Lily
I pace to one end of the bathroom and then turn around, facing him. To my right is the mirror, smeared red with lipstick. After his speech, I’m not so sure if trying to escape like that was such a good idea. I’m sure he’s telling the truth. Maybe he managed to lie to me once before, when he said his name was Sam . . . was that really only a couple of months ago? It seems like years, a different life. Perhaps he managed to deceive me then, but I don’t think he could do it again, not after all we’ve been through.
“It’s just that I’ve never been through anything like this, Roman,” I say. “Never, in my life. I’ve never lived this bloody, dangerous life. I’ve never even really been in danger before. Do you have any idea what it’s like for a normal person to have gunshots going off all around them?”
“No,” Roman says honestly. “I started when I was young, so no, I can’t really remember.”
“Well,” I say. “It’s terrifying.”
“Lily,” Roman says, closing the distance between us. He’s hunting down a war criminal, I remind myself. He’s not the stone-cold killer I imagined he was. Or maybe he is . . . but he kills bad people. He told me that before, but having it told in vague terms and having details are two different things. And I believe him. I really do. I believe him down to my core. Something changed, as he was talking. I peered beneath the hood; I saw how his mind works, how his soul works. He’s not an evil man. “Lily,” he repeats, standing so close to me now I can feel the heat burning off him. That’s what brought us here, I think. Heat, burning heat, scorching bodies. One heated night, and now here we are.
“Yes?” I reply.
“I have to keep you safe,” he says. “I had to keep you safe even before I found out that my mom saved your mom, all those years ago. I have to keep you safe ’cause maybe there is a black spot on me for all the killing I’ve done. Maybe there’s an imbalance somewhere in me for all the lives I’ve taken. I’ve never taken an innocent, never, in all my working days, but I’ve taken plenty of lives nonetheless.”
“How many?” I whisper. I’m not even sure if I want to know the answer, but I can’t help but ask it.
“Forty-six,” Roman says without hesitation. “Each of them worse than the last.”
“All as bad as Darius?” I say.
“No, but still bad. Killers of women and children. Rapists and pedophiles.”
“All of them?”
Roman nods. “All of them, I swear it.”
Perhaps this shouldn’t make a difference—perhaps a killer is a killer—but I find myself breathing a sigh of relief. The father of my child is a good man. A killer, but a good man.
“I’ve taken plenty of lives,” Roman goes on. “So even if they were devils in flesh, maybe saving you is important not just because you’re the mother of my child, not just ’cause our fates were sealed that night our mothers met, but because if I save you and that sweet baby, maybe it’ll go some toward balancing all the killing I’ve done.” He stops, shaking his head. “Or maybe that’s all bullshit and I’m just trying to make my life seem like it’s worth something.”
“Roman.” I lay my hand on his chest. His hard, rounded, muscular chest. It’s crazy how quickly a person’s emotions can change. Ten minutes ago I was scrawling lipstick onto the glass. Now I feel closer to this man than I ever have before. Because I know him, now. Know him better, anyway. “You don’t have to choose this life. You can choose a different life. You can choose to have a family, a—a—” I hesitate, and then push on: “A partner, if you want one. You can choose to have a home, just like the home we’ve been living in these past weeks: a fence and a garage and all that good stuff. You don’t have to live this.”
Roman’s wolf-blue eyes narrow, as though he is seeing something he has never laid eyes on before: seeing a truth which has never occurred to him before. “When Mom died, I . . . this is what I became, Lily. A man can’t just switch that off.”
“A man can,” I say, gripping his chest forcefully, “if he is brave enough.”
Through his shirt, I can feel his muscles. I don’t know if I will ever get used to just how incredibly muscled he is. It’s not just the physical sensation—though that does set my heart racing—it’s how secure he feels, too. With Roman, I feel safe, which is about the biggest contradiction I’ve ever felt. Safe—but scrawling the glass with lipstick. I wish emotions were simple. I wish people were simple. But they are not, and so with Roman I am in danger and safe at the same time. With Roman I am scared and excited at the same time. With Roman I am horny and lost at the same time.
Roman’s face is twisted as he contemplates my words. I can tell they’ve reached him, reached him as no words have reached him before. But then he pushes them away. I see the moment, his face hardening.
In one quick movement, he leans down and kisses me on the lips. He kisses me hungrily, kisses me like he is drowning and I am his only source of air. I have never been kissed like this. It’s a kiss only a man who is entirely devoted to a woman can give, the kiss of a man who is offering himself. I break it off, leaning back in his embrace; at some point, he wrapped his arms around me, one hand on the small of my back and the other on my ass cheek.
“You can’t just kiss me and end the conversation—”
When he kisses me again, I realize I’m wrong. He can do exactly that.
