It’s only when I’m slumped against him, panting and dazed from my third orgasm, that he lets himself go. With one final hard thrust, he comes, his pelvis grinding against mine as a deep groan rumbles up his throat. I feel his cock pulse inside me as I cling to him, trembling, and my sex clenches one last time, squeezing one last shudder of pleasure from my over-sensitized flesh.
Afterward, I’m so out of it I’m barely able to stand as he lifts me off the counter and sets me on my feet. Dimly, I realize I feel unusually wet between my legs—drenched, really—but it’s not until Peter steps back and I feel the wetness slide down my thigh that I understand where it’s coming from.
“Oh God.” My eyes drop to his cock—still semi-hard and glistening with our combined moisture. “Peter, we—”
“Forgot to use a condom? Yes.”
He doesn’t sound particularly concerned. Instead, as I watch in horrified shock, he casually washes himself, tucks his cock back into his jeans, and zips up the fly. Then he wets a washcloth and gently wipes the semen off my thighs.
“There, all set.” He drops the washcloth in the sink, his eyes gleaming as he turns toward me. “Don’t worry. You just had your period, so we shouldn’t be in the danger zone yet. And I’m clean; I always use condoms and get tested regularly. I assume the same is true for you?”
“Right.” I stare back at him, shaken both by the occurrence and his attitude. Theoretically, we should be safe, but the mere fact that it happened, with him… My head resumes its painful throbbing, and my exhaustion returns, multiplied tenfold. How could I have been so negligent? With George, I’d always gone out of my way to remind him to use condoms, and during the so-called danger zones, we often skipped intercourse altogether, not wanting to chance the fifteen-percent condom failure rate until we were ready to have a baby. However, with my husband’s killer, I haven’t been nearly as careful, having sex at all times of the month. And now this…
It’s like some sick part of me wants me to be tied to him, to perpetuate this mockery of a relationship.
“We should be fine then,” Peter says, stepping closer to me. “Though…” He pauses, staring down at me with a speculative expression.
“Though what?” I ask when he remains silent. My heart is hammering with a dull, fast rhythm. “Though what?”
“Though I wouldn’t mind.” His words are light, casual, but there’s no trace of humor in his voice. “Not with you.”
“You—what?” My headache intensifies, my skull feeling like it wants to implode. He can’t possibly mean what he’s saying. “Why wouldn’t you—? That makes no sense!”
“Does it not?” A glimmer of amusement now appears in his eyes. “Why, ptichka?”
“Because… because you’re you.” My voice is choked with disbelief. “You drugged and tortured me before killing my husband and forcing your way into my life. I don’t know what you’re imagining here, but we’re not dating. This is not some kind of love story—”
“No?” His expression hardens, all hints of amusement disappearing. “Then what do you think it is that I feel for you? Why can’t I go a single hour without thinking about you, wanting you… fucking craving you? You think it’s lust that keeps me here, day after day, when the whole world is out for my head and my men are crawling up the walls from boredom?” He steps even closer, and my breathing speeds up as his palms slap against the counter on both sides of me, caging me against the sink. His eyes glitter fiercely as he leans in, his voice roughening. “You think I’m here instead of hunting down the last ublyudok on my list because I can’t get enough of your tight little pussy?”
My face burns as I stare up at him, the vulgarity of his words intensifying my confusion. I don’t know what to say, how to take it all in. He sounds angry, yet what he’s saying makes it seem almost as though—
“Yes, I see you understand.” His mouth curves in a dark, mocking smile. “It might not be a love story for you, ptichka, but as fucked up as it is, that’s precisely what this is for me. I started off hating you, but somewhere along the way, you’ve become the only thing that matters to me, the only person I still care about. And yes, that means I love you, as wrong as that may be. I love you, even though you were his… even though you think I’m a monster. I love you more than life itself, Sara, because when I’m with you, I feel more than agony and rage—and I want more than death and vengeance.” His chest expands with a deep breath, his expression turning somber as he says quietly, “When I’m with you, ptichka, I’m living.”