Page 86 of Dirty Damage

Even in the middle of an orgasm, he’s taking care of me.

I can’t believe I was ever afraid of him. That I thought he was a monster.

We come down to earth together, breathing hard.

I’m still limp when Oleg disentangles himself and goes looking for our clothes.

As I lie there alone, I can’t help but wonder if I’m letting myself be played for a fool. If I’m falling into the trap of my mother and my sister, letting sex blind me to every other fault.

Am I selling my body to the devil?

I don’t have an answer. But if it feels this good, I’m not sure I care.

A while later, we’re on the flybridge, watching the distant shoreline draw closer.

The sight of lights and buildings is a rude intrusion after the intimacy we’ve shared.

The real world, creeping back in uninvited.

Oleg pulls me onto his lap as he steers, his lips brushing my shoulder. For once, I don’t overthink the gesture.

“How old were you when you learned to sail?” I ask, genuinely curious about this side of him.

His arms tighten around me fractionally. “Very young. My sister and I were six when our father started teaching us.” A pause. “Oriana wasn’t as interested as I was, but she ended up being the better sailor.”

I twist to look at him. “You have a sister?”

“Had. I had a sister. Oriana was my twin.”

The darkness in his eyes when I was talking about Sydney earlier makes terrible sense now. The weight of the loss in his voice makes me want to cry.

“God, Oleg. I’m so sorry.”

He stares out at the dark water, expression distant. “It was a long time ago.”

“I don’t think time matters much with something like that,” I say softly. “If I lost Sydney… I can’t even imagine. Not if I lived for a hundred years.”

His eyes meet mine, the color in them softer now. “Yes. I suppose that’s true for me, too.”

My heart aches for him, for the boy he must have been. I want to hold him, comfort him somehow, but I sense he’d pull away if I tried.

“Can I ask how she died?”

Faye warned me he wouldn't open up. I’m pushing my luck. Just because we slept together doesn’t mean anything.

We’re contractually-obligated fuck buddies, not friends.

But his fingers flex against my waist as he takes a deep breath. “It was a boating accident. The same one that killed my girlfriend. The same one that gave me these scars. They were both eighteen. Best friends.”

My skin prickles with goosebumps. “We don’t have to talk about this,” I whisper. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

He shakes his head, simultaneously releasing his grip on me.

I wonder if he even realizes he’s done it, this instinctive withdrawal.

“It’s easier to talk about them out here,” he says, voice rough. “Easier to remember them. On the water, where we spent so much time together.”

“You loved them.”

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