Ricky asked, standing above him now with her hands on her hips.
“Breakfast,” he said, yawning and stretching, that smile still making her want to slap him and kiss him at the same time.
“Tough luck,” she snorted, heading towards the hall where the bathroom was. “I don’t eat breakfast.”
“I’ll settle for coffee,” he said, then the grin slipped from his face. “Do you really not remember? I didn’t realize you were that drunk. Shit, Ricky, I wouldn’t have…you really didn’t seem that far gone…I’m not the kind of man who likes to take advantage of women.”
“Well, it wasn’t my first rodeo, and you didn’t take advantage of me,” she said, rolling her eyes and leaving him to stew in his doubts and regrets. Not like his could possibly be any worse than hers. She realized, too late, that saying he didn’t take advantage of her implied that she’d wanted it. Which she had. But still…
She groaned as she shut the bathroom door and slid down onto the toilet. She really did have to pee, but she mostly just wanted to be alone to think.
She’d done it again.
Dammit, she said she wouldn’t, and she did.
Don’t be too hard on yourself, a voice in her head told her. I mean, look at him. A girl’s got needs and, boy, does he meet ‘em.
She lingered long after her bodily needs were met, holding her head in her hands with her panties around her ankles, staring down at the tile. She couldn’t remember every detail of the night before, but she remembered the main act. He’d proved himself again. And could she deny how much she’d wanted it?
You don’t have to deny how much you wanted it, that voice said again. There’s nothing wrong with it…
And it was true; if it were any other man, she wouldn’t be beating herself up about it. Sometimes a girl wants some fun, what’s wrong with having it? No, it wasn’t just that she had sex. It was that it was with Cristov. A man who, she knew, she could have more than satisfying sex with. Since the first time they’d met, she’d liked him more than anyone she’d ever dated before. He was funny in a way she found endearing, bold and cocky but holding a well of sensitive understanding behind his eyes.
She liked him. In the words of third-graders, she like liked him.
And that made him dangerous, because he could disrupt her easy single life. Relationships brought complications and feelings and heartbreak and…
Who had she dated before? Men whose names she didn’t even care to remember. Fun for a few weeks, and easily disposable.
Cristov did not seem like he would be easily disposable. Especially not if his brother married her sister. Then she'd never get rid of him, and when things went sour, it'd be a whole different sort of fucked-up. A real family affair.
But she couldn’t just hide in the bathroom forever. Rising and putting her panties back where they belonged, she was glad she’d thought to pull a tank-top on during the night. At least she wasn’t going to have to parade around naked in front of him.
As luck had it, he still hadn’t left the room when she emerged from the bathroom and made her way to the kitchen. In lieu of the requested coffee, she poured herself a brewdriver to take the edge off the morning. As though summoned by the sound of pouring liquid, Cristov emerged half-naked in the kitchen doorway.
“What the hell is that?” Cristov asked, one eyebrow raised in amusement as Ricky paused with the glass to her lips. The orange juice, its color rusty from the beer, was sparking with rising bubbles.
“Brewdriver,” she said, taking a sip. “Want one?”
“What is it?” Cristov said, moving forward and taking it from her hand. She let him smell it, feeling her skin tingle slightly from his closeness. Geeze, wasn’t last night – not to mention that morning – enough? She should have been tired of him by now, but she still licked her lips in subconscious desire.
“Orange juice and Coors Light,” she said, taking the glass back. “If it was a real beer, they’d call it a Brass Monkey. But a girl’s got to watch her figure.”
She gestured to the half-empty bag of white cheddar popcorn on the counter behind her, to prove just how much she cared about her figure. It was one of those party-size bags, and she’d gone at it alone a few nights ago while watching TV. Now, she picked it up and unrolled it, popping a handful into her mouth.
“Orange juice, beer, and popcorn. Breakfast of champions, huh?” Cristov’s nose scrunched.
“It’s good. Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it,” she said. He seemed to contemplate her offer, then nodded. She held out the open bag and he dove in, matching her gluttonous approach: stuff as much in your mouth as it can hold.
“If you say so. You seem to be an expert in drinking, anyway,” he s
aid after swallowing, his tone teasing but the words unsettling in Ricky’s ears. She fixed him a pint glass of the faux cocktail, using her last beer, and offered it. She waited, surprised by her own anticipation as he took a sip.
