"I know," is a ragged groan of a thing, because he does. He knows. Surely they want the same things in this moment.
Alina tips, and Nikolai's fingers dig harder into the flexing muscle of her thighs.
"Show me, Alina," he breathes, even as he feels the echoing shudder in his body at the way she grinds down onto him. When he fumbles a hand between them to touch her, it's not only the need to see her come apart. It's to ward against the possibility that he won't be able to stay still, that Alina will rock down and his hips will come hitching up to meet her.
It would be so easy. They both know this.
So he gives her his fingers, encouraging her off balance. It wrings a wreck of a groan out of him as the slide of their bodies tilts off-center, but the friction is enough.
They will be a mess, he knows. Even as he shudders and gasps behind the curtain of Alina's hair, this thought sticks in his head. Recalls her stained kefta. Thinks now of her stained skirt, of how her thighs will be wet with him.
He draws her forehead down against his, fine tremors running through his body. Says her name, reverent and tender. Doesn't quite manage to loosen his grip where he clutches her thigh still.
She misses the sight of his worshipful gaze—Aleksander might have prayed to her like her cunt was a holy thing, but it had a harsh and patronizing bite to it that she cannot find in Nikolai's awe. But as Alina's forehead presses to his, as she turns her face to press her nose against his cheek, she cannot focus on that.
It is just enough that he keeps his fingers brushing against her when she is paralyzed by pleasure, both the assistance she needs and a bulwark against the mistake that she knows she could not resist. It prevents him from slipping to notch against her opening, as much as she wishes he would, as much as she aches with the empty need to feel him stretch and fill her. Her climax hits with the suddenness of a punch.
The soft rumbles of satisfaction crack on his name. "Nik—" becomes a protracted moan, loud enough in his ear to warrant wondering who else in the boarding house may have heard them. Alina doesn't care. That sound drags out of her in one wobbly note until she is out of breath and only sputtered sounds creak out.
If they were anyone else, if their lives could just be a collage of iterations on this moment, she would marry him right now.
She presses down against him, both seeking more and seeking a reprieve from the gentle friction of his fingers, which keep her at her peak even when she cannot chase out more. Then, the stuttering movements of her hips resume, smooth yet urgent. He needs her with her. Her fingers curl on his chest, nails biting down into his skin like she cannot help but leave marks in him.
Later, examining the collection of marks, Nikolai will consider: what exactly had tipped him past the breaking point?
In all the collection of sensations, was it Alina's nails digging half-moons into his chest that broke him apart?
Maybe so.
Maybe it is how she almost says his name, or the way her body shudders and shivers over him, or how wet she is, how flushed her skin is just now. All of these are such fine things in combination, and there is such novelty in hearing his name—
Maybe it is the intimacy inherent running warm between them, built up so tenuously and linked into place now.
It might matter to Nikolai later, when he is alone with all that's happened in the past twenty-four hours and can't help but try to turn it all over in his mind. But right now, all of it converges and overwhelms what last dregs of self-control he had left.
He comes, saying her name. Alina, projected into her head even he has says it aloud, reaches up to sink his fingers into her hair. Doesn't kiss her. Their breath mingles and their noses brush and she trembles over even the light press of his fingers. Says something else, low and thick and fond in Ravkan, affectionate and pleading all at once.
Words made pretty for their honesty, wrecked and urgent and said nearly into her mouth, they are so close. It all comes to the same thing: Stay a little longer, Alina, even if all they can do together is sleep.
This is better. For all the fluttering fear that rose in her belly because of her own vulnerability, it is so much better to see how he squirms, to hear him uttering her name like a prayer, to watch how his expression twists. He's beautiful. She wants to kiss him, but wants to hear him more. So she lingers, impossibly close, letting the new wetness that stains the inside of her skirts cool.
As she sinks into him, she lifts her hands, slowly, to cradle his face. To savor this closeness. Then she buries her face against his sweat-slick neck, collapsing fully, sweat mingling. She strokes his arm, steady and slow, an assurance before she can muster words.
"I'm not going anywhere," she murmurs finally, her voice still ragged with the dregs of feverish hunger as well as the fatigue of physical effort. There is a burn in her thighs that tells her this is enough for now, and she makes a happy if creaky little noise as she shifts her hips to stretch them out, shifting herself just to the side of him lest either of them have cause for lingering concern about the closeness of their bits.
