Authors Note:
This is for you, Becks, just as promised. I really hope you like it.
It's a three part fic that will get REALLY raunchy later on.
I'll have to change the rating next chapter.
To everyone else, it's been a while since I wrote for this platform. All my new content is over at the place with three O's (if you get my hidden meaning) but I thought I'd duck my head in and say hello!
Want
Chapter One
The air is cool and the scent of fir trees is in the air, woody and pine-fresh.
There's subdued conversation going on around the dying campfire, the voices falling into three distinct categories; strangers, those voices she knows by heart, and two voices she's still getting to know — albeit reluctantly.
Shifting in her camp chair, Linka tucks her legs beneath her and adjusts the sleeping bag wrapped around her shoulders; an effort to ward off the cold.
Thumbing through the pages of the novel clutched in her hands, she glances up every now and then. The headlamp she's wearing is too bright for nocturnal reading purposes, and the stark white pages are burning their way through her retinas.
Her eyes aren't coping.
Nor are her colleagues for that matter, a few of whom are blinded every time she glances up, or unknowingly swings the beam in their direction.
Grumbles can be heard, and she continues flicking pages, dutifully ignoring them.
She flips through the book restlessly, not really paying attention to what's being said. Someone cackles loudly, and the sound irks her more than it should. She glances up, and another chorus of groans assault her ears.
"Turn it off, Linka!"
Ingrid's annoyed voice floats toward her.
Removing the headlamp with a sigh, she packs up her camp chair and gathers her belongings. Tossing as much as she can over her shoulder, she trudges up the hill toward her tent.
It's five am and the heat is already at alarmingly high levels. They toil on, using the trowels to part the soil; opening up the earth in an attempt to salvage what was once a vast, majestic landscape, a towering canopy lost to bulldozers and the greed of developers.
Dirt flies in all directions beside her, courtesy of her careless transplanting partner. Linka dusts off yet another sprinkling over her shirt and shorts, only half listening to Gi's rambling monologue.
Something about poisonous frogs.
"They would eat them?"
Gi snorts. "No," she giggles, patting the soil down with her gloved hands and eyeing the thirty or so seedlings they've already planted. "No. Produces toxic venom, secreted through their pores. Some tribes used to lick 'em to get high."
"Seems like an unwise risk."
"Ma-Ti once told me that the after-effects didn't make the trip worthwhile. You'd spend an hour in a euphoric state and be vomiting your guts up for days afterwards."
Linka sighs, dropping another seedling into the hole they've dug. "Why are we talking about hallucinogenic amphibians?"
"Because you value the quality of my conversation."
"Hmph."
"Ma-Ti always had the best stories," Gi sighs, with a certain amount of melancholy. "Still miss the little guy... and the other one."
"I know."
Gi smiles encouragingly, seeming to sense Linka's dour mood. "Any plans for the weekend?"
"Do we have a weekend worth planning?"
"I think the calendar might be clear." Gi frowns, glancing in Kwame's direction. "Unless our fearless leader carts us off at a moment's notice."
"Maybe," she says, keeping her eyes fixed on the ground. "Will you be seeing your new friend?"
"Friend?" Gi laughs, throwing her the side eye. "That's an innocent term for the sexual escapades we get up to —"
"Don't you dare —"
"What can I say," Gi sighs dreamily. "Lee scratches an itch… and he scratches it well."
"Kwame's been pretty quiet, lately," Linka comments, if anything to get off the topic of Gi's sexual escapades.
"Missin' his buddies," she says, straightening and stretching out the kinks in her back. She glances in Kabir and Ingrid's direction. "Doesn't help that the new guy has the personality of a wet blanket."
"We can hardly class Kabir as new, Gi," Linka reminds her.
"Have you heard from him lately?"
"Kabir?" she asks, confused.
"No, Prince William," Gi says loftily, rolling her eyes skyward. "Have you spoken to Red, lately?"
Yes.
Three times this week alone.
"No, I haven't," she lies.
Linka rises up on her tiptoes, selecting a sample card from the display rack. "What about this one?"