She wanted him to like it, though she couldn’t say why. She felt like she’d made him a nice, fancy dinner instead of a sleazy breakfast drink and a handful of junk food. When he hummed after swallowing, she smiled and hated herself for doing it. It was enough she was letting him loiter around, wasn’t it? She didn’t need to play hostess and crave his approval.
“Pretty good,” he said, retiring to the sofa in the living room. Ricky didn’t know what to do except to follow him, popcorn bag in tow.
“So…” she said, lowering herself onto the cushion beside him, throwing the bag onto the coffee table, clutching her pint glass in both hands as her eyes looked everywhere but him. She tried to find something to talk about. The topic her mind landed on was less than savory, but at least it filled the silence. “What are you gonna do about those bikers?”
His face scrunched again and he shook his head.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll have to talk to my brothers. But we’ll take care of it. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
She didn’t believe that last part, but didn’t call him out on it, either.
“That’s not very nice morning-after conversation, anyway,” he said, leaning back and throwing his arms wide so that one came dangerously close to her own rigid shoulders. Don’t lean back, don’t lean back, don’t lean back…
“What would you prefer to talk about? All the other things we have in common? What did you think of that New Yorker piece on Per Se? Genuine review, or just clickbait? Or how about Kim and Kennick? One hell of a couple, right? Man, I could talk about that for hours…”
“Drop the act, will you?” Cristov interrupted Ricky’s sarcastic tirade, frustration flashing in his eyes. “What’s with you? I know you’re into me, so why can’t you be into this?”
Ricky grunted.
“What’s this?” she asked, her tone scathing. “Hungover Sunday morning awkwardness? I’m not masochistic enough to be ‘into’ anything like that.”
“You know what I mean,” Cristov growled. “I might be a cocky ass, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you, and from last night’s performance, I’d venture a guess that you could say the same.”
“You’d be wrong on that account, buddy,” Ricky lied, taking a generous gulp of her drink and wishing she hadn’t wasted her last beer on him.
“Sure, sure,” he said, sighing. “I’d walk away right now if it was just you who’d caught feelings, but I gotta look out for myself, too. So what is it? Bad ex-boyfriend break your heart? Think you’re damaged goods? Daddy leave you in the…”
“Shut up,” Ricky snapped, Cristov’s interrogation landing on a raw nerve. Her rawest nerve, to be frank. He noticed and his mood softened, seeing the wincing pain in her eyes. But he wouldn’t leave it be, either. He wanted her, and if that meant he had to dig a little deeper than she wanted him to, he’d do it. His eyes held her captive, scorching her throbbing brain.
What the hell does he want from me? she thought, frustrated. Tell him my whole damn life story because we screwed a couple times?
“I just like being single is all,” she said. “It’s more fun than being tied down.”
“You’re all about the fun, huh?” Cristov asked. She bristled again. What did that mean?
“Listen, my dad was a great man. He was a great father. Always took care of Kim and I, always looked after us and made sure we had everything we needed. Played with us, even when he was tired from working all day. Put up with my bitch of a mother, until it killed him. Marrying my mother was the worst mistake he ever made, and it drove him to the grave. So I’m sorry, but no. Being single is far preferable to ending up with someone who’ll kick you until you’re down, and then give you a few more blows for good luck.”
She finished her drink in a few angry slugs and rose, moving to the kitchen once more. Did she have anything stored up in the freezer or an emergency stash in the cupboards? Nope. Dry as a bone. She settled for more orange juice, plain this time. When she turned around, Cristov was leaning in the doorway, his eyes grave as they studied her.
“That’s a sad story,” he said. “I’m sorry it’s your story.”
“Okay,” she said flatly, backing away from him until she hit counter. The way he was looking at her…
“My mother left my father when I was six,” he said. “I guess she probably felt the same way you do.”
“That uh…that sucks,” Ricky said, denying his eyes. If she looked into them…
“It did,” Cristov said, taking a step closer. “It took a long time to figure out why she did it. Why she left us. How to forgive her.”
“I’ll bet,” Ricky said, desperate to fill the silences in his speaking.
“But you know what?” he said, advancing on her steadily with each word. “I didn’t let it fuck me up. Because other people’s decisions, other people’s lives, have nothing to do with me. So when I want something, I’m not afraid to take it. If it hurts me, if it leaves me, maybe it’ll suck, but I’ll get over it.”
