Page 18 of Vasily the Nail

I grumble as I give up on the TV and head to the bedroom, intent on waking her, after all. But when I get to my bed, I find it cold, empty. And yeah, from here, I can’t hear her breathing anymore.

Where the fuck is she?

A quick search of the apartment finds her in Dima’s bed, looking all comfy and cozy like she doesn’t get that she just jumped from the frying pan right into the goddamn fire. Dima’s had his share of girlfriends he’s kept his nose cleanfor, but in between? He’s the one Artyom would need to be concerned about “keeping” women.

My brain stutters there as two conflicting urges fight to control my body. I want to yell at her for thinking she’s going to sleep anywhere but my bed. I want to carefully scoop her up so she doesn’t wake while I move her to the correct bed. In the end, I stare at her for a few minutes, quietly allowing the sludge that’s been building up all day in my brain to coalesce into a clear thought.

She’s not Brooke.

The fact that she and Brooke are both the same age and build— or what Brooke was when she was in my life— is incidental. A convenient coincidence that means she can wear the clothes still in my closet if she wants, although she’s back in my shirt.

I will not let the fact that Brooke also loved hanging out in just my shirt cloud my thoughts. It’s a girl thing. Dima’s girls do it too. We’re big guys. I don’t care what women wear, but if they insist they need to be in itchy, restricting clothes all day, itmakes sense that they want to hang out in tents when the only one around is the guy they get naked for.

No, now that I’ve been forced to come up with a reason to have Ana here, I think it’s pretty clear why I did this.

I want to experience having a girl of my own again. Just a taste.

I want to chill out on a snowy day with a girl at my side. I want to laugh with a girl over something boring and silly like coffee pot operation. I want to pretend I have an opinion on what she wears on a night out and touch her way too much while she’s distracted complaining about her best friend, whom she currently hates but will be besties with again in a week.

I want to come home to a girl curled up in my bed.

I pull the blanket away and smack Ana’s ass, enjoying the way she gasps as she sits up.

“You sleep my bed. No here.”

She scowls at me, sleepy enough that she’s forgetting to tone it down. I sympathize. “What difference does it make?” she huffs.

“Is not my bed. Go before spank again.”

She continues to pout as she attempts to gather up the blankets, but I snag them right back so I don’t have to do Dima’s laundry. She’s got a death grip on that pillow, though, and I don’t fight her on that. I do have to strip the blankets down before she has a chance to launch herself onto my bed, and then she curls up as tightly as possible around that pillow on the very edge.

I let her have that as I get myself ready for bed. Last night, I slept in an undershirt and joggers in deference to her, but tonight, I strip down to my usual boxer briefs. Since Ana’s curled away, she doesn’t even notice. And she lets out the saddest, whiniestnowhen I hook her by the waist and drag her all the way back to the middle of the bed.

Another huff from her, and she tries to resettle like she’s going to go right back to sleep.

So I reach down to her thigh to inch the hem of the shirt up.

This time, when she says, “Vasily?” there’s a fear to it. She thinks I’m going to force her onto my cock again. I could. And thinking about this has already gotten blood flowing that way. I’m already stiffening.

But that’s not what I’m going to do. I’m not going to force myself on her again. It wasn’t ever a possibility, but now that I have this idea of why I’ve done this, I have a plan for what to do moving forward. So yes, the fact that she’s tensing too much is an indication that she doesn’t want this, but what I’m doing is all about making her happy. That’s what I want.

I want to make someone happy.

I shush her softly and lean into her, letting the scent of her fill my nostrils. It’s not the same scent she had yesterday, now that she’s used the toiletries I nicked from Dima’s bathroom. I can’t say I like it as much, but it’s still a pleasant feminine scent. I’m not picky.

I have to shush her again as I find the apex of her thighs and dip my middle finger into the crevice there. “Won’t hurt, promise,” I murmur at her whimper.

“I don’t . . .” she starts, only for her voice to trail off with a resigned sigh. She knows she can’t stop me.

What I’m doing is wrong, I know this, but she will enjoy it.

I stroke her carefully, paying attention to the way her body tenses and relaxes. Her spine shifts against me. Her fists clench. She makes soft sounds as she attempts to breathe evenly, but when her moisture wicks up to my finger at her clit and entices me further down, she suddenly slaps at my hand, pushing me away.

“Please, Vasily,” she whimpers. “I’m not . . . this isn’t . . . I’m a good girl. I can’t do this again.”

Ah. This isn’t about her being my captive, not entirely. This is guilt. I was raised Orthodox, but I’m sure it was a different sort of experience than what she went through as a Catholic. If our church here in America ever attempted to tame Kseniya in the way these Mafia men imprison their girls with their warped play at Catholicism, I don’t know if she would have survived. She’s a good person, but she doesn’t respond well to restrictions.

“This my sin, not yours,” I tell Ana now.

---