"Is it white?"
"You need to be more specific than just 'white," Yankee."
"What's there to be specific about?" he asks, swiping the card from her grasp and scrutinising the shades carefully. "White is white?"
"Well, there are shades of white, you ignorant baffoon," she teases. "There are neutral whites and off whites. Warm whites and cool whites and —"
"What do goddamn colors have to do with heat?"
"— creamy whites and beige whites… or tinted with shades of grey, or brown, or blue."
"You have got to be kiddin' me." Wheeler's unimpressed expression leaves Linka in a fit of giggles. He utters a theatrical grunt and ambles further down the aisle, tossing a paint scraper into his already full basket of cleaning and painting supplies. "Why does society have to make the simplest things so damn complicated —"
"Because your fragile brain cannot comprehend the concept of colour differentiation," she laughs, tipping her head to the side and inspecting him fondly.
He looks terrific after three months in the real world.
Effortlessly at ease in his plaster-covered cargo shorts and ripped shirt, Wheeler's biceps are practically bulging against the sleeves. A baseball cap sits on his head, hiding the unruly red hair she can see curling beneath the brim.
Dust and grease mark his face, along with the remnants of a white, crumbly residue, and she reaches out and rubs his cheek with the pad of her thumb, smiling gently.
"You are a mess, Yankee."
"Yeah, well you caught me in the middle of plasterin' when you rang," he says, rubbing his cheek self-consciously. "Didn't exactly have time to clean up."
"Do they not have showers in your neighbourhood?" she says smartly, dodging the kick he aims in her direction. "Personal hygiene has fallen by the waylaid?"
"It's wayside, you moron. Still bustin' my chops for no good reason." He hoists the basket higher and flashes a mega-watt grin in her direction. "I miss verbally sparrin' with you, toots."
"Well, you have ten minutes left to spar… or utilise my assistance before I am in the wind, so to speak."
"Argh," he groans. "Just choose a damn color, babe. I'm no good with the finer details."
"There is Antique White. Chantilly Lace." She frowns, peering at another sample in her hand. "I like this one. Fog Mist."
"Think it'll work?"
"I have not seen your home yet. I do not even know where to start." She grabs another sample card, comparing the swatches in her hand. "What colour are the floors? Is it a dark house? Do you get any natural light?"
"Three storeys. Basement can be accessed internally and from the street. Super narrow." He peers over her shoulder at the sample she's holding, and Linka feels the plastic basket nudge against her backside. "Rotting pine floorboards. Dark and dingy. Previous owner had a wallpaper fetish."
She quirks an eyebrow. "Really?"
"Main bedroom looks like a seventies acid trip."
She giggles again. "Have you started stripping —"
"Strippin'?" he grins, nudging her with his elbow and winking. "Five nights a week. I work for tips."
"The wallpaper, eediot —" she sputters.
"Nah, I'm still workin' on replacin' the floorboards."
She peers again at the Fog Mist, ignoring the text message alert from the cell phone in her handbag.
"Are you planning on painting soon?"
"Too much to do internally. Walls are gonna have to wait. Just wanted your opinion on colors while you're passin' through."
"Are you sure it is safe, Wheeler? The house, I mean?"
"Structurally, it's sound," he admits, dumping his heavy basket and sinking onto a bench seat at the end of the aisle. "Support beams are good. No termite damage. I've been up in the roof. The old wiring was replaced eighteen months ago. Power's fine. Just leaky pipes which the plumber has already fixed. Minor damage to the interior. Holes to be patched and repaired."
"It is not too big a job for you?"
"Nah, I've hired help for the tricky stuff," he says. "Don't start the new job for another five weeks. Got all the time in the world."
Time.
Linka is somewhat envious.
She takes a seat beside him, running her finger along the pattern of her skirt while he inspects the neutral color scheme she's handed him.
She glances at Wheeler again, taking in his profile, and the chiselled line of his jaw. "I think —"
Linka's phone rings, interrupting her train of thought. Burrowing into her handbag, the disappointment is palpable as she notes Kwame's name flash on the screen.
