Natasha whimpers, her hands flapping loosely at my arms.
I strip out of my clothes and then stand between her open knees, palming her ass to lift her to straddle my waist. Once more, she drops her head to my shoulder, as docile as a babydoll. I step into the shower and set her on her feet, keeping a hand at her waist to keep her steady. Her legs don’t seem to hold her. She’s drunk on orgasms.
She blinks, those sea-green eyes tracking across my chest and down my abdominals to the part of my anatomy that’s still thrilled to see her.
I wash, giving her time to gather herself.
“Dima…” she croaks. She drags the backs of her knuckles across my tattooed pect.
Something has shifted between us. I want to bring it back to the dominant sex tease I had going for the last hours, but the way she’s looking at me is too real. Too honest. Too raw.
I don’t mean to be tender, but I can’t help myself. I cover her hand with my own. She touches my fingers, traces Alyona’s ring.
I should pull away. I should stop this whole thing. I’ve already told her we can’t do this. But I don’t. I’m rendered immobile by her closeness.
“Who did this belong to?” she asks. There’s no innocence in the tone. It’s not an idle question. I realize, with a jolt, that Natasha knows more than she’s let on. Suddenly her demand that I explain why we can’t be together feels like a direct attack on my memories of Alyona.
I catch her wrist and step back, under the spray of water. “Don’t.” I turn her to face away from me—looking at her is too much. We aren’t playing games anymore. We’re light-years away from what we just did in the bedroom.
“Who was she, Dima?”
“Don’t.” I raise my voice. My body registers the question as a threat, my heart thudding too fast, the warm shower suddenly too hot.
“I want…” It takes a moment for me to recognize the tears in Natasha’s voice. “I want to be her.”
“No, you don’t,” I say harshly, even though she’s already breaking. “She’s dead.”
“At least she had you.” Natasha turns back around to face me, and I’m hit by the full force of her pain. Those green eyes overflow with it.
Blyad’. I did this to her. I hurt Natasha.
I lean my shoulder against the tile wall, feeling the weight of three elephants sitting on my chest. All the loss I suffered at Alyona’s death seems fresh again, mingled with the guilt and shame over what I’ve done to Natasha’s gentle heart.
And then I just go dead. I can’t function. Can’t choose. It’s all too much.
And my silence, my lack of response seems to send a message to Natasha because she nods and pulls the shower curtain half-open then steps out.
I’m unable to move. To say any words to fix this fuck-up I’ve created.
“I will call Alex now.” There’s defeat in her tone. Something I never wanted to hear. Why, in the fuck did I push her to this?
But no, she’s not broken because of Alex.
She’s broken because of me.
I stand in the shower, numb. I don’t feel the water turn cold, or track how long it’s been since Natasha walked out of the bathroom.
When she returns, dressed and holding the keys to the Land Rover, my brain can’t compute what’s happening.
“I’m leaving,” she tells me. It’s not a dare. There’s no anger in her deadened tones. She knows I’m going to let her walk out of here. Her imprisonment is over because she decided it was. “I can’t stay with you in this place any longer.”
Somehow, I make myself move. I turn off the water and reach for a towel. “I’ll drive you.”
“No. “ She holds up a hand. “I can’t be with you. I just… can’t. I’ll give the keys to Ravil when I get back.”
I go dead as she walks out. Turn into an empty shell of nothing.
My brain barely functions, but when it sparks, I try to tell myself this is for the best. I was destroying everything I had with Alyona and breaking Natasha’s heart in the process.
Except no part of me feels like this is the right thing.
It must be because I can’t think my way out of a paper bag right now that my overwhelming sense is that I’ve let Alyona down.
I’ve let Alyona down by letting Natasha go.
But that doesn’t make any sense.
17
Natasha
I get behind the wheel of the Land Rover and adjust the seat forward.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
I’m not going to cry because I’m so done. Christ, it was like Pamela Harrison all over again. I was sticking around, waiting, hoping to be good enough for Dima, but I was just a fall-back friend.
The kind you play with when you’re stuck in a cabin with them, and there’s no one else around, but not good enough to be his girlfriend.