Chapter 5
As it turned out, Vladimir had finally relented in the end and had agreed to give her small clues about where they were going.
A restaurant.
More precisely, he'd said: "I will take you to a nice restaurant. Don't dig out your MET Gala's dress just yet though."
So, right now, Camille was sitting on her bed, in front of her wardrobe, hair and body wrapped in towels, trying to figure out what could be nice without being MET Gala's material in Vladimir's mind, while her nail polish was drying.
She suspected her polish would be long dry before she would make any progress on the dressing front.
"Come on, Camille," she encouraged herself, "how hard could it be?"
Ever since she was a teenager, she had had many dates. Never once did she spent that much time thinking about her clothes… Although for her last first date with someone, she had been 18 years old. Maybe that was mostly why.
Remembering the game she used to play with her sister, she grabbed a little black dress. It was very short, shorter than it was meant to be on the girl's long legs, and very tight.
"Hi," she told her reflection in the mirror, "My name is Camille and I'm the sluttiest slutty slut to ever slut." She blew a hard breath before throwing the thing back in the wardrobe.
Nope.
She wanted to end the night in bed. She had even shaved meticulously. Everywhere! But she actually wanted to go to the restaurant too, not to go straight for dessert. She hadn't tried any since she was in Hell's Kitchen and she'd be damned before she'd be deprived of that one!
Never mind, she sighed. She also had another dress, navy blue, this one. The dress was tight around the chest and flared around the hips, stopping at knee length, looking a little like a princess' dress. There were thick straps on the shoulders, going down the uncovered back, crisscrossing several times down to the hips. It was made of cotton and some synthetic material, allowing the dress to stick to the body, but thick enough that it wasn't slutty tight like the black one.
She pictured Vladimir putting his hand on the small of her back, his pinky, ring and middle finger on the dress' flaring material while his forefinger and thumb intertwined with the straps higher on her back, half on tissue, half on her skin. A gesture so innocent and yet not innocent at all.
That settled it. She slid the dress over her head.
When she had finished her make up, she went for her shoes, choosing black pumps with medium heels. Flats were out of the question with that kind of dress, but she couldn't take shoes with too high a heel. Vladimir was tall, probably around six feet but she was already 5'9. It was probably silly, but she didn't want to be taller than him. She had been taller than another one, on another life. Tonight, she didn't feel like dealing with the curious stares.
Before she had time to dwell on her sudden bout of melancholy, her interphone rang.
"Yes?" she asked in a smile. She had a pretty good idea of who it was. 7 o'clock sharp. He was on time.
"Camille's slave for the night is waiting downstairs." A gravelly voice, alight with laughter, answered her. "If my lady is ready." He went on, his voice softening.
She burst out laughing, shaking her head as she closed her door. She had to give it to him, he was good. In one sentence, he had evaporated any and all anxiousness she had. She took the stairs. She lived on the third floor. It wasn't so high up, and she didn't trust her elevator not to screw up her evening.
Careful not to fall, she gripped the guardrail and watched her steps. Only as she finally reached the last one, she dared to look up. Her staircase was a desolation: wall-paints chipped, floors dirty... But she had gotten used to it and didn't even mind it. It was home.
Decidedly chirpy, she opened the entrance's door wide. And gaped like a fool. Here he was, in all his Russian glory. His blond hair was spiked lightly, with some kind of styling gel, not a greasy one. If she were to run her hands in it, she'd bet they would come out clean. It looked soft. She'd make sure to put her theory to the test if she had the chance.
His eyes were sparkling with amusement. He had a clean stubble, clearly cut by a barber. It was rare, nowadays, to find a man clean shaven with what looked like a soft skin. Perhaps it was because he had blond hair and that made it look less hairy? Was his chest as hair free as blond-haired men tended to be? She hoped so. She had always dreamt of having a man nearly hairless on his chest. So far, she hadn't got that chance.
His outfit was also a rare sight on him. He still had dark jeans on, but he had put on a light-blue shirt. Ralph Lauren, she recognized. To stand the heat that was getting worse and worse as days went by, he had rolled up his sleeves up to his elbows, letting muscles and -oh surprise! - more tattoos show.
She was so going to jump his bones.
"Like what you see?" He asked, when she had apparently stayed silent and frozen for a bit too long.
Her mouth snapped shut, her arm sliding into the one he offered.