Their brief time together is coming to an end.
The tone cuts out abruptly, and she bites her lip. "I knew I would not have long. We are already overdue for the next mission."
"I'd better let you go."
"I think I like this one," she says, handing the Fog Mist colour swatch to him. His fingers brush hers briefly, and her heart quickens as he unexpectedly folds her hand into his warm grip.
"So you don't recommend the seventies psychedelic wall-vomit?"
"No," she chuckles. "It is… uh, this one has a warm grey tone to it. I think it would look lovely. It is modern, too, and won't look dated in ten years' time."
"Duly noted."
"Do you miss it?" she whispers, her eyes fixed on the mineral turpentine bottles lined up in neat rows on the shelf opposite. "I mean, the job?"
He's silent for a moment, tracing his thumb over the surface of her palm as he contemplates his response.
"Yeah," he admits finally, squeezing her hand. "Yeah, I do. But not enough to wanna go back."
It's not much of a consolation.
There's a part of her that hasn't forgiven Wheeler for resigning.
There's a part of Linka that misses him dearly, and wishes he was still present in her life, instead of indulging in rushed catch ups when they're in the general vicinity of New York.
There's a part of her that hates to admit she cries after hearing his voice on the phone, and that things haven't been the same since he left to pursue the chance at a 'normal' life.
There's a part of her that recognises they've been joined at the hip for the past few years, eating each other's food and finishing one another's sentences, and hanging out after hours, and the loss of his presence has rocked her to the core.
Life is not the same.
Her phone starts trilling incessantly again, and she glares down at it, more flustered and anxious than she'd like to admit.
"You'd better go," he says, getting reluctantly to his feet and pulling her upright. "I'll call ya next week."
"I am sorry," she utters, tossing the strap of her handbag over her shoulder as her phone starts buzzing again. "I like the Fog Mist. That would be my pick."
"Done."
Still clutching his basket of hardware, he pulls her in for a one-armed hug. They embrace, her cheek nestled against his chest, and she tries not to be too obvious about breathing in his woody aftershave and the scent of his spearmint chewing gum.
God, I miss you.
The words are in her head and on the tip of her tongue, but like always, they refuse to go any further.
"If you need help," she mumbles against his shirt, not wanting to let him go just yet. "I am known to be quite good with a paintbrush."
"Really?"
"I mean, you may already have someone lined up —"
"Nah, I've only hired carpenters and electricians. Plumbers. Tryin' to do the rest myself."
"I can offer you the odd weekend… I have a fair amount of leave — "
"Are you sure? Definitely wouldn't say no to the help —"
"Gives me something to do," she remarks, shrugging casually. "And you can order me around. Everyone wins."
"Wouldn't be a particularly relaxin' break for ya," he says, grinning down at her. "No illusions, babe. I'd be puttin' you to work."
She smiles back at him. Her phone blares again, and Linka knows Kwame's temper will be reaching apocalyptic proportions.
"Oh." Her shoulders sag in defeat, and she releases him reluctantly. "Yankee, I've got to go."
"Call me when you have some free time, babe."
She kisses his cheek and departs.
Crossing the threshold, Linka drops her bag by the door and removes her coat. She pauses beneath the vaulted ceiling of the main entranceway, taking everything in.
The space seems dark, narrow and claustrophobic, but that has more to do with the oppressive décor on display. Mustard-colored wallpaper covers the walls in a hideous paisley pattern. There's a staircase to the left, leading to the upper and lower floors, and a narrow walkway that leads toward the back end of the middle floor they're currently standing on.
"Kitchen and dining," Wheeler says, gesturing in front of them. "Two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. Basement and laundry downstairs."
"You will turn the basement into a lounge area?"
"Yeah. Big ass TV. Comfy couch," he laughs. "Pool table, maybe? That's the plan. But for now, it's a mess. Furnace doesn't work. Hot water is touch and go. Previous owner left all his shit behind. Still tryin' to clean it all out."
