Her Russian Savior

“Fuck me, ???.” Yes. My cock is inside of her before she can finish the word. His honing device seeks out her womb instantly, nosing his way inside as she screams from the deep intrusion.

“Fuck!” I grunt as the suction of her cervix traps my cock and strangles him to death. Christ. I can’t even move. Moving my hand between us, I rub against her clit, as our mouths seek and suck one another, professing our life and devotion to one another. Her tongue follows mine in rhythm. We do this dance until her womb opens up and releases me, and then the fun begins. “So fucking tight, baby. I love your tiny pussy.”

“It’s not tiny. You are just so big.” She shudders as I bounce in and out of her, biting her neck and chest, marking her every night so when one fades, there are more. We move in sync, thrust for thrust, grunting, keening, and cursing, the melody of the night.

“Shit, baby. I’m coming. Cum with me.” I pinch her clit and catch her cries as I pump the last few drops into her before collapsing on the side of her.

“Mmm. What time is it?” she asks, snuggling into the side of me, her eyes closing once again.

“Time to go back to sleep.” I kiss her forehead and bring the blanket over us.

“Mkay,” she says and falls back asleep. It always causes pangs in my chest when she demonstrates how much she trusts me. She knows I would never let her oversleep knowing she has work, and she just takes my word for it. Kissing her sleeping lips once more, I wrap my arms around my woman, and finally...sleep takes me.

“Baby, wake up.” My alarm is going off, so I know it is time for her to wake up. “Nikole.” My hand reaches for her, but nothing. Shooting up in the bed, I search the little Airbnb cabin and find she is nowhere to be found. So, she is running from my bed like a thief in the night. I don’t fucking think so.

Chapter Four

Nikole

I park my car in front of the bakery. My apartment is above it and smells amazing in the morning. I can always tell when Sarah gets to work. From three to seven each day, she bakes the day's bread and cakes. I usually pop in for a cinnamon roll before walking across the street to the jewelry store. Since I moved here, I haven't had much use for my car. I paid cash for it in Minneapolis. It is a junky 1994 Nissan Sentra, mostly green except the hood is red. For five hundred dollars, I can't complain. It runs, and that's all I need. I left Minneapolis and drove until I saw Bleak. I fell in love with the picturesque small town and saw a for rent sign. Sarah rented the apartment to me with no deposit or references. I don't think she had any idea how much I needed that.

I had to get home to check on Mr. Fred. He's been testy this week because I haven't been home except to feed him and get changed for work. When I walk inside, he wraps around my legs, letting me know all is forgiven. Bending over, I pick him up and snuggle him to my chest as I walk into the kitchen to get his wet food. I set him down and continue to talk to him like he’s a human. I stop talking to him while he eats. Now, I have a chance to think, and all I can think about is Anatoli.

Why did I leave his bed? I could lie and say it was the cat, but that wouldn’t be the whole truth. I’m scared by how much I love him already. How much I need him, but worse than that, it’s how much I crave him. I crave his words, his touch, his kisses, his cock. There is nothing about the man that I don’t love, but I haven’t been honest with him. He doesn’t know about my horrible family or anything other than the bare minimum I’ve told him. It’s not fair. It’s not fair to love a man who, if he does love me, he doesn’t love me. I’m driving myself crazy.

“You don’t lock your door, ?????????,” Anatoli says, scaring the shit out of me. I look up at him while clutching my chest. He’s soaking wet. When did it start raining?

“You’re all wet,” I say, springing into action. “Come inside and shut the door. I can put those wet things in the dryer.”

“Forget them. They are not important. You are. You can’t go around in the middle of the night,” he begins, but I cut him off.

“Middle of the night? It’s eight o’clock in the morning, Anatoli,” I say, exasperated.