Dirty Little Wars 01: Moscow

A SOOTHING TOUCH

Marek lifts me up over the rim of the tub and helps me to sit under the stream of water. He kneels beside the tub, and I feel him lather soap through my hair. His fingers massage my scalp and wring the shampoo out of the strands. The red dye is still fresh enough to color the water. He soaps his hands and washes my back, arms, and my palms, avoiding cuts and bruises as he rubs the slick skin, urging me to lean back as he slides his hand down my stomach.

No more blood. No more sweat or grit. No hands on me but his.

I focus on how it feels, the way it distracts me from the shadows around us. It drowns out the memories I no longer want to have. He's there, and it matters that it's him, but it's not enough. I know he's willing to do more.

I lean back further, grabbing onto his hand and sliding it between my legs. I feel his strong fingers rub between the folds, grazing my clit. I arch my back, catching my lower lip between my teeth.

"Look at me," he insists. "Tell me that you need this. Tell me you need me."

I lift my gaze, reading the ultimatum in his eyes, the unwavering demand.

"I need you, Markuz," I say, finding the words easier than I thought they would be. "I need you."

He doesn't look satisfied, but I feel like he is... he just wants more. He slips two fingers inside me, hooking them upward while flicking my clit with his thumb. My body jumps as he hits it. I catch my breath, writhing with how good it feels. This is his brand of dominance, the forceful, confident, take-no-prisoners kind.

I want him too much.

I grab onto his shoulder and pull myself up in the tub, brushing my lips roughly against his. It's desperate and emotional. My breathing is harsh between us, and I slide my hand around his neck to force him closer. I feel him lean into my hold, engaging me with an all-consuming kiss of his own. It turns languid, the play of tongue and teeth, his strength warm under my hands. This is more than what normally passes between us. In my mind, there's a kind of soul-deep recognition in it, an acceptance of what we already know.

"Marek," I whisper. "Please."

He breaks the hold, rising to his full height and stripping off the rest of his clothes and gear. I watch him, eager and hungered, my hair wet against my neck, and my lips glossed with water. He's a dark figure in the half-light, carrying the scars of war, the grit and the menace, and the fight to survive. He's an intoxicating contradiction, all that male power matched with such a fierce heart, and a nihilistic streak so impenetrable he could walk away from the end of the world unscathed.

He steps into the tub and lifts me up, forcing my body to slide against his.

I spread my hand under his testicles and play with them the way he likes, hearing him issue a soft groan in response. I stroke his cock and then give his balls a light slap. He tenses, and turns me against the cold tiles, pressing himself against me and trapping me there.

He feels like a solid wall of muscle at my back. Familiar. Protective. Trusted. His hands are lathered with soap, and he strokes one of them between the cheeks of my ass, finding the tight opening of my anus. He teases around it for a moment then slides his big thumb inside. It tingles with resistance. I huff and draw breath, excited by it and by what comes next.

My breasts are squeezed against the tile, puckered nipples rubbing along the abrasive lines of grout, the tender skin slipping over its sharp edges. I raise my hands and splay my fingers along the wall, rubbing the wet surface in anticipation. I lift my hips against his groin.

He grabs on and guides the head of his cock between the slick folds and into my pussy, pushing inside and driving deep. I moan with the feel of it, and he pulls out slowly, teasing me with what I want most.

He leans close, his voice a harsh whisper against my ear. "You'll always call me, Z. When you're done fighting the world, or yourself, or whatever poor fuck gets in your way...you'll always call me. I'll always be here, at your back, exactly where you need me."

He slides his arm around my waist and thrusts in deeper, nearing lifting me off my feet. He rocks me against the tiles in the slowest, most delicious rhythm I've ever experienced. I feel his strength, and the heavy massage of his dick, the way it fills me and leaves me breathless.

I drop one hand to stroke my clit. It's over-sensitive; the nerves are begging for touch. The orgasm is so close that it sings in my veins. Marek smooths his hand up to my left breast, pinching one of my nipples so hard it makes me cry out.

I come with a ragged moan, but I don't stop rubbing my clit. One orgasm rolls into another, leaving me gasping and crying against the tile.

He knows that I'm done, and he finishes with a dozen more thrusts. Each is so forceful that they shudder through me. His entire body tensed as a rough sound of release escapes his lips. He savors it for a moment, then slides his hand to my neck, kissing my hair as our breathing slows.

"You're beautiful," I whisper.

"Is that sentiment?" he asks. "I didn't know I was that good."

I laugh under my breath, and I can feel that he likes it. His arms tighten around me. I grab onto his wrist, squeezing muscle and bone in a way that expresses everything. Affection. Gratitude.

"Take me home," I murmur.

I feel him nod, reluctantly separating our bodies and using the rest of the hot water to wash us both clean.