Page 62 of Ruthless Sin
I don’t breathe with him on the first one. I’m not ready.
“Dva.”
I breathe on dva. My chest moves. The air comes in.
“Tri.” In.
“Chetyre.” Out.
“Pyat’.” In.
He keeps counting. Past five. To ten. Past ten.
He stops counting.
He stays where he is, his shoulders still, his jaw angled down toward the rug, not reaching.
I reach for him without deciding to.
I pull his sleeve.
He freezes.
I want him closer. I don’t know how to say that.
I count the freeze.Raz.Dva.Tri.
Then he stands, slowly, and the mattress dips when he sits on the edge of the bed beside me, on top of the covers, not under them.
Black pants. The white shirt, soap and the river, sharp and close in the dark.
He doesn’t lie down. He doesn’t put his arm around me.
He puts one hand on my back, lightly, between my shoulder blades.
The hand doesn’t move. His breath doesn’t change.
Mine does.
The warmth of his palm comes through the fabric of my shirt and stays there. Heat moves low in my stomach. Not fear.
I turn my face into his shirt.
The cotton is soft. My nose is in the place where his shoulder meets his collar. Warm through the fabric. For the first time in five years I breathe a man in on purpose.
I want to press closer. I want to feel his arms come around me. I want to stay here all night, and I stay exactly where I am.
My breath stops once.
I want to lift my face and put my mouth on his throat and feel his pulse against my lips. I want to press my whole body against his and stay there until morning. I don’t.
I can feel it in the stillness of his palm, in the breath that catches once before it evens, in every inch of him that stays where it is. He is not taking what he wants. I don’t know what to do with that either.
My heart is beating too fast but it’s slowing against him.
The word comes out anyway.
“Spasibo.”
