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“But I—”
“I need you. Right here. With me,” he said more softly. His hips came down heavily with each stroke. “Look at me. I need you.”
She stared back, and the intensity amplified, like a feedback loop. The bed squeaked and rattled, unused to such hard use. His thrusts got deeper, faster, their gasps, moans and whimpers sharpening as they struggled in a desperate, heaving knot. She crested again and again, wailing as her body drew him impossibly deeper, bathing him with slick juice, clutching and milking his phallus with each ramming stroke.
Suddenly he wrenched out, and hunched over her, face contracted in a grimace that looked like pain. Hot, jerky spurts hit her belly, in a climax that seemed that it would never end.
Nick lay on his back afterwards, eyes burning.
He knew the script. He was supposed to cuddle her, sweet talk, make her laugh, if possible. Another silly crack about her landlady and the cops would be good. She’d given all she had to give. She was amazing. She’d held nothing back.
Neither had he. That was the problem. He couldn’t do the nice-guy postcoital routine in this condition. Not if his life depended on it.
He was scared out of his fucking wits.
And exactly what had made him think he’d be able to nail this girl, blow off some steam and walk away, relaxed, refreshed? Jesus. He’d fallen to pieces when he’d fucked her that afternoon in front of the video cameras and that monster, Zhoglo.
Of all places to get emotional. Needy. He hadn’t felt that since he was a little kid. Look at him, begging her to look at him. Inches away from sobbing in her arms.
He still wanted to. She was so sweet and generous, underneath her shield of sarcasm. He could feel how it would be, how she would wrap herself around him, twine those slender arms around his neck, press those jiggly, petal-soft tits against his face, let him nuzzle and kiss and lick her. She would cradle his head, croon comforting things, and he would melt into her. Dissolve into her tender warmth until he no longer existed, until it was all comfort, all bliss. All safe.
Nope. It wasn’t right. She was too nice a girl to be messing around with him. He was too cold, too cynical, too rude. A depressed, egotistic bastard, just like his daddy. His sharp edges would bruise her.
They were bruising her now. She lay there, breath still hitching. Waiting, while he lay there like a bump on a log, throat frozen, muscles locked, staring at the fucking cracks in the ceiling.
He could sense how badly she wanted him to reach for her. They all wanted it. This part was always awkward and sad and flat. His least favorite moment in the sex act. When he disappointed them.
But what skidded him into a heart-thudding panic was that he wanted to reach for her, too. He wanted it bad. That woke up feelings he’d forgotten about, an abandoned place inside him with barbed wire, chain link, Keep Out signs. Goddamnit, he could not afford this frivolous bullshit. He was marked for death, as would be any woman Zhoglo could connect to him. Especially Becca.
Hell, she was marked for death on her own merits.
Zhoglo would find him eventually. The bastard was filthy rich, wily, persistent. It was just a matter of time.
He pictured it. The best he had to offer the chick. Hey, wanna get a new face and go into hiding with me in Outer Mongolia? C’mon, didn’t you say you wanted more adventure in your life?
No. One searing lay and he was out of there. It was the only way.
He dragged himself up, and sat slumped on the bed with his back to her, just like the stony, indifferent bastard that he was. The colder he was, the easier it would be for her to dismiss this night as a big mistake with a heinous asshole. So she could forget and move on.
He felt weird about spurting his come all over her, too. There was a sleazy vibe associated with coming on a woman’s body, like he was marking his territory or some crap like that. He’d probably watched too much porn. Not that he watched a whole lot, since the stuff bored the shit out of him, but when he channel surfed on sleepless nights, it was hard to look away sometimes, when it had been awhile.
Speaking of marking his territory. He could have gotten her pregnant this afternoon. That zinged through his body. Froze up his chest muscles until he couldn’t breathe at all.
“Um, Nick?” Her voice was timid, nervous. “Are you…OK?”
“Nope,” he said, his voice muffled. “Not particularly.”
“Did I—was it something that I—”
“No,” he cut her off. “You’re the best lay I’ve ever had. You’re white-hot. You are not the problem.”
“Then, ah…what is the problem?” she faltered.
He made a rude sound. “You met my problems today, babe. My problems almost got you raped and killed. Any more questions?”
He got up, thigh muscles weak and wobbly, and waded around in the pillows, kicking them aside to get to the door. His filthy, sodden clothing was strewn in the corridor outside. He yanked the clammy fabric of his jeans up over his legs. A crumpled pack of cigarettes fell out.
He picked it up, shook it. One last smoke rattled around, bent but not broken and amazingly, not soaked. He fished in his pocket and found a lighter. Might as well smoke that sucker up. Celebrate saying goodbye to Arkady.