"Yeah." She admitted. She wasn't a kid. She wasn't about to tell him: "Nay, you look ugly," when she was fantasizing about ripping his shirt off his back. He looked good and he knew it.
He escorted her to his car, an Audi black SUV parked a little down the street. As he opened the door for her, he took the opportunity to slowly whisper in her ear:
"You look beautiful, Camille."
A small smile graced her lips as she whispered a thank you. Soon, she was sitting in the SUV and took some time to take inventory of what she considered a first glimpse into his personal space. The seats were made of leather, black leather of course. In the door's compartment, she could see a few cigarette packs and a cleaning cloth for the windshield. The car was clean but smelled of stale tobacco. She didn't mind. Her car, back when she'd owned one, had smelled the same. She let herself relax as he drove, a little too fast, through the city.
The sun was starting to set up behind the buildings but they still had a few hours left before it would be totally dark. They both opened their windows, Camille following the man's lead. Another good point for him. She was sick and tired of Americans and their air-conditioners everywhere. Plus, it made her sick when in a car. She had always liked to feel the wind in her hair, ever since she was a kid.
"So," she started, still not totally comfortable with the silence, "what is it with you Russian people and black things?"
Vladimir took his eyes a few seconds off the road to arch an eyebrow at her.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, black cars, black clothes… Is it some kind of Veles Taxi's uniform?" she joked, still careful to only graze the surface of what he really was. They both knew. But there were some things better left unsaid, at least for now. He smirked.
"Yes, the men in black uniform." She shook her head, smiling. "No, the real reason is simple."
The blood tended to stain less on black things? She wondered, knowing he wouldn't say that but suspecting it might be part of the reason still.
"We look handsome in it."
Her laughter reverberated in the car.
"Yeah, right. You wish!"
She shook her head in disbelief. Was there no limit to the guy's ego? Probably not.
"Will you tell me where you're taking me now?" she tried again. The suspense was killing her. Like a child, she loved surprises but couldn't stand the wait.
"Nope."
He grabbed a cigarette, lit it and smirked at her again, enjoying her suffering, obviously. She stuck out her tongue at him before following suit.
As they finished their smokes, Vladimir finally parked the car on a street. They were in the uptown part of Hell's Kitchen but, as much as Camille tried, she couldn't see any restaurant's front around. She was still searching when her date got out of the car and came to open her door.
"Thanks," she said, getting out. "Be careful, though, I could get used to be treated this way real fast."
He grinned in return.
"That's the point, sweetheart." He offered her his arm and, once again, she snaked hers in his. "Follow me."
And she did, down to a back alley where she wouldn't have dared going alone. Every back alley in Hell's Kitchen felt like someone could die in it. More than a few had actually had people die in it, so it was a valid point. However, as she watched discreetly the glint of what could only be the handle of a knife in Vladimir's pants' pocket, she thought that the one who would try to rob them tonight would be in for a surprise. And it would be a well-deserved one if the robber was stupid enough to go for the guy with tattoos everywhere and a scar on his face.
Finally, she began to see some lights at the end of the alley, yellows, reds and oranges casting a cheerful glow on the otherwise glum space. She could hear some music coming from behind the wooden door the cheery lanterns casted lights upon.
"Are we going to dance?" she asked Vladimir, almost jumping on her feet with excitement. She heard music every day at the bar but she hadn't danced for an eternity. She wasn't a good dancer. She wasn't even an average dancer. But she loved it anyway.
The Russian smiled at her. It almost gave her pause. For the first time, it was a genuine smile, a gentle one, not a smirk. He looked simply pleased that he had found something she liked.
"After we eat, if you want to."
As usual, he opened the door for her, and slid a hand on her back. She had to refrain from shivering when, as she had pictured sooner that night, his thumb and forefinger intertwined with the straps on her back. Not as usual, he didn't remove his hand right after he had guided her in the right direction. Normally, she would have taken the opportunity to walk a little closer to him by now, but frankly, she was too mesmerized by the sight in front of her to do more than notice.
He had taken her to a Cuban restaurant. The wooden door had granted them access to a private terrace also lit by dozens of colorful paper lanterns suspended on wooden pillars all around the private garden. Following three out of the four walls, she could see small tables, meant only for two, placed in the most private spaces possible. In front of the fourth wall, a Cuban band was playing soft but cheerful melodies. She didn't doubt that, as the night went on, they would up the pace and get louder, allowing people to dance in the middle of the terrace, let free of tables on purpose. A small arch allowed the employees to come and go to and from the kitchen. As she looked up, she discovered beige canvas stretched above their heads, protecting them from the eventual night's chill.
