They lay side by side under the covers, staring at the ceiling. His arm was flung out across her chest, lazily fingering the soft skin.
"Did you love him?"
The words had blurted from his tongue before he could comprehend he had uttered them, and the curling fist of jealousy that tightened his abdomen was something he did not expect. She was his now, Kirill's, and the thought of someone else touching her made him want to slam the imaginary guy's head into a wall, over and over. He ran that thought across his head, and a delicious feeling began to spread throughout his gut.
"I did," she said.
He sucked in a breath and held it. She had loved someone else. He thought of his favourite tools from his early KGB torture kit. Death was an art form in Russia. There was the glove. He could use that. Hand saw. Too obvious. Too boring. The mask. Perfect.
"But I loved myself more."
She turned to face him, sighing, using her elbow to prop her head up. "Are you alright, Kirill?" she said anxiously.
Oh, shit. He was still thinking violent thoughts. He looked at her, running a finger down her nose, lips and chin. His features softened.
"I'm fine."
"You looked- calmly murderous."
He smiled lazily. "Just thinking of ways I could torture your ex-boyfriend."
"Oh, he was big," she said quickly. "Not someone you'd want to mess with."
Kirill almost laughed, but he didn't. Instead he cocked an eyebrow up, as if offended. "I'm used to handling big guys."
"Oh yes," she said. "That's right. You're a policeman."
"That's right," he drawled. "Though you haven't got to see me in uniform yet."
"I like you better with the uniform off."
He smirked. "I can see that."
He stroked her face again, and kissed her. The kiss became hungry, urgent, and they made love again. This time she fell asleep, her mouth curved into a blissful smile as he held her in his arms, caressing the soft flesh and planting gentle kisses along her perfect shoulders.
He sighed. He knew this was irrational, unreasonable.
He hadn't given it a second thought when he first met her, but now, things were different. She was different. He didn't want to let her go.
He couldn't keep a woman with him. And he had no right to ask her to stay. She had a home, and he had a job.
His brow creased. He was not used to thinking these thoughts. He'd never had to worry about somebody else before. It was always just him. Alone. It had been that way for so long he had gotten used to it. There was no mess. There were no…complications.
He laid his head back on the pillow.
He would sort it out. They still had a few more days.
He watched her sleep, his arm protectively around her, and the contact made his mind inevitably drifted to better things.
Like this morning.
A smile shot across his face.
There was one pool in the bed and breakfast. It was indoor, heated, and really too small to even contemplate serious exercise in. But he thought he'd use it. He didn't want to admit, but after all those buttery croissants, he was getting the teensiest bit fat.
She was sleeping so peacefully. He didn't want to wake her. They'd kept at it all night as well, and he felt a little guilty about that. Not like it was one sided or anything. She'd purred and kissed and cuddled up next to him, and he really couldn't stop himself. After a whole week of agonised waiting, his libido had come out raging like a big bad bull.
He slipped out of the bed, threw some shorts on, and took a towel from the room. Taking one last look at her, he crept out quietly.
He didn't see anybody as he walked around. The pool was located at the back of the building, where it had a decent amount of privacy.
And the water felt divine.
He did a few half-hearted laps. Then he picked up the pace. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine…
"So this is where you got to."
He stopped and shook the water from his face. His right arm splashed, then dumbly floating onto the surface.
She was looking at him amusedly, her eyes still half asleep. She gave a little yawn.
"Mind if I join you?" she said.
He shook his head.
And then she took off the towel.
She didn't have anything else on.
She was going to be the death of him.
"Are you crazy?" he said as he made his way over to her. "Someone could see you."
She sat by the side of the pool. The towel she placed carefully beside her.
"There's no one else here," she said as she dipped her toes inside. "Unless you count the landlady. The last couple was checking out as I came down."
She must have been totally aware he was completely eyeballing her. I mean, she had to be, her tits were dangling, and those gorgeous legs of her's were stretched out, leading to…
She finally got in with a splash.
"Ugh!" she said as she surfaced, her long hair dripping wet. She swam the little distance there was to him.
"Aren't you going to wish me good morning?" she said as she wrapped her arms around his waist.
Hell and damnation.
He kissed her, his body coming alive against her's.
"Jesus…"
He pinned her to the wall of the pool. His hands were everywhere. She was making tiny moans every now and then and he was getting so fucking horny, for about the tenth time in the past twelve hours.
Then he felt her tug down his boxers. That was when he froze, and instinctively put a hand over her's to stop what she was doing.
She cocked an eyebrow at him. "What's wrong?"
What was wrong?
He was feeling- his cheeks were actually burning.
"We-" he started, and then swallowed. "We're not- actually- going to do this here, right?"
"Well, why not?" she said simply.
"It's just…"
His voice trailed off.
Heaven help him.
"Kirill, are you blushing?"
He looked at her indignantly. "I don't blush."
"Well, you are."
He was about to contradict her again, but her hands were now skittering across his chest and making his breath come out in hard ragged pants.
"If you don't feel comfortable, it's okay," she said as she leaned forward to whisper into his ear, her breasts pressed up against him. "But I am very horny right now and I'd like you to do me right here in this pool."
He'd pulled the boxers off himself and gotten into her immediately.
He smiled as he reminisced.
It had been sweet, but oh so hot.
They'd pulled apart from each other with sheepish grins, thrown on oversized robes they found near the sauna and traipsed back to their room, passing the suspicious landlady at the front desk.
And then there was the shower.
There was only one, and they were both wet, so it made sense to use it together.
They'd shampooed each another's hair, and then taken the time to wash one another. Except by the time she was soaping him up with the sponge, he was starting to feel randy again.
After she'd made sure she cleaned every part of him, she'd kissed him, a lingering kiss, before moving downwards. He closed his eyes as she worked her way south.
"I said I'd return the favour, right?" she said huskily against his torso.
Kirill couldn't think. She could do whatever she damned wanted to, and it didn't matter.
Her mouth was like heaven on him.
He gave out a long, satisfied moan.
Her lips felt incredible, and then her tongue…
He was gasping for breath in an embarrassingly short amount of time.
He reached for her and propped her up against the glass. She wrapped her legs around his waist.
His thrusts were hard, urgent. It didn't take her long, and after she cried out her release he let himself go with a groan, both their voices echoing off the glass walls.
He held her against him for minutes, letting the water run down one side of his shoulder. Her legs slipped back down to the ground.
He'd kissed her when it was done, and the kiss had been long, and full of promises.
"The shower definitely smells of camembert now," she remarked with a grin, her arms still around his neck.
He nuzzled her shoulder, and then kissed her.
"It'll smell of more camembert in a minute."
Kirill made a little sound of contentment as he remembered.
She murmured in her sleep.
He kissed her brow and stroked her hair, thinking.
It wasn't just the sex, either, he thought, though the sexual chemistry itself was…awesome. He lacked a word to define it. Usually he'd get bored after a night or two. He had no trouble leaving, and it didn't matter how good looking they were. Yet he could not help but cling to her like honey.
They spent the rest of the day driving through the vineyards, wine tasting, and then he'd helped her pick out postcards. They ate out, and they'd spent some of the night watching a French soap opera, which he'd translated.
He didn't know what it was.
He felt content with her. Sitting next to her in the car, watching her face light up as she changed the shift stick because she now knew how to. Strolling through the town hand in hand, walking in any direction they felt like walking in. Watching television together. In bed together. Just being with her was enough.
You know what it is, the dry voice in his head said. But assassins don't fall in love.
No, he thought with a frown as he fell asleep.
Of course they didn't.