Part Twenty-Five
Alone, Sydney couldn't even cry. What Sark had said—what she had said—it all turned around and around inside of her with no outlet, keeping her restless, keeping her wracked with self-loathing. When a particularly punishing round of her usual fitness regime (sit-ups, push-ups, kickboxing moves modulated for a non-existent opponent) didn't do anything to ease the turmoil, she pulled on the stiffly dried swimsuit she'd hung there in the adjacent bathroom, back when the bathroom had been hers, and took the back way down to the pool. Avoiding him. But out of kindness, this time; she was spoiling for a fight, energy coiled up in her limbs, and she at least owed it to him to spare him that.
She started out swimming laps, hard and fast, her breaths short as they forced the air down into her reluctant lungs, but after a dozen trips across the pool and back, she slowed to a steadier pace, the edge taken off.
Ten minutes after she'd lowered herself into the water, Sark appeared. She paused when she saw him, pushing her hair back from her face with wet hands, readying herself for whatever he might have to say, but he didn't speak to her; he hardly even looked at her. He just adjusted the waistband of his swim trunks and dove into the water at the far side of the pool.
When it became clear he wasn't heading for her—appeared to be ignoring her, in fact—she sunk down further into the water, and closed her eyes, feeling strangely subdued, as if his presence had made her that way. She laid her head back and stretched out, breathing deeply and letting the water hold her up.
He swam laps silently as she floated, staring up at the glass of the ceiling, at the stars beyond it, every one of them clear and bright in the murky sky. The sound of his arms entering the water as he stroked—sloppy form, to hit the water so hard—soothed and agitated her at the same time. It made it impossible to pretend he wasn't there.
And I'm just like her. He wasn't wrong. The unclear motivations, the amused half-smile, the raised eyebrows: sleeping with Sark was like sleeping with her mother. They presented the same mix of thrill and trepidation, the same heady cocktail of risk and potential reward, the same feeling of illusory power that came with knowing the betrayal was coming by and leaving your front door unlocked.
Except . . . Sark had never, technically, betrayed her. She'd never given him the chance. It wasn't the same as it was with Irina, where every time she hoped, and every time she ended up disappointed—every time she just ended up discovering new lies, affairs that made her skin crawl and sisters she didn't know existed. (Her sister—another mistake in judgment, but one she refused to regret making.) She'd broken faith with him, at least as often as he had with her. But now, things were different. They felt different. And he'd done nothing at all since things had changed to earn her distrust—nothing, at least, other than remind her of her mother.
She hated how Irina's presence always mucked up her thoughts. She hated how even when Irina wasn't there, her existence somehow managed to color everything Sydney saw, and everything Sydney did. And she hated that Weiss was gone, and that she'd lost Nadia, and Vaughn. She hated all of it. Except for Sark. And God, she almost didn't have any energy left for distrust anymore. She just wanted to believe. She didn't want to have to think anymore about who she could trust, and who she should trust; it wasn't something that came easily to her to begin with.
And choosing who to trust by working carefully, sensibly through the angles clearly hadn't protected her this far, so she might as well try something else for once. How much worse could it get?
There was only so much she had left to lose.
She thought she might start with her swimsuit.
She lowered the strap off of one shoulder, and then the other. She pushed the suit down, releasing her breasts, baring her belly to the water and the pale, wavery lights that swam beneath the surface. Her skin looked pale, almost blue, and distorted from the ripples her movements created across the top of the water. She worked the wet suit down over her hips and thighs, feeling the cool flow of water over the cluster of close-shorn curls between her legs, then finally let the fabric drift the rest of the way to the swimming pool floor. She stood that way, her shoulders smooth and bare above the surface, her body shadowed beneath it, for another few laps before Sark saw her.
She knew the moment he did. He missed a stroke; his body plunged forward and she thought it might be the first time she'd ever seen him thrown. He came up still choking.
He seemed genuinely shocked, and it almost made her smile. Almost. There was a different energy building in her body, now, one that reminded her how long it had been since she'd had his mouth on hers, since the airplane bathroom, since before that, here, in his home, in his bed. Her hunger for him, rising as it did almost from nowhere, with the force of a flood held back behind a dam, was stronger than she would have expected, and it nearly staggered her.
He just stared at her for a moment, and then ducked under the water; she could just trace his movements as he cut across the pool towards her. He surfaced only a few feet away.
"Sydney?" he said, a hint of dubiousness in his tone.
"Sark," she returned evenly.
As he took her face in his hands and kissed her, open mouth to open mouth, she wondered faintly about their insistence on identities—on naming each other over and over again.
He guided her backwards until her back hit the wall, her shoulder blades scraping against concrete and the pulse of a water jet suddenly insistent against her low back. His skin was wet, slick, unbelievably appealing; she dug her fingers into his shoulders as he stroked his tongue against hers and tilted her hips into his with his hands. She moaned—he was hard, pressing the rough fabric of his swim trunks against the sensitive inside of her parting thighs—and he slid his hands over the curve of her bottom, hiked her legs up around his waist.
