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He looked down at her, stroked her hair back from her head.“I’ve missed you so much.”
“I’ve missed you too.”
He pushed through her channel with a groan, and she locked her legs around his hips, opening wider for him, wanting to take him as deep as possible.
He sank another inch inside her, then dragged slowly out.
He bent his head to kiss her as he stroked into her again. The rub on her clit ratcheted up the tension building in her body, and she moved with him, grabbing onto his back, lifting her hips to meet him, pulling away just long enough that she could savor the thrust of him into her again.
He moved faster, his tongue dipping into the well of her mouth while his cock tunneled through her.
He was inside her. She could feel it.
It was so real.
The wave of her release gathered and lifted. She could almost hear the ground shake with the force of it, could almost feel it in her bones. She rode the swell to the peak, hovering at the top in the moment before it curled over, taking her with it.
She cried out as he drove into her, again and again, her body shuddering as the orgasm took hold, emptying her of everything until she lay gasping and heaving.
She lay in the darkness, the only sound in the room her own ragged breathing and the ocean beating rhythmically against the cliff below the cottage. When she finally opened her eyes (she didn’t want to, didn’t want to leave the dream, didn’t want to leave him), she was alone, the sheets tangled around her thighs.
She rolled onto her stomach, her body still pulsing with the release of her orgasm.
She’d done this. She’d chosen it.
Now, she would live with it.
She buried her face in the pillow and ordered herself not to cry.
1
Kira lifted her face to the wind, enjoying the brief blast of cold air to her face before she returned her eyes to the road. It hadn’t snowed over Christmas, but it was cold, and the ever-present sea spray on Orcas Island coated everything.
Black ice would be hard to spot — especially on a bicycle.
Still, it was nice to be outside. She’d passed the last week alone at the cottage she’d been renting on the cliff, all too aware that across the world other people were celebrating the holidays with family and friends.
It had been impossible not to sink into remembrance: all the Christmases she’d spent at her family home in Chicago, classical music playing in the background, the smell of coffee and Lina’s fresh-baked Medovik, a delicious honey cake, wafting through the house.
Her father had sat like a benevolent king on the sofa to watch Kira open her presents, the only day of the year when he came downstairs in his bathrobe, and her mother — before her death — had sat on the floor with Kira, her face flushed with happiness.
Behind her memories of her parents, her home, there was him.
Lyon.
She’d been haunted by her dreams of him. Erotic dreams in which he brought her body back to life. Gentle ones in which he held her close, whispered her name, called hermalen'kiy sokol.
Little falcon.
Leaving him had been the hardest thing she’d ever done, but she’d been too riddled with guilt to stay. Her marriage to Lyon had cost her father his life. It seemed only right that Kira should sacrifice too.
And sacrifice, she was.
She’d wondered how Lyon had spent the holiday, if he’d purged her from his home and his mind.
From his heart.
She imagined Zoya back at the house Kira had shared with her father. It belonged to Kira now, but it would be awhile before she could face the memories that lurked there. In the meantime, her letter to Zoya had been clear, and provisions for the running of the household were more than proficient to keep Zoya and Lina comfortable. It would also allow Zoya to continue paying Peter’s salary during the quiet winter months when management of the grounds involved clearing snow as opposed to managing the lawns and gardens.