"Do you like it?" Vladimir asked as he watched her scan everything around her.
"Are you kidding? This is awesome."
She meant it. For her first night out in a New-York's restaurant, she wasn't disappointed. She had been anxious before coming, fearing that he would take her to a fancy restaurant where she would not feel at ease. Here, she was reminded of her parents' backyard. They had a pool and enjoyed lighting little lanterns to pretend they were back at the Ile Maurice, their favorite island. It took going to that kind of restaurant to realize she had missed this ambiance dearly.
"I guessed you would like it more than some kind of wine-testing session. I still remember the way you looked at our guest in the private room."
Mr. Fancypants. Right… As a gravelly chuckle echoed beside her, she supposed her disgust must have shown on her face.
A waiter cut whatever reply she was about to make, escorting them at one of the most secluded table. Vladimir pull the chair facing the wall out for her. She sat and watched him do the same in front of her.
"Sorry," he said as he put his elbows on the table – and yes, she got distracted by his forearms for a moment – she arched an eyebrow, wondering where that apology came from. "I know I'm taking the seat with the best view but, I have to keep an eye on the entrance. Just in case."
She had to refrain a sigh. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same. She had known another boy, from another time, who couldn't bear to have his back to the crowd. For very different reasons though.
"It's alright. I don't mind facing the wall. Feels more intimate that way."
A devilish smirk was his only answer. She could trust him to catch every innuendo she would throw at him.
"What do you want to eat?"
That was the thousand points question. She had no idea. The waiter who had placed them had come back with the menu. And it was full of things she had never tasted, never even knew existed: Pernil Relleno De Moros Y Cristianos, Vaca Frita, Guava Basted Ribs…
"Fuck if I know." She muttered under her breathe. Seeing her like this, frowning and swearing, set Vladimir on another bout of laughter.
"You never eat Cuban?" She shook her head in a no, waiting for him to maybe help her. Sure enough, he did. "Do you like beef?" She nodded. "Try the Ropa Viera then. It's a braised steak with tomato sauce and rice. Very good."
"I'll trust you on this, then. And hold you accountable if it tastes bad!" She joked. She was pretty sure she would like something like this. She had always loved spicy food, just like her mother, and she could eat tomatoes every day without getting bored of it. "Now, onto the serious matter," she went on, trying to look very serious. She almost lost it when she saw him frown. It was almost funny, how scary he could look when frowning, even in the middle of cheerful music and lights. "What do we drink?"
That, he agreed with. Very Serious Matter indeed. Following the waiter's suggestion, they ordered a rhum based cocktail each. Camille, having not drink anything but light beer for months, was pretty sure she would get tipsy really fast if she wasn't careful. However, as she tasted it, it was so good, she knew for certain she would end up tipsy anyway. She had a feeling she would be the only one. First, because her date was driving. Second, because she had an inkling of how the Russian was holding his liquor: far better than her. And last, because she could see him watching the entrance, always alert, as if some mafia rival was about to burst through the door.
That's what you got for going on a date with a man like him, she reckoned. Part of the deal.
"Sergei stopped by the bar yesterday, accusing me of going on a date with a stranger." She teased between two sips. "And as I learned Anatoly was actually your brother, I realized that maybe he has a point. Tell me about you, Vladimir." She asked gently. She knew that he couldn't talk about some parts of his life and she was still set on this not being the let's-see-if-we-could-spend-our-life-together kind of date. But still, she felt entitled to know at least a little more about him. Apparently, he agreed. After a nod and a sip from his drink, he complied.
"I was born in Russia in a town called Rostov. Anatoly is my older brother by fifteen minutes."
"So, you're twins." She grinned. Older brother, right…
"Yes. But for my family, having an eldest was important. My mother was an artist. She worked as a dancer but also liked to paint. My father…" He stopped, walking down memory lane, and it was not necessarily a good walk, if his face was anything to go by. Waiting, she stared at him, mesmerized to see him look so unguarded, for once. "My father was a factory worker. A drunken one." She winced, even if she had expected some kind of rough story. Afterall, the man had made some dubious life choices… "As we were born, it was decided that my father would raise the eldest, Anatoly, as the man of the family. He only wanted one boy, to take after him. Me, he did not care."