"You were right," she breathes, running her hand along the roughened, timber rail and inadvertently catching a splinter in the process. "The seventies have a lot to answer for."
"Yeah, tell me somethin' I don't know," Wheeler chuckles. "It looks like a demolition site right now, but I'm officially a home owner... so I don't care."
"You've done well, Yankee."
The sound of power tools and irate voices can be heard beneath their feet, and she realises there are tradesmen floating around; at least two in the midst of a heated disagreement.
"Ah, shit," Wheeler grumbles. "Gimme a minute."
He disappears downstairs, and Linka rubs her palm, feeling the pointy end of the splinter still embedded in her skin. She plucks it out with her nails while moving toward the back of the property, curious to see more, taking care to step over the stained tracks of green carpet discarded in piles. Exposed floorboards are visible in sections, rotted in places.
She enters the kitchen and is greeted by an ugly lemon-yellow melamine counter-top and brown cupboards. There's an oversized island bench in the middle, and not a lot of room to move around the small space.
The bay window opposite is coated in grime and looks out onto a small deck and backyard outside. From her vantage point, she can see over the boundary fence and into the neighbour's yard. There's a yappy terrier chained to the clothesline next door, running circles beneath the grey skies above in either boredom or mental anguish.
Pursing her lips, she heads back into the hall and climbs the stairs, heading toward the top floor. The smell hits her straight away; musty and damp, the result of prolonged water damage.
Peeking inside the first bedroom, an industrial-strength fan blows loudly, and one of the internal walls is missing completely. Only the timber beams remain, and she can see through into the next bedroom beyond.
The psychedelic wallpaper cladding the remaining walls is indeed as hideous as Wheeler described. The carpet has been pulled aside in sections, and there are holes visible in the rotting floorboards.
A tradesman is crouched down in the corner, the top of his ass crack exposed. She flinches as the sound of a power saw rents the air. Sparks and saw dust begin flying in all directions, and she takes that as her cue to leave.
Returning to the main hall, Linka gathers her bucket, sponge, sugar soap and scraper and heads for the kitchen.
Filling the bucket with warm water, she hefts everything back to the entranceway. The constant hammering and the drone of power tools is incessant, and a mental note is made to bring headphones next time.
She drags over a step ladder and sets to work on the mustard abomination, running the wet sponge over the walls and allowing the mixture to soak through the wallpaper in sections.
This area seems like the logical choice to tackle up front, knowing it's the initial point of call for visitors.
First impressions count, after all.
It's ten PM and the house is finally quiet. The basement is quite cold at night, she discovers. It's just the two of them, sitting side by side on collapsible camping chairs, having cleared a spot amongst the mess. Linka sits upright against cushions, eating pizza that lies perched on a plastic crate between their feet. There's a portable TV opposite and the soccer is on, although she has no idea who's playing.
"Do you think the island bench needs to go?"
She shrugs, doing her best to shove the lukewarm supreme slice into her mouth as delicately as possible, regardless of the fact she's starving.
"I think it would open the area up," she mumbles through a mouth full of dough. "You have enough bench space alongside the wall. The island doesn't serve any real purpose, otherwise. There are no cupboards or storage. It is just —"
"It's just in the way," he confirms.
"Mmm hmm," she says. She chews thoughtfully. "Just my thoughts. It is your house."
"I keep knockin' my damn hip on it," he mutters, chugging the rest of his beer, his throat pulsing twice. "I'll add it to the sledgehammer list."
"You have a sledgehammer list?"
"I'm like a man possessed. You know how therapeutic it is to knock the ever-lovin' crap out of somethin'?"
"I will take your word for it," she laughs. Scratching her head, she feels something clumped beneath her nails. "Ugh," she mutters, still finding dried pieces of wallpaper in her hair and attached to her skin despite the shower she took before dinner.
"How far did you get?"
"I think they used industrial strength glue," she laments. "I had to remove the adhesive in parts, but I should be finished with that area by tomorrow night."
