Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 63465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63465 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
‘Oh my. A midnight feast with Morozhenoe. I used to have it direct from the carts whenever I went to Moscow. Now that I know you have it, I’ll have to come here more often,’ I say with a laugh, and suddenly realize what I have said.
There is no expression on his face as he unpacks the bread. ‘Do you want yours with an egg on top?’
‘Yeah,’ I say softly, walking back to my stool. Somehow the mood has been ruined.
I watch him crack two eggs on top of the bread boats and put them into the oven. He has big powerful hands. There are stars tattooed on them. I think of those strong, tanned hands on my body and the thought arouses me, makes me want him inside me all over again.
‘You don’t cook often, do you?’ I ask.
‘Almost never.’
‘So what happens to all the food if you don’t eat it?’
He shrugs carelessly. ‘I think Irina takes it home.’
I nod, my body going cold. When I asked him for one night it never even crossed my mind that he might have a girlfriend. Just because I saw him alone all the time I just naively assumed that he didn’t have one. Have I just had sex with someone’s boyfriend?
‘So who’s Irina?’ I ask as casually as I can.
He frowns. ‘Sort of my housekeeper.’
‘Sort of?’
‘It’s complicated.’
‘Complicated as in girlfriend?’
He looks surprised. ‘No, I’m not with anyone,’ he says.
Getting information from him is like squeezing blood from a stone, but it is a strange relief to know there isn’t a girlfriend lurking somewhere. He pulls open the freezer and takes out a bottle of Tovaritch vodka. My father’s favorite. Putting my elbows on the smooth cold surface and supporting my jaw in my palms, I watch him pour us a couple of shots.
He brings them to me.
‘I don’t want to get drunk,’ I say.
‘Want a raw egg?’
It is a Russian tradition. If you don’t want to get drunk have a raw egg before you start drinking. I shake my head.
‘Drink it in one go and don’t exhale through your mouth,’ he advises.
‘Got it,’ I say and take the glass.
‘Vsego khoroshego!’ he says.
For a second I hesitate. That phrase can mean all the best or goodbye.
As if he has understood the reason for my hesitancy. ‘All the best,’ he says in English.
‘All the best,’ I echo. It had not felt right. The thought that he might have been saying goodbye. I down the drink. It slides smoothly down my throat.
He opens the oven and the delicious smell of bread baking fills the kitchen. We sit and eat. He seems to watch me eat more than he eats.
‘Are you not hungry?’ I ask.
‘I’m hungry, but not for food.’
When I finish, he scoops ice cream into bowls. ‘If only we had some chocolate pieces to sprinkle on top,’ I say as I stuff my face with soft creamy ice cream. He gets up and opens a cupboard, rummages around and finds chocolate sprinkles. ‘Will these do?’
‘Okay,’ I say.
When I lay down my spoon, he comes over to me. He grasps my waist as if I weigh no more than a child, and puts me on the granite top. The stone is cold under my thighs.
‘My turn to eat ice cream,’ he says.
The ice cream is cold and I do giggle to start with, but not for long. He ruins ice cream for me forever.
Eight
Tasha Evanoff
‘What time is it?’ I ask.
He swivels his head at the alarm clock by the bedside. ‘Nearly four.’
So the night is all gone and it is almost time to leave. I sigh.
‘Can I use your shower before I go?’ I ask softly. I reek of sex.
‘Sure,’ he agrees. ‘There’s a clean bathrobe hanging behind the door.’
He watches me get out of bed. I walk away feeling sore between my legs. The bathroom carries the same décor as the rest of the house. There is a pale pistachio wall with a massive mirror encased in an ornate creamy lemon frame. I use the bathroom, ooh, sore, and get into the shower. I switch it on and adjust the temperature setting before I step into the rush.
I close my eyes and turn my face up to the water cascade. I try not to think. It cannot be over. Our time together flew by too quickly. How could something so wonderful be over? Suddenly, I become aware that the shower door is open. I twist around and Noah steps into the cubicle.
I watch the water pouring down his face.
He doesn’t say anything, but simply puts his hand to the back of my head and swoops down on my mouth. Unresisting, I flow into his arms, my body yielding to the hard planes of his. His insistent mouth parts my shaking lips and sends wild tremors through my body. The rest of the world falls silent and becomes nothing while I cling to him as the only solid thing in my shifting world.