He said that factually, as if he did not care either. She wasn't so sure that was the truth, but she kept listening.
"My mother took upon herself to raise me. She did not like my father's way very much and I guess she took this as an opportunity to rebel, somehow. Raise a son right. Her version of right anyway. So, Anatoly would spend time with my father, learning to shoot with a gun, to cut wood and later to treat women like shit. Me, I would spend time reading books. Thousands of them."
As he said it, he laughed and she did the same. She could guess he must have hated it.
"History books, political books, every crap my mother could get her hands on. She taught me to respect people, women included, and to make them respect me. She taught me that smarts were more important than brawns. Anatoly was raised the other way around. But what they didn't get was that Anatoly and I were twins. We shared a special bond. And at night, when no one knew, he would teach me his way and I would teach him mine.
It was ironic. As we grew older, everyone, even us, could see that I was born with my father's temper, his roughness, even his looks, while Anatoly was always the softer one, taking after my mother. I was the one to come back from school battered and bruised while he was the one getting us out of trouble.
When my mother died, she had cancer-"
"I'm sorry." She cut off in barely a whisper. She was fascinated and didn't want him to stop. Thankfully, it worked. He acknowledged her and kept going.
"We were twelve, I think, when it happened. My father was devastated. He was a shit of a man but he truly loved her. He started drinking even more, becoming more violent as he went. Suddenly, he couldn't bear the sight of Anatoly. He was always the handsome one, looking like our mum."
She smiled at that. She guessed it depended on who you asked. She would happily bed them both, sure, but to her, Vladimir was the best looking one.
"So, none of us were surprised when he started to hit him. At first, it was just a punch here and there. But soon, it happened every night." Camille took a sip of her cocktail, to give herself some countenance. She could see where this was going.
"One night, he broke his ribs. I had enough."
"Did you kill him?" she asked. She could see the surprise etched on his feature. Was it her neutral tone? The fact that she dared to ask? She kept a straight face and held his gaze. The guy had obviously been an asshole and she knew who was in front of her.
Once the surprised had passed, a small, disillusioned small replaced it.
"I had planned to tell you we ran but, yes, I killed him."
They held each other gaze. None were laughing or smiling now. Each gauging the other out. She could see it was a test. He would say no more until she reacted.
"Good." She finally said.
She wasn't a good Samaritan. She did believe in second chances. Not in third and fourth… A drunken asshole who beat on his twelve years old kids was beyond helping.
The stare she got back was so intense, his eyes almost black right now, she had to make an effort to hold it. But she did. She held on. What she had said was her truth. She wouldn't back down now.
"I went to juvie for it, you know. Russian juvie." A small smirk came back on his face, stretching his scar a little.
"Good." She said again. Some were beyond saving. But nobody could kill with impunity either.
That earned her a disabused laugh. He looked down on the table and ran a hand through his already carefully messed up hair. When he looked up again, he had that same unwavering look he got when, she guessed, she earned some points in his book. Once again, she refused to back down.
"You've got some steel in you, Camille." Yes, she did. Everyone had always told her. She had too much for some, even. "Good." He mimicked. She gave him a little satisfied grin, which made him snort. "Enough about me. Tell me about you now."
She still had many questions but guessed it was only fair.
"I already told you about me last time. Small town girl coming to the big apple to get some fresh air." She tried dismissively. He didn't buy it. She wouldn't have respected him if he did.
"You lied to me last time. I don't know much about you but I know this. You're not some air-headed girl in search of some stupid adventure."
He was right. Damn him.
She took another sip of her decidedly delicious cocktail, maybe she would order another, buying herself some time to think.
"I came here because something happened to me in France and I needed to start over. What happened is not date material's talk." She hoped he would leave it at that. He didn't. She wasn't surprised.
"Because the story of my first kill was?" First kill. Not the only one. She had known. And yet, she was surprised he felt comfortable enough to let it slip.
"Maybe not. But this is worse. To me, at least." Once again, they stared at each other, a silent battle of will. She won. Or he let her win, most likely. "Do you want to know about my family?" she asked, trying to go back to less heavy matters. Always the fair player, he caved, signaling her to go ahead.