"Thanks babe," he mumbles tiredly. Tossing the pizza box aside, he stretches his legs and props his heels up on the edge of the crate. "I appreciate the help."
"You are paying me in wine and pizza. How could I refuse?"
"You were one of the very few to offer," he says darkly. "Funny how I've always bent over backwards for my old crew, but they're nowhere to be found right now."
"Do you see them much?"
"I've met up with them a few times," he sighs, resting his arm on the back of Linka's chair. " Done a couple of bar runs. They're not the renovatin' type."
"Would you have paid them in pizza and wine, too?"
"Nah. You get the special treatment," he admits, tugging her ponytail fondly. "They'd get a kick up the pants."
Her gaze travels around the room at times, noting the empty cement bags, cables and industrial equipment lying around discarded. Bundles of treated hardwood are piled alongside the staircase, delivered last week.
There are exposed timber beams above her head, as well as the plumbing and heating conduits running between them. There's abandoned furniture too, covered in white sheets, ready to be discarded as soon as Wheeler has the opportunity.
Wheeler's double mattress is pushed into the far back corner, wedged between two load-bearing brick columns. He sleeps down here at night, covered in heavy quilts since the top floor bedrooms are out of action and the furnace is — in his own words — fucked.
They banter back and forth for a while, her legs folded comfortably over his, half watching the television in the darkness.
The last thing Linka remembers is curling up tiredly on her side, her cheek against the backrest.
She wakes the next morning in his bed.
His friends drop by the following day.
Wheeler doesn't seem that enthused to see them, in all honestly.
They're given a half-hearted tour around the place, and their voices echo loudly as Linka refocuses her efforts on the mustard mayhem, scraping the residue with renewed diligence.
Linka shifts awkwardly as they move past, noting their hip clothes and sneakers, and the effortless swagger they all seem to possess. There are three women amongst the group, all looking fresh and trendy with a face full of makeup, and Linka finds herself embarrassed by the filthy denim overalls and sweat-stained tee shirt she's wearing.
She wipes her brow as they gather by the staircase. There's a peroxide blonde in a red dress and charcoal coat amongst the group. Her ample cleavage is pushed up to impressive proportions, and she keeps glancing in Linka's direction with a noticeable sneer. Her Brooklyn accent is so thick that Linka can only interpret parts of the conversation, and the way the woman strokes Wheeler's arm and tucks herself close to him leaves her feeling wary and uncertain.
Wheeler's friends eventually head for the street, and he sees them out one by one, their loud voices trailing off into the blustery afternoon sunset.
The mystery blonde woman hangs back and leans close, her hands smoothing against Wheeler's chest. Tilting her head, she whispers something flirtatiously in his ear, and Linka doesn't miss the look of discomfort on his face.
And then she's gone.
Closing the door behind them, he leans against the frame with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, deep in thought.
"What?" she asks, almost nervously.
"Nothin'," he sighs.
Grabbing hold of the ladder to balance herself, Linka repositions her bare feet on the middle rung. She turns and leans back, admiring her handiwork.
Her arms are aching, and her back and shoulders have turned stiff, but the entry foyer is stripped babe, washed, patched and lightly sanded, ready for an eventual first coat.
"Looks great, babe."
Wheeler is beside her, she realises, shirtless and a full foot shorter than her due to the higher vantage point.
"Do you even feel the cold?" she chastises, gesturing toward his bare chest.
"Nah."
"I can start on the kitchen next time I am here," she says, rubbing the oil and grime from her face with the sleeve of her shirt. Tossing the sandpaper aside, a light sprinkle of caulking dust descends. It's in her eyes and nose, and she mentally adds a face mask and safety goggles to join the headphones for next time.
"What time do you need to be at the station in the mornin'?"
"About eleven."
He nods, his arm slipping around her waist. He hoists her down from the ladder and pulls her against him for a cuddle. Wrapping her up in his arms, he presses a hard kiss to her forehead.
"You're a gem, toots," he says sincerely. "An absolute gem. Thank you."
"You're welcome," she replies, blushing before sneezing twice into her cupped hands.
