Page 110 of White Wolf

“My roommate’s not in,” she said, and he smiled.

“Alright, lead the way.”

~*~

Unlike the subterranean bunks he and the boys had been given, Katya had a narrow little white-washed bedroom with a window that overlooked the compound’s yard. There were two cots with green army-issue blankets and lumpy pillows. A table in the corner with an oil lamp. Katya went to light it while he shut the door – no lock, pity – and took off his coat, hung it up on the peg where her own jacket and hat waited.

The lamp cast a warm puddle across the floorboards, a golden, hazy glow over the cots that left the corners shadowed, but would give them enough light to see. Enough light for her to know that it was him, and not one of the tormentors from her nightmares.

Shit, should he do this? Was he callous and selfish? Did she even really want to…

She came back to him, nerves writ clear in the little wrinkle between her brows, but her steps sure and confident. She was a soldier after all, he reminded himself, and she wasn’t going to shrink and cower, walking right up to him and tilting her head back so they faced one another. She was shaking, though, even as she tried to smile.

He rubbed at her upper arms; her skin was still damp from the shower, and her shirt clung to her. He felt a chill move through her, and he moved to her shoulders, trying to chafe some warmth back into her.

“We don’t have to,” he said.

“I know,” she said, softly. Her dark eyes were the color of a perfect cup of tea in the low light, wide and glittering. She pressed her teeth into her lower lip and left it damp and plump. Little wisps of hair kept coming loose from her braid as they dried, tender curls like a halo around the crown of her head. “But I want to. I’m not afraid of you.”

She should have been, and he wanted to tell her all the reasons why. But she was a smart girl, who knew exactly what he was, and she’d probably already guessed why this was a bad idea.There’s blood on my hands, he wanted to tell her.

But there was blood on hers, too. And that knowledge – the memory of the pistol kicking in her hand, the spray of blood across slushy snow, the Nazi scout going limp – was the thing that finally tipped the scales and allowed him to acknowledge how desperately and viciously he wanted her.

No, he’d never courted anyone, because he’d never wanted to. He’d always known, deep down, that women were afraid of him.

But Katya wasn’t.

His hands slid up to cup the back of her head, and he kissed her.

She sucked in a quick breath through her nose and went still a moment.

Nikita pulled back a fraction, lips brushing against hers when he spoke. “Has anyone ever kissed you before?”

“I…” Her teeth were chattering. “Not…not like this. Not when…”

Not with any intent behind it, then. Chaste schoolboy kisses.

Oh. Oh, God. He was on fire, suddenly. He was just another stupid lust-filled man in her life, but she’d never been kissed properly, not by anyone, and he could give her this. This could be a first for her, something good and warm that only he could give her.

“Shh,” he whispered. “Tell me if you don’t like it.” And kissed her again.

Just a gentle press of lips at first. Butterfly touches. And then a little firmer. Tilting his head. Flicking the tip of his tongue along the seam of her lips.

She relaxed by degrees. A little jolt of surprise, then an exhale, then a sigh. And then she was softening, relaxing, leaning into his chest.

He looped an arm around her waist and pulled her in closer. Her hipbone was sharp and too close to the skin in his hand, but the muscles in her back were strong, flexing beneath his forearm as she stood up on her toes and circled her arms around his neck.

And then her mouth opened on a quiet sound of want that went straight to his cock, and his tongue slipped inside. Warm, wet, sweet. Her tongue moved shyly against his, and then it was no longer a demonstration, but a dance.

His fantasies of her had all been sordid, thrusting and clawing and tearing at each other. He hadn’t expected the perfect sweet torture of kissing her. He could have done it for hours and been a happy man.

Katya, though, wanted more.

Her hands landed on his waist and smoothed upwards, over his shirt, pressing against his ribs, and sternum, and pectorals, finding the contours of muscle and bone. She made a thrilled sound low in her throat when he nibbled at her lower lip.

“Is kissing always like this?” she asked, breathy and excited.

“No. Never.” He urged her lips wider with his own, curled his tongue against the roof of her mouth. It was sloppy, going frantic. Artless and heated.

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