Page 80 of The Lottery

“I never thought I would find this. Have this.” My words are a whisper against his skin. “I didn’t think you existed.”

His hand cups my cheek, and he gazes into my eyes. “You are a miracle I never dared dream could ever be real.”

He traces the contours of my face with the tips of his fingers, then with his lips, gently, lightly, like the fluttering wings of a butterfly. When a tear slides down my cheek, a single droplet full of all my longing, all my desire, all my fear of what comes next, all the feelings I’m having for this man inside me… when that tear slides down, he kisses it away, and my leg tightens around his hips and I pull him more deeply into me.

“We will always have this,” he says, kissing my forehead. “You are my everything.”

Our need becomes more desperate.

He holds my arms above my head, pinning my wrists with one hand while using the other to spread my legs. He rubs at my clit while he thrusts into me, harder and faster. I try to keep up with my hips but eventually I let him take total control, relishing the surrender as he uses all of his body to please mine.

We come together, an orgasm that seems to bind us into one, a single wave that washes over us both and leaves us breathless in its wake.

* * *

After, we lay holding hands, my cheek against his shoulder, his chin resting on my head, our legs intertwined. We gaze at the crystal stalactites hanging from the ceiling of the cave, glistening in the light of the fire. Silent for a time, lost in the quiet surrender of the moment.

I turn into his arms, my head on his chest as my fingers draw designs on his stomach, trace the faint outline of puckered white skin on his right hip.

“How did you get this?” I ask, studying his body in the dancing shadows.

He tells me, slowly, hesitantly at first, and then with more ease. He tells me the story of his childhood. How his grandparents raised him. How his grandmother died, leaving him alone with his grandfather. His dedushka. He describes the smell of wood burning in the stove mixing with the tobacco of his grandfather’s pipe, and the scratch of his whiskers when they hugged before bed on good nights. The smell of whiskey and sweat and the sting of his leather belt on bad ones.

Slaving over the dying farm. Working endless days, calluses building on his hands, muscles building in his body. Punished with beatings when the crops failed season after season, until he became too big, too strong, for his aging grandfather to raise a hand to him.

Desperation became the impetus for invention. Invention saved the farm, saved his life.

And eventually, invention saved humanity.

But at such a price.

I kiss him on the dimple of his chin, my eyes stinging with tears at the abuse he endured. “I’m sorry you were treated that way.”

His lips press against my forehead as he brushes my tears away. “Do not spill your tears for me, moya lyubov. I did not have it as bad as many. And in the end I have been luckier than most.”

* * *

We spend all night in each other’s arms. Kissing. Talking. Making love. We share jokes and tears and stories of our lives. We talk until we can’t talk anymore, then we make love again.

We eventually pass out curled around each other, our bodies sore in the sweetest of ways.

We sleep late, and it’s still storming when we wake.

I can’t say I’m sad about it. Not one bit.

“I guess we’re stuck here for another day at least,” I say with an ‘ah shucks’ tone.

Marek laughs. “I sense your devastation at being trapped here with me.”

I lean into his arms and kiss him. “It’s the worst. However will I survive the torture?”

He cups my ass and grinds his hips against me, his arousal evident. “If it is torture you seek, I can provide.”

Heat pools in me, but I place a hand on his chest. “First, I need to freshen up. Think there’s any water in this cave? I thought I heard something late last night when it was super quiet.”

He kisses my forehead and nods. “We can explore. But then I shall ravage you.”

Neither of us say what we both are thinking. We are living in an hourglass. Soon our sand will run out. Or in this case–snow.

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