“That’s a pretty self-aware way to look at life,” Ricky said, his body dangerously close to her own. She held the glass of orange juice between them like a shield, and wondered if he could see vibrations on the liquid’s surface from the way her heart was thumping.
“It’s the only decent way to look at life,” he growled. “I get that you’re afraid, but that’s a shitty way to live.”
“And you’ve got a solution?” her words quivered slightly, and when he reached forward, taking her chin in his fingers and lifting her face towards his, she was finally forced to meet his gaze.
“No,” he said honestly. “I can’t fix your baggage. But you might want to try letting me help you lift it.”
“What makes you so special, so different from any other guy who wanted to date me?” she asked, using the last bastion of her willpower to deny him. He took the orange juice from her hand and pressed forward, his body trapping her against the counter.
“Baby, you already know the answer to that,” he said with a smile, and leaning down ran his fingers through her hair before taking her lips against his, her chest seeming to collapse with the force of his kiss as he took all her resistance into his mouth and swallowed it, leaving her breathless; and utterly defenceless.
13
“Well, you look happy,” Ana said, eying Cristov over the counter. A few customers milled around the grocery, looking at her expertly curated collection of foreign foods and imports. Ana’s store, in the heart of Kingdom’s main street, had been gathering popularity in the few months since it’d opened, drawing some regular customers and lots of new business from the wealthier towns that surrounded Kingdom: Stepford wives in cashmere sweater sets who wanted to impress guests at their dinner parties with exotic delicacies.
Cristov had stopped into his aunt’s store on his way to the tattoo parlor, having some time to kill before his first appointment. He picked up a small bottle of essential oils from the display case beside the register and thought about buying some for Ricky. She refused the normal traditions of dating, laughing at the flowers he brought and preferring a night at Sammy’s to a dinner date at a nice restaurant, but it didn’t stop him from wanting to dote on her.
“Happy is as happy does,” he said absent-mindedly, replacing the bottle on the display.
“Leave the aphorisms for those of us who’ve lived long enough to know what we’re saying,” Ana said with an indulgent smile. “That was just nonsense.”
Cristov grinned.
“Nonsense is as nonsense does. Whatever you say, Beebi, you’re the expert on living long.”
“Damn right I am,” Ana said, straightening up slightly. “So tell me about her.”
“Who says it’s a girl?” Cristov teased.
“Well,
hell, boy, if it’s men you’re after, you sure fooled me,” Ana retorted.
“Who says it’s a person at all?”
“Haven’t seen a smile like that on your face in a long time,” Ana said, her tone growing more serious. “I’ve missed it. Whoever it is, I hope they’re treating you right.”
“She does,” Cristov admitted with a sigh. “In her own way, she does.”
“In her own way? What about your way?” Ana asked, her eyebrow raised.
“More than one way to skin a cat,” Cristov said, leaning on his elbows on the counter. A part of him itched to tell his aunt about Ricky, to tell her everything, but he held back.
Ricky had been clear about not wanting things to move too fast, and had urged him to keep their relationship quiet. Kim and his brothers and Mina knew, of course, since there were no secrets between siblings, but other than that he was sworn to secrecy. They’d only been dating for a week or so and he was willing to play things her way for a while. He figured that letting her make the rules at first would ensure they’d be playing the game for a long time to come.
“Too young to speak in riddles,” Ana sighed. Behind her, in the storeroom, the sound of boxes falling caught their attention. “Just remember, bi kashtesko merel i yag”.
“Without wood, a fire would die”; Cristov's face scrunched as he tried to garner meaning from his aunt's cryptic advice.
“Damn darn bastard boxes!” The voice was high-pitched and Cristov bit back a laugh. Pieter, Ana’s nine-year-old son, was developing a colorful vocabulary for his age, a necessary side-effect of living among foul-mouthed gypsies, as much as Ana tried to stop it.
“Pieter! If you don’t wanna be tasting soap tonight, you watch your language!” Ana yelled back, hands on her hips. It was a Saturday, and Pieter was off from school, helping his mother at the store. If none of the Volanis children ever sired a boy, he’d be the next rom baro of the kumpania: so far, though, Pieter had all the leadership qualities of a slug. And, if Mina and her feminist posse had their way, the whole patriarchal lineage thing would die out in the next generation.