A Bride for Kolovsky by Carol Marinelli

around you…’ She couldn’t explain it. It was like innuendo city—every road led there!
    â€˜What do you want, Lavinia?’ Zakahr already knew what he wanted, but she had to want something—of that he was sure.
    â€˜I don’t know,’ Lavinia admitted. She wanted his kiss, she wanted everything they had almost had, but she was quite sure—positive, in fact—that if he knewher truth he wouldn’t want her. ‘I’m trying not to think about you.’
    â€˜Maybe stop fighting it?’ Zakahr suggested. ‘Why would you resist something so nice?’
    â€˜I’m a mother-to-be!’ She tried to make a joke, but Zakahr didn’t smile.
    â€˜So—soon you can be responsible, soon you can stay in every night…’ He voiced everything that she wanted to happen, everything she feared. ‘You can say goodbye to your passionate—’
    â€˜I’m really not,’ Lavinia said. If he knew how boring she was he’d run a mile.
    â€˜I dispute that.’
    â€˜Are you saying I should just walk away from Rachael? That I should give up…?’
    â€˜Of course not,’ Zakahr said. ‘But you are single now . You can be selfish. You can do what you want. And,’ he said, ‘you want me .’
    It wasn’t a question. It was nothing she could deny. Because so very badly she did .
    â€˜You told me with your mouth.’
    â€˜It was just a kiss.’
    â€˜With your tongue.’
    She just stood there.
    â€˜With your hips,’ Zakahr said, and watched her redden at the memory of her groin pressing into his. It was as if it were now, her body flaring as she stood, and he refused to leave it there. ‘You told me with your hand,’ Zakahr said, and in a cruel repeat he did what he had before—but without her guidance this time.
    She watched, curious, fascinated, wanting, as heraised his hand slowly, slipped it inside her jacket. Her nipple jutted through the sheer fabric to greet him. He rested his forehead on her head, and for Lavinia the relief was exquisite.
    All night she’d denied this, all day she’d remembered—and now she got to relive it. ‘Why do you fight it?’ Zakahr asked, but even as she tried to fathom an answer, even as she tried to do just that, he overrode her with a single word. ‘Don’t.’
    â€˜Don’t?’
    â€˜Don’t fight it.’ Zakahr stroked slowly, and when still she stood he slipped his hand up her cami to the heaven of no padding, no bra, just the taut swell of her.
    Lavinia ached for more contact. She could feel the throb between her legs. But she just held his gaze. She would not stop him, because so badly she wanted him, but he would do nothing more till she begged it of him.
    When he held her she forgot not to trust him.
    Zakahr liked sex.
    Not the build-up to it, nor the come-down after it—though no lover of Zakahr’s could tell. He was detached, he performed, he got what he needed, she got what she wanted.
    But here, in this stand-off, he was loving the build-up, was here, right here in the moment, aroused by her pleasure.
    He stroked on till her neck arched backwards. He stroked on till her lips clamped hard on her plea. He stroked on till it was Zakahr who ached for more contact.He pushed up her cami, saw her pretty naked breast, and lowered his head.
    Lavinia could not believe the bliss of it, the thrill of it. There was nowhere to go but backwards. She leant on the fabric behind, his mouth her only contact, and she watched.
    She watched his tongue flick her nipple, watched him softly blow, closed her eyes as he suckled, and then watched again as he drew his lips back on the length of her nipple.
    He was so hard. There was no choice for Zakahr but to cease contact—and for Lavinia there was both regret and relief when he did.
    â€˜I have to go.’
    â€˜You don’t.’
    â€˜Actually, I do.’