Page 87 of A Love Most Fatal
“How do you keep getting better?” Nate asks. His shallow breaths and moans are right at my ear, and they make me delirious.
It’s been two weeks of this—sneaking to each other’s rooms, his sweet words in my ears, the feeling of his skin against mine, waking with his arm around my stomach, holding me to him. If I let myself think critically, we are growing too close for comfort, but then I remind myself that his time here is limited. He’ll be gone before the fall, and I’ll be engaged to someone he finds for me.
I arch my back and let him take me deeper, faster, his words becoming gibberish in my ear while we both climb towards our peak. I reach mine first, and bite on my lower lip as to not cry out too loud as I pulse around him, my legs shaking around his hips.
“That’s right, you did so good,” he grunts. “You let me take care of you.”
I can only try to catch my breath and revel in the intense feel of him inside of me while his pace becomes erratic and comes with a long groan and a bite on my shoulder.
We both breathe for a moment, wrapped around each other.
“You’re wicked,” I whisper. “I thought you were helping me get ready for bed.”
He pulls his head away from the curve of my neck and I fail not to be charmed by that smirk of his. “You’re not relaxed?”
I shrug and slide my palms down his biceps. I am relaxed, way more than I was twenty minutes ago.
“My bad, then.” Nate pulls out of me and slides my panties back in place before tying off the condom and dropping it in the trash. “Come on.” Nate clicks off my desk lamp and holds out a hand for me to take. I could fight him, could scold him for waltzing in here and comforting me and fucking me and telling me what to do. I should, I think. But I’m too tired to pretend I don’t like having someone to fuss after me and take care of me while I give my best attempt to take care of everything else.
So I let him take me upstairs and draw me a bath and, when I’ve fallen asleep against his chest in the tub’s warm water, I let him carry me to bed, tuck me beneath the covers, and scratch my back as I fall asleep.
30
NATE
I’ve done somany of these interviews that I’ve forgotten what it feels like to have faith in a man.
I am beginning to wonder if my standards for Vanessa are impossible to meet. It’s not like every one of them have failed, but even the ones that do mostly well have one flaw that I cannot look over. And Leo agrees. He’s been in the room for almost every one of these interviews and with each one, he gives a shake of his head with varying levels of intensity or, on rare occasion, a weak shrug.
Today will be my thirty-ninth interview since starting on this mad chase for Vanessa, and after that, I might just have to sign her up forLove is Blindor begin searching outside of the mafia. Maybe to the pool of state politicians. We’ve gone out of the immediate circle. I’ve now interviewed gangsters from California, the nephews of bosses in Chicago (twins, both dicks), and half a dozen guys from Italy who barely spoke English, but did understand the words sex, money, and dinner.
Today Leo and I sit at the old iron table in the backyard waiting for our latest interview. Leo tells me about the baseball team he likes, and I pick tiny green grapes off a vine and burstthem on my tongue. It reminds me of another taste on my tongue just last night, and then I have to readjust my pants.
He’s seventeen minutes late. Maxim Orlov. A new addition Claire recommended after the gala, some Russian man I didn’t have the pleasure of running into that night.
Just when I am sure that the man is never going to show up and I will have a few minutes to dissociate thinking about what I will do tonight in peace, Claire leads a huge man through the sliding back door, laughing at something he’s just said to her. Ranger hops up from his spot in the shade and runs at the man’s feet in an instant. He stops to scratch my dog behind the ears, earning Ranger’s forever love and devotion.
I stand to greet him, offering my hand which he gives a firm and respectable shake. No funny business about it. His shoulders are impossibly broad and large, more like a refrigerator than a man, but he makes it look cool. A rather suave refrigerator.
I think all his suits must be custom made, and his hair cut is no less than three hundred dollars, probably every Tuesday.
He is no neighbor’s-uncle’s-nephew, this man is a boss from the fucking Russian mob and he looks every bit the part. He’s got two bodyguards just as big as him trailing behind him and likewise attend to Ranger with the same kindness and ease that earns them a forever companion who would abandon me immediately if they had a meat stick.
“Nathaniel,” I say. We tell everyone that’s my name, but it feels especially important now because saying my name is Nate in front of him might be like giving a nickname to the queen.
“Maxim Orlov,” he says. “Good to meet you.”
Leo and I share a glance and I’m glad I’m not the only one noticing after only fifteen seconds how this man is different from the others we’ve interviewed this summer.
“Sit.” I motion for the chair that Leo just vacated, and Maxim makes it look tiny and special at the same time. Like the chair doesn’t fit him, but in a much more real sense, it was made for him.
“Thank you for coming here,” I say. He nods to one of his guards who brings forth from nowhere a bottle of wine.
“That’s kind of you,” I say, “I’ll make sure Vanessa gets this?—”
“No,” Maxim says. “It’s for you.”
I think he’s joking, but when a quiet minute passes and his face remains earnest, I mutter my thanks and take the expensive vintage and set it next to my notebook.