Chapter 33 Breaking Point
The afternoon had stretched into evening, the library growing dim as the winter light faded outside. Neither of them had moved to light the lamps or had spoken of leaving.
The papers were still spread across the table, but neither of them was looking at them anymore.
Anya sat in the leather chair by the cold fireplace, her legs tucked beneath her, watching Dima pace. He'd been restless for the last hour, his movements agitated, his eyes constantly returning to her.
"We should talk about everything tomorrow," he said, not for the first time.
"We've talked about it." Her voice was soft, calm. "Three times."
"Then we should talk about what happens after. When we have the Key. When we…"
"Dima." She stood, crossing to him. She stopped inches away, close enough to feel the heat of his body. "What's really wrong?"
He stared at her, his eyes dark with something she couldn't name, his hands clenched at his sides.
"I can't.." He stopped, shaking his head. "I can't keep pretending."
"Pretending what?"
"Pretending that I don't want you." The words came out rough and desperate. "Pretending that every moment we're together isn't agony or I can be near you and not.."
He stopped again, his breath coming faster.
Anya's heart pounded. "Not what?"
His hand reached out, hovering near her face.
"Not want to touch you," he whispered, "hold you or want to.." His voice broke, "love you the way you deserve to be loved."
The air between them crackled with tension. Anya could feel it in her chest, her throat with trembling hands.
"We agreed," she managed. "Boundaries, remember?"
"I know." His hand still hovered, close but not touching. "I remember every word, I'm not asking for anything I'm just telling you because the not-telling was killing me."
She looked at his hand, hovering near her cheek, his eyes dark with wanting and his mouth, slightly parted waiting for her answer.
So she made a choice.
She took his hand and pressed it to her face.
The contact was electric. His palm was warm against her cheek, his fingers trembling slightly. He stared at her with disbelief and hope warring in his eyes.
"Anya"
"I'm tired of pretending too." Her voice was steady, even as her heart raced. "I'm tired of boundaries that feel like walls and wanting you but pretending I don't."
His hand slid into her hair, cradling the back of her head. "Are you sure?"
"No." She smiled, small and shaky. "But I'm sure I want this, want you right now."
He didn't wait for more, he kissed her.
It wasn't like the wine cellar which was soft and searching, this was fierce, desperate, years of wanting compressed into a single moment. His mouth claimed hers, hungry and demanding as she matched him, her hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer.
They stumbled toward the leather chair, knocking against the table in their haste, papers scattered but neither of them noticed. Dima lowered her into the chair, his body pressing hers into the soft leather, his mouth never leaving hers.
His hands moved down her sides, over her hips, gripping her thighs. She arched into him, a small sound escaping her throat.
"Tell me what you want," he breathed against her lips. "Tell me."
"You." The word was broken and desperate. "Just you."
His mouth left hers, trailing down her throat. She gasped, her head falling back, giving him access. He kissed the hollow of her neck, the curve of her shoulder and the sensitive spot behind her ear.
His hand found the hem of her sweater, sliding underneath. His fingers were warm against her skin, tracing patterns on her stomach. She shivered, her hips bucking against him.
"Yes," she whispered. "Please."
He lifted the sweater, pulling it over her head. The cool air hit her skin but his mouth was there immediately, hot and hungry. He kissed her collarbone, the swell of her breasts, the valley between them.
His hands found the clasp of her bra, she gave a nod giving him a go ahead, unable to speak. He unhooked it with practiced ease, sliding the straps down her arms. When her breasts were bare, he stopped, looking at her.
"You're beautiful," he breathed. "So beautiful."
She reached for him, pulling his shirt over his head. Her hands spread across his chest, warm skin, firm muscle while scattering of dark hair. She traced the lines of him, learning him with her fingers.
He lowered himself again, his mouth finding her breast. She cried out, her back arching while her fingers were in his hair. His tongue circled, teased and worshipped, the sensation was overwhelming building a heat deep in her belly.
His hand moved lower, sliding under the waistband of her jeans. She gasped, her hips lifting to meet him. His fingers found her through the thin fabric of her underwear, immediately she moaned, loud and unrestrained.
"More," she begged. "Please, more."
He unbuttoned her jeans, pulling them down her legs. She kicked them away, lying before him in nothing but her underwear. His eyes traveled over her, dark with desire.
"Look at you," he murmured. "Look at what you do to me."
He stood just long enough to remove his own pants, then returned to her, his body covering hers. The heat of him, skin against skin, was almost too much.
His hand slid into her underwear, finding her wet and ready. She gasped as his fingers touched her, circling and exploring, learning what made her gasp and moan.
"That's it," he whispered against her ear. "Let me hear you."
She was beyond words and thought, her hips moved against his hand, seeking more pressure, more friction. He gave it to her, his fingers working in perfect rhythm, his thumb finding the sensitive spot that made her see stars.
"I'm close," she gasped. "Dima, I'm.."
"Not yet." His voice was rough, strained. "Not without me."
He guided her hand to his hardness. She wrapped her fingers around him, feeling him pulse against her palm. He groaned, his forehead dropping to her shoulder.
"Together," he breathed. "Like this."
His hand moved faster between her legs while she matched his rhythm with her hand on him. Their bodies pressed together, skin slick with sweat, breaths mingling in the warm air.
The tension built, higher and higher, until Anya thought she might shatter from the pressure alone.
"Dima" she cried.
"Now," he groaned. "Now, Anya."
She shattered.
The orgasm ripped through her, waves of pleasure so intense she couldn't breathe, think but could only feel. Through it, she felt him stiffen against her hand, heard his groan of release and felt the warmth of him spilling over her fingers.
They clung to each other as the waves subsided, breathing hard, hearts pounding. The leather chair creaked beneath them with papers rustled somewhere in the chaos.
Slowly, gradually, they came back to themselves.
Dima lifted his head, looking at her with eyes that held everything, love, awe and wonder.
"Anya,” he called
She reached up, touching his face. His skin was damp, his stubble rough against her palm.
"I'm here," she whispered. "I'm not going anywhere."
He kissed her softly and slowly.
They lay tangled together in the leather chair, the fire cold, the room dark, the world outside forgotten.
For this moment, there was only them.
And it was enough.