Page 52 of Possession

I hang on for maybe a minute or so, trying to make it last, but he’s stimulating me everywhere. It’s too much.

“I’m gonna—ah, fuck!” I try to warn him. “Roman, I’m gonna—hnnn!” I shout as I come in his mouth. He sucks me down, milking me of every drop.

As the high fades, I tug at him, desperate and needy. He crawls up me and takes me in his arms, letting me bury my face in the crook of his neck.

He’s still hard, unrelieved, but he settles against me like there’s no hurry. Sometimes he’s rough, and I love that, but he can be so patient too.

Maybe that came with his years of imprisonment.

Four years, Vitali said. He had thought Roman was dead. So what happened?

I want to ask. I want to know. But I don’t want to shatter the peace that we have right now.

“No one’s ever done that for me,” I murmur against him.

He draws back, propping himself on his elbows over me. “Really?” he asks.

Fuck, it’s nice to hear him talking. The way he went silent again last night scared me.

“Really,” I say. We’ve talked a little about sex, about the past—mypast, not his—but I’ve never gone into detail. It embarrasses me that I knew so little about my own sexuality.

He kisses my neck. “You liked it?”

I run my hand over his buzzed head. “Mm-hm. Are you going to fuck me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“No lube.”

“We made do last night.”

“We need better. Today, I’ll …” He trails off as outside reality intrudes. “Fuck,” he exhales in a heavy tone that carries the weight of uncertainty and the burden of decisions to be made. He hangs his head and lets it rest against me.

Not yet,I want to say. That’s why I don’t ask all the questions I have. I’m not ready for the answers.

Other people want answers, however. Roman’s head snaps up at the sound of movement coming down the hallway, then there are voices outside the door. Roman growls softly.

“Roman,” someone calls through the door. Vitali, I think. “I need to talk to you.” To his credit, when there’s no answer from Roman, Vitali doesn’t try the handle. He does add, however, “I’ll give you one hour.”

His tone isn’t exactly threatening, but it is uncompromising. He’ll be back.

As the footsteps retreat, Roman’s attention remains on the door. I touch his face, wanting to bring him back to me. His eyes meet mine. The dimness means I can’t really see him, but I can feel his attention.

It’s too late to recapture the peace, so I ask, “Are we safe here?”

“Yes.” The answer is immediate. That’s something, but …

“Your family,” I begin. “It’s, um …”

“Yes.”

I could leave it at that, but it almost seems louder unspoken, so I say, “Mafia.”

“Sort of. We’re not Italian.”

“Really? You look Italian. And your name isRoman. Your brother’s name sounds Italian too.”

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