We're not going to talk.
His bedroom door is barely closed before he seizes my face in his hands and kisses me. Hard and deep andburningin a way that's almost unlike him—almost. And I am glad, relieved, honestly, and surprised at the rush of that feeling as I arch away from the door and into him.
This is what we've done—all we've done, it feels like—since we got back to campus. Since we touched down in Helsinki, really—desperate and frantic, clutching the counter of the first-class lounge bathroom and muffling my cries with his mouth, channeling the shock and disbelief that we were all somehow still alive.
Now, his broad hands fit to my waist as he unlocks his mouth from mine. "Is this all right?" But I'm nodding before he even finishes the question, pushing his hands up my ribs and taking the edge of my sweater with them.
I need this. Very badly. And so does he.
I never understood that before—needing someone. Needing anyone, let alone more than one.
Now I do.
I shed my sweater and blouse and fumble for his belt, loosening the buckle as he tugs his own sweater over his head. We land on the bed, his shirt unbuttoned but still on and my skirt hiked to my hips as I straddle him.
I reach for my waist and shove at the top of my tights, but it's a clumsy movement, and I'm about to lose my balance when Kingston grabs me by the hips and shucks them out from under my skirt.
Rips them.
The force sends me flat on my back. I wriggle my hips, trying to shimmy out of my underwear, but Kingston holds me still and sucks a kiss against my neck.
"Don't bother."
With two firm fingers between my legs, he pulls the fabric to the side and enters me.
"Fuck," I shudder.
Kingston shifts his weight, thrusts, and lets out a moan of pleasure from deep in his throat.
That sound. That sound is holy and ungodly all at once. I want to bathe in it, live in it, have it hold me captive for the rest of my natural life.
"Do that again," I manage to murmur.
Kingston's eyes flick open, and he slows the motion of his hips. "Which part?" he pants.
"I…" I can't think straight. I shake my head. "Any of it."
He nods. "Okay."
And thrusts into me again.
Fuck.I don't know if I think it or say it or both. I'm braced against the pillows, half seated, halfdressed, clutching bedsheets in my fists; he is diligent, focused, intense and intent even with his shirt undone and his pants rumpled somewhere at the end of the mattress. He is desperate,weare desperate, and I am not going to make it much longer. The tight, hot stretch of his cock inside me, the sweet, slow friction of fabric over my clit every time he thrusts...
It's too much.
"Ah!"
I cling to him as I come, pounding and clamping and full, and feel his moan vibrate through his chest and mine as he follows me a half-second later.
Slowly, through our breathing and the faint clattering of wind against windowpanes, things settle again.
Wrapped in his arms, I stare at the ceiling, then let my gaze drift around us. I hadn't even been in Kingston's room before we left for St. Ignaty's—such a strange thing to realize, that we'd been through all that and yet I'd never seen where he sleeps—but it's him. Thoroughly. Practical and organized and spare, from the hospital corners on the bed to the single neat shelf of textbooks—current semester only. A wall calendar, but just the date grid, no picture. And a wooden cross—same as they all have in their rooms, I think.
Beside me, Kingston shifts. He sits up, reaching for something at the foot of the bed.
My tights, I realize. Or what's left of them.
He smoothes them out on the rumpled bedsheets, like he's surveying for damages.