She crossed her legs under the table and lounged a little on her chair.
"My mother is a social worker. She helps people with disabilities in their daily needs. My father works in administration. He is some kind of geek. Always the nose in a book and the Beatles playing in the background. My mom likes to party, to travel, to enjoy everything life has to give. So, obviously, they got divorced at some point. When I was ten."
"You were sad?" He asked, before waiving to the waiter for a refill for them both.
"Nah," she said first, then thought about it. "Well, at first, yes. But as I grew older, I realized that it was for the best. My mom got remarried soon after. Very soon. Don't ask me when exactly she met the man, I didn't ask and never will." Vladimir smirked and raised his tattooed hands in the air in surrender. "Turns out my step-father, pain in the ass that he is, granted me the best gift life could have given me."
"Yeah?" He was looking suspicious, as if expecting something unsavory. Or a big joke. It was neither.
"Yes. My little sister. She honestly is the person I love the most on this earth. She will always be. No matter what."
His face returned to that gentle expression she liked so much on him. She supposed it was the common point they have, the limitless love for a sibling.
"How old is she?"
"Seventeen. Right in the glorious teenage years where she looks like a Victoria's Secret's supermodel and cry every night because she thinks she is ugly."
"Seeing her sister, I'm sure she is beautiful."
"Stop it!" Camille rebelled against the compliment, letting her foot under the table graze against his calf, in a make-believe of a hit. "I'm trying to tell a story here! Don't get me off tracks."
His elbows were still on the table as he raised a hand to put his chin on it, hiding his smile behind his palm. With the other hand, he motioned for her to continue.
"Thank you. So, I love my sister. And I miss her dearly. I hope she can come in December to see me."
"Why don't you go back to France and see her? I'm sure Alex won't mind if you take a few days off."
She opened her mouth, her first instinct was to lie, but he had been honest with her. She owed him the same.
"I'm not feeling ready to go back there yet. Plus, have you ever seen a teenage girl missing a chance to go and visit NYC?"
Tactfully, he chose not to address what she was not yet willing to share.
"What's so special about this city?" He asked instead. She burst out laughing. Men!
"It's New-York-City! The city of Gossip Girl?" She was apparently speaking Chinese now. "Come on! The shops! And the price of clothing! It's a teenage girl dream come true!" Nope, still not getting it. "Well, to be fair, I suppose Paris and London are also dreams come true for teenagers but my sister already lives between Paris and London because of my step-father's job so…"
"The clothes? Really?"
"Yes!" She laughed. "You should have seen my wardrobe in France. A whole room full of shoes and designer's bags and dresses and… Oh, God… I'm scaring you now, aren't I?" He was looking like he was facing a ghost. She laughed again, trying to control herself not to bother the other patrons around.
Soon enough, their plates came. Right when Vladimir had finished his second glass of rum. She would eat and drink at the same time. They ate and kept talking some more. She told him about her apartment needing to be freshen up a bit, how she had no idea how she would host her family if they did come on Christmas Holliday.
"I mean," she said between two bites of her delicious, definitely very spicy, dish, "if it's only my sister, I can manage. She would share my bed and I can convince her not to tell my parents what kind of apartment I have."
"What if I'm already sharing your bed?" Vladimir asked with a straight face.
Was he joking? Was he not? Did he really plan to still be in her bed in six months? Well, there was only one answer for her to this kind of question: a joke.
"I told you my sister would always come first. You'll have to sleep on the couch."
Yes, she knew that, in a way, she had let the door open for him being… well, more than what she pictured at the moment. She had to admit, if only to herself, that, as the night went on, she felt more and more at ease with him. She tried not to see him as more. She really tried. Hard. She knew that she was only putting herself up for more heartache. But she couldn't help it. The thought of him being gone from her bed in the morning was already making her feeling sad and she couldn't help but hope, against all reasons, that maybe, he would still be there tomorrow morning and that it would be a good thing. She focused back on the present, on his laugh.
As they ate desserts, ice cream for her, some kind of banana thing for him, she learned more about him. He had arrived in the city a few years back after leaving – escaping, she guessed – the Utkin prison, a Russian prison where he had gotten quite a few scars and quite a few tattoos. She also learned that he was 34, ten years older than her – her mum wouldn't like it, but then again, her mum wouldn't like him anyway – that he didn't like ice cream, which was a crime, and that he missed Russia.