The oil heater has taken some of the chill out of the air.
The winter pyjamas Linka is wearing goes some way to warding off the cold; light blue flannelette with fluffy white clouds, a distinct contrast to the abysmal winter weather raging outside.
There's a steady drip sounding from somewhere above their heads, and the TV throws disjointed patterns against the exposed brickwork in the basement.
They lie together on his mattress side by side, reclining against the pillows, drinking cheap merlot and eating sour gummy worms.
"It is different," she sighs. "The… what is the word? The dynamic has changed, I think, with you and Ma-Ti gone."
"Probably gettin' more work done."
"You always lightened the mood. Kabir is very serious and thinks he knows everything. He's trying to change the way we do things. I find him quite pretend-ious. Pretent… ah —"
"Pretentious?"
"I have lost my words tonight," she grumbles, reaching for her glass and taking another long sip, letting the red liquid slide down her throat. "I am without words."
"Uh huh."
She sighs, biting down on another worm and stretching it out. "He and Kwame are arguing a lot. Ingrid is all right, I guess… but it is still not the same."
"Give it time," he says. "It'll get easier."
"I don't know if it will."
"Takes you a while to warm up to people, babe."
"I don't like it when things change," she says softly, rolling onto her side and reaching for her wine. Taking another sip, she sets the empty glass beside the mattress and settles back against the pillows, drawing the quilt up to her chest. "Who was the blonde woman from today?"
"Hmm?"
"The woman in the red dress," Linka says, trying to sound as nonchalant at possible. "She was in your ear about something."
"Ex-girlfriend."
"Are you seeing her again?"
"Oh, hell no," he scoffs. "What makes you say that?"
"Her body language was quite obvious," she smiles. "Women's intuition."
"Been down that road," he mutters. "It's a dead end — complete with blockades and flashin' warning signs."
"Oh," she remarks. "Are you seeing anyone? Or planning to?"
Linka feels him shift beside her, but he doesn't respond. She can feel his eyes on her, even in the darkness, and a sense of apprehension grows as they creep further into unchartered territory.
"I was just wondering…" she utters, embarrassed. "I'm sorry. It is none of my business —"
"What happened to us?"
"I'm sorry?"
He rolls over onto his side, walking his fingers deliberately down her fleecy pyjama-covered arm, looking pensive. "You heard me. What the fuck happened with us?"
"Nothing happened," she utters, confused.
"That's my point," he says, a note of annoyance in his voice. "Was there a point where we should we have… you know. Taken things further?"
"Now? Or then?"
"Both. And don't avoid the damn topic."
"Wheeler, I… I don't know."
He sighs heavily. "I just always felt like you and I were headin' toward somethin', you know? That maybe we were workin' towards somethin'… and then we hit a plateau... and then nothin'. Nada. Complete flatline."
"We have been friends for so many years —"
"And I don't wanna lose you as a friend, because you mean the fuckin' world to me, but I can't keep floatin' in limbo…"
She swallows nervously, her face flushing pink. "I don't know what to say —"
"You never know what to say," he mutters, frustrated. "I don't know which way to go anymore, and I need some closure, Lin. Because you give all the right signs. My head tells me one thing, and my heart tells me another, and it's not meant to be this fucking difficult."
"What did your ex say to you?" she utters, white faced and alert.
He laughs bitterly. "She wanted to come over tonight. Told her I was doin' laundry. I'll be honest, though… I'd prefer to be doin' you."
There it is.
"Bozhe moi, Wheeler," she utters. "Are we really going to have this conversation?"
"Yeah we are!" He swears again under his breath, gathering his composure while she lies stiff and uncertain beside him. "You need to tell me what you want. I'll do whatever you ask. You tell me there's no chance, and I can move on. It'll be a fucking relief, in all honesty. You tell me you want somethin' more, and I'll be on you like white on rye."
She grants him nothing but a stunned silence. The plink plink of the water pipes can be heard, along with the television. The MTV channel is on, the volume low; some grunge band strumming guitars, appearing moody and pissed off at the world, and it kind of suits the current situation, to be honest.
