Page 88 of Katya and the Young God

He leans back, eyes flickering up and down her, his lips moving, before he presses a kiss to the crook of her neck, flicking aside the collar of the oversized snow jacket he put on her, and it is excellent. His hand smooths against her skin, pulling aside her flannel, until her shoulder is bare to the shock of cold air.

She twists her hands in his hair, harder, the curls twining around her fingers and it’s glorious, a rush of sensation and control. She can move him any way she wants like this, control his actions, control his motions, and the thrill of it straightens her spine.

This is so irresponsible. This is so risky. This is such a stupid idea, letting someone who was once the enemy see her so vulnerable, unclothed and unprepared for the weather around them, but her skin sparks with the touch of his hand and her blood pumps with the idea of having him, seeing more of him, feeling him.

The wind kicks up, and snowflakes hit her exposed neck, and she shivers, once, in the deliciousness of the sensations.

“Should we move inside?” He mumbles against her collarbone, his lips tracing shapes against her skin. His hands graze at the hem of her shirt, as if itching to pull it over her head, to reveal more of her to him.

“Yes,” she whispers, low, not wanting to break this spell.

She slithers off his lap, somehow graceful with the massive amounts of blankets, and the look he gives her is serious, dark, and full of promise, and the heat coils in her body again.

She doesn’t know quite how she manages to unlock the door, with him pressed against her back, but her hands only slip once before she gets the cabin door open, and she’s met with a wave of warm air, shocking after the snow outside.

She lets the blankets drop away, lets the weight carry away the snow jacket with them, and even though she’s not wearing any less clothing than she usually does, she feels bare. Like she would be better off wearing her suit, her protection and her uniform.

He sheds his jacket as well with only a small wince, his eyes never leaving hers, like a man hungry and without for too long, and before she can even breathe or think or process, his hands are on her, peeling off the flannel and kissing a line down her shoulder.

He presses his lips against her scar, sudden, and she almost jumps at the shock. Like it’s a thing to be worshipped, to be revered, not the biggest physical flaw she has.

“Why...” she asks, and her hands tremble a bit, like she’s injured anew, like she can’t control herself, and he smooths his hand over the scar, delicate.

“You are beautiful,” he murmurs against her, like a prayer, and it takes her a moment to register that the words are in Russian. The language flows from him smoother, like he’s writing poetry. “You are beautiful and I can’t believe —" he cuts off his own words by kissing her, insistent, until she’s in her tank top in front of him.

“Go lay down,” she says, an order instead of feeling vulnerable, grasping at the control of the situation as best as she can. “Take off your shirt.”

He complies, the bandage is white and stark against his skin and she can’t help her hands reaching to it. He doesn’t flinch, but she gets the feeling it’s self-control that stops it.

“I don’t want it to hurt,” she says, throwing all of her insecurities into an order. “If it starts to give you pain, tell me.”

He follows her into the bedroom, close. “I’m not thinking about pain right now.”

She turns back to him, this time pressing against him, and his face goes slack. “I’m asking you to think about it, and tell me,” she says, smooth. “I won’t go any further unless you tell me you will.”

A single raised eyebrow and a hint of a smile. “Alright,” he drawls, like he’s secretly so pleased at her words. “I can do that.”

“Good,” she whispers, and slowly, ever so slowly, pushes him onto her too large bed, until his back hits the pillows. His fingers hook on her belt loops, pulling her along.

With him so close, with him so present, she tugs off her own shirt, and he presses a line of small kisses down her shoulder, like she is something to be cherished, something beautiful.

She straddles him, his curls splayed out over her expensive pillows, and he looks at her from underneath his eyelashes. Despite the rugged nature, despite the rural environment, he looks like he belongs among her silk sheets and expansive bed.

His hands settle on her hips, the bare skin on bare skin touch a jolt to her senses. She can feel every callous on his fingers, every bit of age and every bit of experience in his grip.

And yet, he’s looking at her like she’s the unbelievable one.

She rolls her hips at him, and despite him still wearing his jeans, there’s a sharp intake of breath, and she’s sharply reminded that he has had so very little contact recently.

So she slows herself, slows the usual fast pace she tries to set for this, and his lips part at the sight of her.

But instead of saying anything, she unclips her bra, and his hands immediately go up to her breasts, cradling them, the pad of his thumb barely brushing over her nipple. It sends a spark of energy down her back, and he does it again, the hint of a smile on his lips.

Like he’s learning her just as much as she’s learning him.

It’s strange, the intimacy, slowed so much by regards for his injury, giving her space to be on top, to control the rhythm and speed, and every motion of him against her, of him inside her, gives her a little bit more control, until she no longer feels scared, feels unsure, feels like she can’t predict a thing.

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