When they had finished eating, Camille was feeling just the right kind of tipsy. The music band had started to get louder around the time their desserts had arrived. Now, they were playing some kind of samba thing, the kind of song you have to dance stuck to one another. And she really wanted to get stuck right now.
"Let's dance?" She finally asked, fighting to stay somewhat still on her chair. She was beginning to feel like an overgrown child again, which usually was a bad sign for her. She would get in trouble in no time. Vladimir looked at her, fidgeting on her chair, anxious to go dancing.
"Do you know how to dance this?" he asked, rising up to his feet anyway.
"Nope. I was planning to wing it." She followed him, a hand in his, on the dancefloor where several other couples were already dancing, some getting closer to copulation than actual dancing.
"Do you want to learn?"
She watched him with big blue eyes. Was he serious?
"You know how to dance this?" Really?!
He laughed again.
"This, and quite a few other kinds too. I told you my mom was a dancer."
She could have hugged him. Her mother and step-father were quite good dancers, but her step-father was such a bad teacher that she never got around to ask him to teach her. Her father wouldn't be able to dance anything even if his life depended on it.
"Yes! Yes, show me!" She exclaimed in a mix of childish and tipsy glee.
He did. He did it well. They went to a quiet corner of the dancefloor in order not to bother any of the other couples. He showed her how to put her feet and her hands. Slowly first, then a little faster. She tried to stay focused. She didn't want to step on his feet. She really wanted to learn. However, at the moment, she also really wanted to lean on the crook of his neck and enjoy the scent of cedarwood that never seems to leave him.
Between watching her steps and controlling her worst impulse, her brain felt like it was frying. Only Vladimir's laughter ended up breaking her focus.
"You are thinking too hard!" This close to him, his breath was gently brushing her cheek's skin. She could also feel the slight shaking of his chest and shoulders as he laughed. "Come on, let's try like this." Without warning, he put his hand more firmly on her back to get her closer. She almost stumble against his chest but he had anticipated it and caught her, setting her right against him.
Well, she had wished to be stuck, now she was. She could feel the buttons of his shirt against her breasts, the muscles of his stomach against hers, the hardness of his belt's buckle against her hip and the scratchy fabric of his pants between her thighs. Once again, his fingers intertwined with her dress's backstraps, letting her shivering and sweating at the same time.
"Look at me." He ordered gently. Up until now, she had watched his feet. Now, even if she wanted, she couldn't. So she obeyed, looking up in his blue eyes that never wavered. "Try just to feel my movement and follow it." She nodded; her throat too tight to utter a single word.
God, how she wanted him right now. However, something, in the back of her mind, was starting to stir. She had not been in a man's arms since, well, since she had left France. She was hot and wet and wanting him like a thirsty man in the desert wanted water but she was also uneasy. As if it shouldn't be him here and now. He was too tall, too broad-shouldered, too blond… She wanted to move on from these memories, she wanted him. But she was also scared. Well, not scared, not really. It was more like anticipation. Like a virgin on her first night. She wanted it but wasn't sure of what "it" was exactly.
"Stop thinking." Vladimir's voice brought her back to the present. She did as he asked, following her instincts. She allowed her head to settle on the crook of his neck at last and closed her eyes. It helped her greatly to follow his movement. In no time, they had managed a fluid rhythm. She had felt his unease when she had settled against his neck. He was probably used to physical contact, to skin on skin, with women but not this kind. This felt too much like cuddling, most likely. But still, he bore it and said nothing. As minutes went by, he was back to being confident and fluid in his movements. He had gotten used to her being there.
As he had advised her, she stopped thinking, her unease fading away as the music went on, sometimes slow, sometimes fast.
They danced for as long as they could, up until her feet hurt because of her shoes and her hip hurt because of his belt, and she got trouble keeping the pace.
"Let's go home." She whispered against his neck. She wasn't bored. She didn't really want to. But the night was at its end and it was time. All good things had to end at some point. He looked into her eyes and he got it.
She wanted to kiss him now, and she wanted to do it some place private, some place she wouldn't have to hold back in the name of propriety.
He nodded, got her back to her chair and left for a few minutes to pay the check as she grabbed her purse.
The drive home was silent but some things were said anyway. The way his hand was on her thigh, rubbing small, gentle circles, as her legs parted on their own will, was worth more than a million words. She had to hold back whimpers.