Her breaths are heavy still, coming in tandem with his. She plants one hand on his chest so she can feel his ribs expand. The moment feels indulgent, luxurious. When has she ever had the opportunity to just linger like this, to hold and admire? She shifts her head back onto the other side of his pillow, lifts her gaze to search his face again, admires the sheen of sweat and the flush of his cheeks and the way his lips part to draw in more air.
Smiles, a little goofily, as she realizes that she can have this, if she wants it. He has offered it to her. And she already loves him a little for showing her what it could be like, could come to love him more, maybe.
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no subject
Alina tips, and Nikolai's fingers dig harder into the flexing muscle of her thighs.
"Show me, Alina," he breathes, even as he feels the echoing shudder in his body at the way she grinds down onto him. When he fumbles a hand between them to touch her, it's not only the need to see her come apart. It's to ward against the possibility that he won't be able to stay still, that Alina will rock down and his hips will come hitching up to meet her.
It would be so easy. They both know this.
So he gives her his fingers, encouraging her off balance. It wrings a wreck of a groan out of him as the slide of their bodies tilts off-center, but the friction is enough.
They will be a mess, he knows. Even as he shudders and gasps behind the curtain of Alina's hair, this thought sticks in his head. Recalls her stained kefta. Thinks now of her stained skirt, of how her thighs will be wet with him.
He draws her forehead down against his, fine tremors running through his body. Says her name, reverent and tender. Doesn't quite manage to loosen his grip where he clutches her thigh still.
no subject
It is just enough that he keeps his fingers brushing against her when she is paralyzed by pleasure, both the assistance she needs and a bulwark against the mistake that she knows she could not resist. It prevents him from slipping to notch against her opening, as much as she wishes he would, as much as she aches with the empty need to feel him stretch and fill her. Her climax hits with the suddenness of a punch.
The soft rumbles of satisfaction crack on his name. "Nik—" becomes a protracted moan, loud enough in his ear to warrant wondering who else in the boarding house may have heard them. Alina doesn't care. That sound drags out of her in one wobbly note until she is out of breath and only sputtered sounds creak out.
If they were anyone else, if their lives could just be a collage of iterations on this moment, she would marry him right now.
She presses down against him, both seeking more and seeking a reprieve from the gentle friction of his fingers, which keep her at her peak even when she cannot chase out more. Then, the stuttering movements of her hips resume, smooth yet urgent. He needs her with her. Her fingers curl on his chest, nails biting down into his skin like she cannot help but leave marks in him.
no subject
In all the collection of sensations, was it Alina's nails digging half-moons into his chest that broke him apart?
Maybe so.
Maybe it is how she almost says his name, or the way her body shudders and shivers over him, or how wet she is, how flushed her skin is just now. All of these are such fine things in combination, and there is such novelty in hearing his name—
Maybe it is the intimacy inherent running warm between them, built up so tenuously and linked into place now.
It might matter to Nikolai later, when he is alone with all that's happened in the past twenty-four hours and can't help but try to turn it all over in his mind. But right now, all of it converges and overwhelms what last dregs of self-control he had left.
He comes, saying her name. Alina, projected into her head even he has says it aloud, reaches up to sink his fingers into her hair. Doesn't kiss her. Their breath mingles and their noses brush and she trembles over even the light press of his fingers. Says something else, low and thick and fond in Ravkan, affectionate and pleading all at once.
Words made pretty for their honesty, wrecked and urgent and said nearly into her mouth, they are so close. It all comes to the same thing: Stay a little longer, Alina, even if all they can do together is sleep.
no subject
As she sinks into him, she lifts her hands, slowly, to cradle his face. To savor this closeness. Then she buries her face against his sweat-slick neck, collapsing fully, sweat mingling. She strokes his arm, steady and slow, an assurance before she can muster words.
"I'm not going anywhere," she murmurs finally, her voice still ragged with the dregs of feverish hunger as well as the fatigue of physical effort. There is a burn in her thighs that tells her this is enough for now, and she makes a happy if creaky little noise as she shifts her hips to stretch them out, shifting herself just to the side of him lest either of them have cause for lingering concern about the closeness of their bits.
Her breaths are heavy still, coming in tandem with his. She plants one hand on his chest so she can feel his ribs expand. The moment feels indulgent, luxurious. When has she ever had the opportunity to just linger like this, to hold and admire? She shifts her head back onto the other side of his pillow, lifts her gaze to search his face again, admires the sheen of sweat and the flush of his cheeks and the way his lips part to draw in more air.
Smiles, a little goofily, as she realizes that she can have this, if she wants it. He has offered it to her. And she already loves him a little for showing her what it could be like, could come to love him more, maybe.