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A loud bang erupts through the room.
I wrap my left arm around Asya’s middle, pulling her out of the way so the dead man’s body won’t hit her when it swings back. I don’t think she even noticed me standing right behind her. I take the gun out of her hand, sliding the safety on, and carry her out of the house.
When we reach the car, I throw the gun onto the back seat and lower Asya to the ground, turning her to face me. Her hand and the sleeve of her yellow coat are covered in blood spatter. I unbutton and take the coat off her, throwing it onto the back seat, as well. Then, I pull off my own jacket and manage to get Asya’s arms into the sleeves, zipping her into its warmth. She doesn’t say anything while I get her dressed. Her eyes seem vacant as she stares in front of her. I don’t think she’s even aware of me.
I shouldn’t have let her do this. When she took the gun and turned toward the son of a bitch, I was certain she’d change her mind. I don’t think the sound of a gunshot has ever shaken me this much.
“Mishka,” I prompt her as I wipe the blood off her hand on the front of my hoodie. “Please say something.”
Asya just blinks. Her eyes remain unfocused.
A small white flake lands on her cheek. Another one follows. I look up at the sky. It’s snowing. I quickly grab the hood of the jacket and pull it over her head. “Let’s go home, baby.”
* * *
By the time I park the car in front of my building, the light snow has turned into a full-blown blizzard. Asya spent the entire two-hour drive curled up on the passenger seat with her face pressed to my shoulder.
“We’re here,” I say.
She nods and straightens up, but keeps her eyes closed. I exit the car and walk around the front. However, when I open the passenger door, Asya makes no attempt to move.
“Let’s get you inside.” I bend and scoop her into my arms.
The wind blows in my face, sending snow into my eyes as I carry her toward the building’s entrance. The parking lot is barely forty feet away, but by the time we reach the doors, we’re both covered in flurries.
As soon as we get inside the apartment, I set Asya down and remove her jacket. I take off my hoodie next. It’s black, like the jacket, and the snow hasn’t had a chance to melt off it, yet. I throw the hoodie behind me and crouch to unlace her boots. I need to call the doc’s psychologist friend again and ask what to do. I can’t tell her that I let Asya kill a man, but I need some kind of advice. What if she regresses? Her silence is freaking me out.
As I’m untying Asya’s other boot, I feel her hands in my hair. Slowly, I look up and find her watching me with a strange look in her eyes.
“I never should have given you that gun,” I whisper. “I’m so sorry, baby.”
Asya cocks her head to the side and glides her hands down my neck and further, to the center of my back. Grabbing handfuls of material with her fingers, she pulls the T-shirt over my head and then starts unbuttoning her shirt. I regard her as she removes it and her bra and starts on her jeans. I’m still crouching in front of her as she pushes the discarded clothes to the side and stands bare before me.
Taking my hand in hers, she pulls me up and unbuttons my jeans. I can’t take my eyes off her while she removes my shoes and the rest of my clothes, leaving us both naked in front of each other.
“Asya, baby?” As I reach out to caress her face, she jumps on me. I barely catch her in time, managing to grab a hold under her thighs. Her arms lock around my neck, legs wrap my waist as she dips her head until her lips touch the shell of my ear.
“Yes, Pashenka?” she whispers.
I suck in a breath. No one has ever called me that. The pakhan and a few others use my full name, but the rest call me Pasha—the Russian short variant for Pavel. But no one has ever used a diminutive name. In Russia, those are usually reserved for someone’s closest family members and spouses.
“How do you know about that endearment?” I ask.
“I found a website about Russian names,” she says and places a kiss on the side of my neck. “It mentioned that it’s a very personal and affectionate name, and it’s best to ask for permission before using it.” She trails her mouth to the side of my jaw. “Do I have your permission to use it?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
Her lips reach mine and hover just a breath away. “I want you to fuck me, Pashenka.”
My cock swells upon hearing her say it. Squeezing her thighs, I turn around, pinning her to the front door. I can feel her dripping pussy against my abs, and it takes all my restraint not to bury my dick inside her. Asya bites my bottom lip, and my control snaps. Positioning her above my rock-hard cock, I start lowering her, inhaling her trembling breath as I fill her up. She moans into my lips, then squeezes my hair when I pull out.
“Harder.” Her soft whimper transforms into a scream when I slam back inside.
As I drive into her pussy, I can feel her warmth, and it feels like coming home. I don’t think I really knew what that phrase meant before meeting Asya. But this—her body pressed to mine, her hands in my hair, and her lips crushed against my mouth—it finally feels like home. She is my home. Squeezing her thighs, I thrust hard, wanting to imprint myself on her. To mark her as mine in some way.
“Harder.” She moans and sinks her teeth into my shoulder.
I’ve long since lost the ability for rational thought. Purely on instinct, I turn around and carry her across the room to the dining table. Ignoring the neat stacks of financial documents I labored over yesterday which are now lining the tabletop, I lower Asya directly on one of the contracts. She’s so wet that the paper under her ass gets instantly saturated.