She wanted him. So bad. Even if that stupid anxiousness about discovering a new body after… after everything that had happened to her was still here, nagging her despite her best effort to ignore it. It had been years since she had felt that kind of lust, the kind that makes your heart beats faster and your core vibrates with the need to be filled.
When he finally parked the car in front of her building, she barely noticed the patrons smoking and drinking on the street in front of it. Alexei was having a good night. She didn't think about people who might recognize her, or him. She didn't wait for him to come and open her door, bolting out of the car as a madwoman. She almost tripped on her way out, legs shaking with lust. But she didn't mind, didn't even acknowledged it.
In no time, she was on his side of the car, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and tackling him against the driver's door. It closed in a swift click. She barely heard it. As fast as she had come, she had pushed him down by his collar and her lips were on his. They were warm, but unmoving. His hands were in the air. She had surprised him.
His stillness didn't last long. She felt his hands clasping on her hips, his lips moving against hers as he forced her to walk backward, holding her in case she tripped. Soon, she was crushed against the door of her building, shrouded in the darkness of the alcove, her dress slightly hiked up on her legs as he bundled up the material in his fists against her hips. His leg was back between hers, pressing so hard against it that she had to rest on it to stay up.
She heard his grunt as he pushed a little more against her. She felt it against her skin. His lips were moving against hers now. And Lord did it was up to what she had pictured. He was rough, authoritative. He didn't care that her shoulders' skin was scraping against the shards of the wooden door. He didn't care that he sometimes bit a little too hard on her lower lip. And when he slid his tongue against hers, he didn't bother to ask permission. She didn't mind. Oh God, how she didn't mind.
She had both her hands in the soft strands of his hair, messing it up beyond repair, whimpering against his mouth in need.
It was heaven.
But it wasn't enough. The warmth of his body she felt through their clothes wasn't enough. She let her hands slid against his back, earning herself another push of his leg between hers, up until she reached the back of his belt, getting his shirt off of it. She snaked her hands on the bare skin of his back, stroking on the way up, scraping on the way down, muscles rippling beneath her fingertips.
Still, despite the lust storm raging inside of her, making her shiver in need, there was still this weirdness. She hadn't kiss someone new since she was eighteen. It felt strange. He was aggressive in his need and yet gentle enough not to hurt, not really, except the good kind of hurt. He was everything she had fantasized about. Even more than that. She had forgotten one could want another that badly. And yet… The ghosts of her past weren't so easy to shrug off.
She was determined to ignore it, sure as she was that, once things would get really sweaty and wet and hot and cold, she wouldn't even have a braincell working to analyze this.
"Wanna come up?" She whispered in a half-breath when their lips unlocked for a second.
He froze. So did she. She hadn't expected that and so, she stared at him, wide eyed when he rested his forehead against hers, taking a deep breath. His fists unclenched on her hips. Her dress went back to its normal length. His leg went down, just a fraction, but she was sensitive enough to feel it.
He was trying to regain control. She didn't want him to but what could she do? Rape him? So, she put her hands back on his shoulders, sliding two fingers in the inside of his collar, and waited, her breath jerky.
Finally, the shadows of a gentle smile took shape on his face.
"Another night." Was all he said. He kissed her again, gently this time, with no tongue, like the goodbye that it was. "Goodnight Camille," he whispered in her ear. She shivered again. "Sweet dreams."
She could feel the smirk against her neck, his stubble scratching against her sensitive skin, she could hear it in his voice. But she didn't call him on it. She was too stunned. When he moved back, her hands stayed in the air, empty, for a fraction of seconds too long, before they fell back against her side. She kept leaning on the door, her legs not steady enough yet to do anything more.
She almost said nothing. He was going back to his car, grabbing his key in the back pocket of his jeans, when she finally found her voice.
"Vladimir?" she called, breathless. He stopped, head turning around above his shoulder, an eyebrow arched at her. She got a good view of his narrow hips, his arse, his long legs… "What's your last name?"
Of all the neither here nor there questions to ask… However, it was a question that had hounded her for a while. Now, her brain was insisting. You couldn't kiss the fuck out of a guy when you didn't know his full name.
"Ranskahov."
He smiled one last time, a cocky, proud of himself, infuriating kind of smirk, before getting in his car and driving away.
