Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(108)
He tilts his head again, his intense gaze heating all of me. “I’ve never heard you say that word.”
“Really?” I think it all the time. “I…definitely said the word cocktail before.”
His lips keep rising, and he watches my ribcage jut in and out, just in a baggy shirt and fleece shorts while he’s in gray, thin cotton pants.
Then he reads, “‘Right there, baby. Good girl.’ That turns you on, myshka.”
“Not always…” I admit. I swallow, lust swimming in his grays. “I like what you do.”
He leans down and kisses my neck, sucking. “And what do I do?” he whispers in my nape, before kissing again.
I let out a breathy noise at the sensitivity, my nerves sparking. I arch up into him. He has to clasp my waist to keep me still. “That,” I breathe.
Before I can float away with these sensations, he sits up, skimming another page with a devilish grin. His eyes flicker to me as he reads. “I sank my fangs into her nape and pounded my erection between her curvy thighs.”
I can’t control my staggered breathing. “I’ve never heard you say that word,” I tell him now. Erection.
He runs a hand through his hair, pushing the longer strands back—I’m soaked. For sure. “Fangs?” His lips keep rising higher.
I shake my head. “Not that word…I mean, I actually…” I’ve never heard you say that either. I have no more oxygen to speak properly. He’s chasing me around the room, even if reality says I’m lying beneath him. It doesn’t feel that way.
“Thighs?” he says, more huskily, his hands running up the bareness of mine.
I tensely shake my head, my legs tightening around him, pulsing more intense.
“Erection.” He eye-fucks me.
I buck up, and a tight, low noise catches in his throat. He grips my hip again, and he keeps me still beneath him. I shut my eyes, his gaze basically drilling into me.
“Open your eyes, myshka.” I hear the smile in his voice.
“I’m going to come…and you’re just speaking to me.” My eyes staying closed so this will last longer.
“But I haven’t even reached the best part.” His thumb caresses my cheek, daring me to look at him, to take a quick peek of his features.
It’s too tempting. And I’m too curious to stay in darkness. So I open one eye. And then two, half of his attention planted on the book, scanning a new part.
Nikolai meets my gaze. “With her, and only with her, the dead in me is alive.”
I highlighted that line. And underlined it. And starred it. Coming from his lips—it does more to me than all the others.
He says, “I love that quote.”
“Why?” I have to ask.
It takes him a moment to collect his thoughts, staring off. I watch as his eyes seem to lighten with more and more clarity. And then he focuses back on me.
“I couldn’t explain, for the longest time, why I wanted you near me,” he says. “I knew I was attracted to you, but it was more than that. Your energy, your idealism and optimism—I missed those things, the places inside of me that made me feel more alive. And for years, I only sought them out on Saturday nights.”
Performing. During his after-show. His one time to let go and be free.
“And I realized,” he says lowly, “you are my Saturday nights. Being with you makes me come alive all over again.”
My heart thrums and soars at his proclamation. Even if I could speak, I’m not even sure how to express my feelings. He’s never said anything like this to me before.
Thankfully he leans closer, kissing me, not urging me to fill the silence with my voice. He sets the book aside, tugging me to his chest. As though we’re cuddling. His actions are all smooth and fluid like skilled choreography.
Nikolai drapes my leg over his waist. Then he tugs down his boxer-briefs, pulling aside my panties and shorts. He slides his hardness far into me, filling my need.
After many experiences with him, there’s no pain this time. Just pleasure.
I hold him tighter, my fingers gripping the longer hairs by his neck. He’s slow and sweet, powerful and deep. The fullness lights me on fire, and I relax into his body, into the way he has me protectively in his arms.
As he thrusts, his gaze meets mine again, those hypnotic, gunmetal skies.
And I don’t want to lose all these moments with him.
Not yet.
Act Forty-Four
Nikolai believes red and green stockings and a yule log on the television are enough to satisfy all Christmas requirements. He apparently hates dragging a real tree into the suite, but Katya begged for one, citing me as a source for it.
I’m without my family.
It’s sad.
He caved, so now we’re wandering along gravel paths, searching for the perfect evergreen. My hair whips in the wind, strands sticking to my lips. A cold-front moved into Nevada this weekend, chilling any exposed skin.
“I don’t know how she does it,” I say aloud, watching Katya skip off towards a punier looking spruce.
Nikolai clasps my gloved hand after I drop my arm. “Does what?”
“Spends the holidays without her parents.” She hasn’t been with her mom or dad since she was ten. It made me realize that I have no room for self-pity this Christmas.