I try and resist the kiss, but then he presses into me more urgently, his body hard against mine, his rock-solid body too tempting for me. The emotions within my chest are going crazy now, all of them mixing together until I can’t tell where one starts and another begins. That’s true of fear and relief and excitement and affection. But not of lust. Lust stands alone. Lust pushes me on. Lust is stronger than the others.
After we’ve been kissing for a few minutes, I know I cannot fight this lust. So instead I throw myself into the kiss. Roman picks me up, his hands firm on my ass cheeks, digging his fingers into my flesh. I wrap my legs around his waist as he rests me on the counter, the counter next to the mirror which I just used to try and flee this man. Flee this man . . . the idea seems ridiculous now. Lust propels me and without thinking I begin to unbutton his pants, tugging at his belt and then unclasping the jeans. The kiss stops and I look down as he yanks his jeans and underwear down. His cock springs up. At the same time someone in the diner laughs. It is filling up. Sooner or later, somebody will try and use the bathroom, sooner or later . . . but sooner or later can take care of itself.
I make to reach down and grab his cock, but he is too horny. He immediately starts to tug at my pants, tearing them off and dropping them to the floor. I don’t realize how wet my pussy is until he grabs me by the shoulders, angles his hips, and drives into me. His cock is covered in pre-come, my pussy is soaked with quick lust, and so this time when he penetrates me, there is no pain. Just a burst of overcoming pleasure: pleasure which can overcome nerves, emotions, anything, everything. Pleasure like heaven.
He stares into my eyes with his wolf-blues, his hands steady on my shoulders, and then we fuck. We fuck fast and violent. We fuck hungrily. We fuck like we want to fuck away our doubts. I grip his shoulders as he grips mine, sitting down repeatedly on his cock, all the while looking into his handsome, serious face. His muscles contort, tense, at all times marble-hard. His cock buries deep inside of me, hitting my warm spot over and over. It’s a struggle not to scream; I have to bite down on my lip so hard that I feel the sharp bite of my teeth piercing my lip. But none of that matters, not with this sudden outbreak of euphoria.
My pussy gets tight quickly, pushed on by the absolute dirtiness of this, the passion of it. Fucking me in the bathroom, fucking me when I can hear people through the thin walls, the slapping of our flesh louder than our muffled screams. Roman’s face is twisted in pleasure, his eyes locked on my face. I feel my own mouth opening dozens of time, trying to scream. Eventually I clamp my hand over my mouth and scream quietly through my clenched-tight fingers.
I sit, sit, sit, and he thrusts, thrusts, thrusts, sitting down so hard the counter digs into my ass cheeks. The orgasm approaches quickly, as I prop one hand on a sink and keep the other over my mouth. His face, his handsome, serious face, his sculpted body, his massive cock, his intensity . . . oh, Jesus, oh, fuck . . . I bounce, bounce, not caring when somebody tries to open the door. Not caring when it rattles. Not caring when somebody calls out, “Excuse me?” I am too far gone now. The pleasure is too hot, too intense, too gripping. Roman and I couldn’t stop for the world.
I make the mistake of letting my hand fall. A scream escapes me, a scream I cannot stop. The door rattles again, but then—oblivion, and I don’t care.
I wrap my arms around Roman’s shoulders, throw my head forward, and bite down so hard on his chest that he—tough Roman, killer Roman—winces in pain. The orgasm drills into me, a rotating source of pleasure, pushing up into my belly and then spreading back down through my pussy into my thighs, all of tingling, all of it afire. A voice, distant, calls out in my head, a backing track to the pleasure: “He’s fucking you in the bathroom. He’s fucking drilling you in the bathroom. Oh, fuck, he’s fucking drilling you in the fucking bathroom and there are people outside, it’s so dirty, so wrong, so right . . .” I gasp into his flesh as the final wave of the orgasm grips my body, my legs locking around his waist. I sit down on his cock one last time with as much force as I can muster, my ass cheeks slamming into his balls. Then, as the orgasm passes, Roman buries his face in my neck, biting, groaning, and comes inside of me.
We freeze, then, even as we hear somebody asking, “Excuse me, do you have keys for this? I think something’s going on in there.” We freeze, holding onto each other, his cock wilting inside of me, his come spilling onto my thighs, our pleasure making us sore and contended. I wish we could stay like it for longer, but then the key begins to clink in the lock.
We disentangle, grinning at each other like teenagers, the grimness of our journey momentarily forgotten as we hurry to dress ourselves. By the time the waitress walks in—the same heart-shaped glasses lady who served us—we are fully dressed, if a little disheveled.
“No men allowed,” the waitress mutters, staring in bemusement at the lipstick-smeared mirror.
“Sorry about that,” Roman says, taking me by the hand and leading me to the door. “I thought it was the men’s room.”