She squirmed closer, tried to push his trunks off with her thighs, but he pinned her against the side of the pool, body tight against hers, hands anchoring her head as he kissed her: her mouth, her cheek, her jaw.
"You are so, so lovely," he breathed into her ear, and she shivered and bucked against him.
"Sark," she gasped, "please. . . ."
He eased a hand down her body, along her stomach, beneath one thigh, easing it higher—and slid one finger inside her.
"Is this what you were looking for?" he murmured, rocking his hand against her.
She bit his mouth in answer, and he laughed, roughly, slid a second, then a third, finger inside. "Yes, ma'am."
He held her there, moving inside her, his thumb barely brushing against her curls, what felt like forever. There were just his fingers, and the water, and the sky above them, and she was so happy, she felt like crying. When he released her, she couldn't keep her legs; she slid until her feet touched the pool floor, and would have slid further if he hadn't caught her.
"Turn around," he said softly.
She did, shakily, legs still weak, bracing herself on the rough concrete wall. She lost the feel of him for a few moments, but then he was there, completely naked now against her, pulling her securely against him. He kissed her neck, her shoulder; he slid his hands down to the front of her hips as she pushed back into his.
"Let me have you," he whispered, and she relaxed into him, shifting her weight forward into his hands and letting him carry her. She felt weightless; she felt almost free.
Then he shifted her higher, and the jet of water she'd felt before at her back was positioned at the juncture of her thighs. She hissed in breath, and squirmed in his hands. Banding one arm across her belly to hold her there, he used the other to spread her thighs.
He slid easily inside her as she gasped and flung back her head. "Oh, God."
"Shh," he urged—soothing her, not asking for silence—and began to thrust, slowly, steadily, then with increasing speed as she began to whimper.
She braced her hands on the side of the pool and squeezed her eyes shut, focusing on the feel of him moving into her, over and over, his hands on her hips, the water rushing around the place they were joined.
Her hips bucked helplessly once, twice—and her body exploded, clenching around him like a vise, her fingers gripping for purchase on the cement edge.
He rocked his hips once more, and then came as well, his own hands gentle as he held her body tight against his own.
"Feeling better?" he asked her as she turned in his arms and let herself be pulled into their embrace.
She tucked her wet head under his chin, closing her eyes and rubbing her cheek against the slippery skin of his chest. "Yes. Thank you."
"As might have been obvious there at the end, it was my pleasure."
"No, Sark." She looked up at him, sliding her hand along his neck to keep him with her, looking at her. "Thank you. For all of this. For letting me stay here. For being patient with me. I—" She shook her head slightly, laughed unsteadily, surprised at the realization even as she voiced it. "I couldn't have asked for a better friend." She leaned up and kissed him, tasting the chlorine on his lips before he parted them to allow her access.
"Just a friend?"
She laughed again, a little giddy this time. "Let's start with friend."
She kissed him again, contact he drew out until she was nearly out of breath. He might have gone on—except—
They broke their clinch at the same moment, Sark shifting to shield her from view and Sydney letting him as they both turned towards the doors leading back into the house.
"Well," Irina said, "this is an unexpected twist."
She was standing beside the pool, in front of the double doors, arms folded in front of her chest. She was still wearing her clothing from before—gray slacks, black turtleneck, hair pulled back into a low ponytail—though she was barefoot now. Making herself at home.
"This is somewhat of a private moment, Irina." Sark's voice was measured, cool.
"I can see that."
Sydney was silent, caught between embarrassment and a renewed anger, seeing her mother standing there so calmly, the amusement on her face as insulting as anything Irina had ever said or done to her. Like this was some sort of joke. Like everything around her was a game, and one she was in control of.
"Did you need something," Sark asked, "or did you simply feel a belated desire to protect your daughter's virtue?"
The amusement shifted into a more neutral expression. "I thought we could discuss Nadia, and Rambaldi's prophecy—if Sydney was . . . feeling better."
"We'll meet you in the dining area shortly," Sark said. He didn't consult with Sydney, but at the moment, she didn't care; she just wanted her mother out, and she wanted to put some clothing on. She wanted to get this discussion over with, so she could go back to trying to cope with the reason they were having the discussion to begin with.
"That will be fine." Irina inclined her head before leaving.
Sydney turned and rested her forehead against Sark's shoulder, feeling comforted by the simplicity of it: heat against heat, skin against skin. Straightforward. Easy to understand.
"I'm sorry," he said, and she asked, wearily, "For what?"
"For not being able to kick your mother out."
Sydney laughed, the sound tired but genuine. "No one can kick my mother out. I wouldn't take it personally."
"Come," he said, squeezing her briefly before letting her go and pulling himself up out of the pool, "let's not keep Irina waiting. Heaven knows what she'll do to keep herself occupied."
Sydney closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and followed.