Her mouth moves but no sound comes out. Linka doesn't engage further; doesn't confirm or deny, or do him the honor of a definitive answer, and she hates herself for it.
"I can't do this any more," he mutters.
She hears him sigh with frustration, and Linka's heart plummets, knowing she's now effectively blown any chance of a salvageable friendship, let alone a relationship. She rolls over miserably, facing away and putting more distance between them.
Sniffling quietly, she wipes her eyes, assuming the conversation is over.
"Fuck it." Wheeler moves with lightning speed. He shoves his arm between her waist and the mattress and rolls her forcibly back toward him.
Linka yelps in surprise as she's hauled against his chest. Their faces are an inch apart, and she feels his breath, warm and close against her cheek.
There's nowhere to go.
No hiding.
"Tell me what you want."
It's a demand, not a question.
Linka's eyes widen, and she swallows nervously, her hand braced against his forearm, unused to being in such an intimate position.
"Tell me what you want," he repeats. He brushes the hair away from her face, and his light fingers cause a pleasant tingle in their wake. "Because I think I've made it pretty fucking clear over the years what I want. I want you."
His level of directness scares her. Her mind casts back to the attractive, buxom women he's brought home over the years, and the casual dates, and the affection he's bestowed upon them.
All the while wishing she was on the receiving end, but worried he'd be disappointed in the final product.
Thin and willowy, with small breasts and a neurotic nature.
Worried she wouldn't be enough.
"Tell me what you want," he says again, softer this time as he coaxes her onto her back, propping himself up on his elbows and staring down at her. She tries to turn her head, avoiding his gaze, and Wheeler grips her chin firmly, forcing her to look at him, giving her nowhere to go. "What do you want?"
"I don't know," she breathes.
"No more secrets. I need to put this to bed, so to speak. I need to know. I need to stop wonderin', and hopin', and messin' myself up over a possibility that may never happen. I need some closure so I can move on, now that I'm out for good."
"It's not fair that you're asking me —"
"It's not fair that you're makin' me," he seethes. "Tell me what you want."
"I don't know what I want," she whimpers, as his palm settles on her head, his fingers stroking gently through her hair. A tear slips down her cheek, and he wipes it away with the pad of his thumb, before coming to rest on her bottom lip.
"What are you afraid of?"
"Everything," she whispers.
"Tell me what you want, hon," he asks. "Once and for all. No hard feelin's. We can just pick up and carry on like before if you're not interested… but I need to know. I'm sick of avoidin' the topic and second guessin' myself. Been doin' it for six years and I'm over it."
"Please don't ask me this," she utters, staring up at his lips so close to her own.
Because Linka knows what she wants.
She craves intimacy and contact.
She wants him.
"Tell me what you want."
"I want you to kiss me," she whispers pitifully.
A single, awkward moment passes between them.
He raises his head and blinks, as if in shock, and a cold sweat breaks out all over her body.
Oh god, no.
She's said it. The truth is out. She can't take it back.
She's mortified, waiting for the punchline.
Linka is scarcely able to draw in a ragged breath before his mouth lowers to hers. Her lips part with a muffled gasp as he kisses her deeply, feeling his tongue delving into her mouth, and the heady taste of wine and candy mingling between them.
And it's perfect.
It's perfect, and utterly mesmerising, and everything she expected it to be and more.
Her back bows, and she arches up to meet him. The mattress sags as he repositions himself on top of her, pressing her weight into the bed. His body feels warm and firm and wonderful against her small frame, and he cradles her face in his hands, holding her to him. Breathless, she wraps her legs around his waist, surrendering to the moment with a contented moan.
Linka reaches for his face, and he grabs her wrists, pinning them roughly above her head, scarcely allowing enough air back into her lungs before the next passionate assault.
He's soft yet possessive all at once.
His grip on her wrists tightens, and a frisson of heat runs through her at the thought of being held down, powerless, and completely at his mercy.
She discovers that she likes it.