Hot Siberian by Gerald A Browne

She was distended, puffed apart, split and sopping from prolonged arousal. She moved slightly side to side to fit as entirely as possible on him. She rocked back and forth and then ran herself the length of his leg several times, lightly, slickly, never giving up contact, and then his other leg, and then, in the same manner, his arms one after another from his biceps to his fingers.
    Nikolai had difficulty keeping his fingers still, they wanted so to grasp, invade, not merely allow. For control he tried to project his imaginary point of view to a reasonable vantage above the bed from where, like a nonparticipant, he might merely observe.
    Vivian’s first coming was almost immediate. Nikolai knew by the quickening of her stroke on his leg and her crushing press. Her face descended suddenly, as though falling from a great height, upon his, unable to miss his mouth. There was the flavor and burn of the oil from the skin of the orange on her lips. When she was able, when she had convulsed every twinge of sensation from that coming, she knelt again, straddled, and continued.
    She was like a cat distributing its pheromones, claiming her territory, which was all of him. The atmosphere of the bedroom became layered with her natural, personal fragrance. Nikolai luxuriated in it, breathed it deep, thought of it as particles of love that would remain in him forever.
    Vivian helped herself to her fourth that night with her knees like a vise left and right of his head. What joy to be so used by her, Nikolai thought. What pleasure to comply! He became lost in it, as did she, and for them there was no longer a world or country or house or room. Only the environment of their sensations.
    â€œ Ya tebya lyublyu! ” she gasped. It was the first time she’d said it in Russian. Saying it in Russian felt the same. She’d picked it up from the many times Nikolai had said it to her.
    â€œ Ya tebya lyublyu .” I love you.

CHAPTER
    5
    AT THAT INSTANT IN PRAGUE :
    The killer placed his hand on the shoulder of the empty chair. He’d been sitting alone in the Café de l’Europa for almost an hour. He seemed to be waiting for someone, but he was being sure and patient about it. His back was to the entrance, and not once had he turned to look that way.
    From his appearance he would most likely be taken for a farmer. Come into the city for a Friday night. He had the chest, shoulders, and neck of a farmer, thick from hauling and heaving. A grower of hops from Duba or Trsice? That would have been a close guess. The identification he was carrying this time, made to look old, gave his address as a rural one in Ustek, which was a town sixty kilometers to the north in the hops-growing region. Consistent with the impression was the way he had decided to dress. In a farmer’s Sunday wear, an only suit, not recently bought. A believable jacket that might have fit years ago but was now at least a size tight. The dark gray fabric strained to contain him and bit into his underarms. It wasn’t possible for him to have on a holster and gun beneath that jacket. Even the flattest small-caliber automatic would have shown.
    The killer was drinking slivovitz and drafts of Prazdroj lager, limiting the potent slivovitz to one regular pour every quarter hour, taking gulps of the excellent lager in the time between. Nothing would be off-register tonight; every edge would be reality, distinct. The lager was for the belly. The slivovitz was for the heart. He’d have the belly for the killing and the necessary condition of heart, hard and pushed. But what for the head? Nothing for the head. Much earlier in his life he had learned that what made the human brain most distinctive was its capacity to reflect upon itself. It could think about what it had thought, what it was thinking, what it might think. Prior to each killing this conjugation of the brain came up. As it did now. He went over it and it went over him. Defiantly, he tried to