Page 8 of Claimed By Desire

And she still ran.

I don’t understand it, and I’ve been trying to work it out for the past year.

Now I’m in her bed, I’ve heard her music, I’ve tasted her lips, and I still don’t know her, not really.

But I caught a glimpse of a complicated woman I didn’t know was hiding inside of her, or at least I never wanted to admit might be lingering beneath the glassy, boring surface.

I never wanted to look at Natalya too closely.

Here’s the thing: I don’t do deep emotional reactions to fucking works of art.

But it’s the music that pulled me in here, and it’s still haunting me, even sitting awake in her little Parisian bed while birds chirp outside the window, even knowing I’m going to break her heart, even knowing that I’m a complete and utter bastard.

I always knew Nat was beautiful—but a woman that can make something as exquisite as those songs is more than just physically attractive.

The girl’s divine.

Even asleep, her breath coming slow to her chest, her mouth hanging slightly open, she looks like a fucking angel. And I can still hear her playing in my head.

I can still see her body, topless, sweating, slightly hunched over the keys

I can feel her sliding down my cock, shaking, moaning, begging for more.

Like I imagined a thousand times over the years, but so much better.

We put aside our history for one perfect day, and now I can’t run away from the truth any longer.

I get out of bed, hating myself, and get dressed. In her little kitchen, I leave her a note:Gone to get coffee. Don’t run away. A.

She’sawake when I get back. Her hair’s damp from a shower and she’s in clean clothes. Jeans, an old t-shirt, and a little bit ofmakeup. Suddenly, she’s the Natalya I remember from when we were growing up.

The girl that was always in the way, always too beautiful, always a temptation and a distraction.

But if I ever let myself give in and try to cross that line?—

Well, I wasn’t stupid enough to try.

At least until last night.

“I guess we should talk,” she says, accepting the cup I hand over. She sips and looks surprised. “Flat white. How’d you know?”

I don’t bother telling her that I’ve known her coffee order for a literal decade now, ever since she started drinking the stuff back in high school. Instead, I gesture at the door. “It’s nice out. Let’s go for a walk.”

“I’m surprised you were even able to order this stuff,” she says as we head out of her apartment building. “That barista hates it when I speak English. Sometimes he pretends like he doesn’t understand, just to be a prick.”

“I know a little French,” I admit, and when she gives me a skeptical look, I just laugh. “We have business connections overseas and there are the French Canadians. It’s good to know more than one language.”

“Right, I forgot for a second that you’re the most perfect Bratva soldier.” She says it bitterly and takes a long drink.

I lapse into silence as we walk together. The streets are relatively empty in this part of town, but it’s still Paris. It’s still old and beautiful. I take in the city as we stroll, not mentioning the nightbefore even though it’s stuck between us like melted asphalt, and try to put off the inevitable just a little bit longer.

But that’s not fair, not to her at least.

We reach a small park. It’s mostly empty save for some people out walking for exercise. I lean up against a low stone wall and look out at the street. She joins me, but leaves a few inches between us.

“I’m sorry, Nat,” I tell her, not looking over.

“What are you sorry for?” she asks, sounding genuinely curious. “Last night? Because you don’t have to apologize. I knew what I was doing.”

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