Her arms were around his neck before she knew what she was doing. His lips were still as soft as she remembered. He brushed her hair back from her face and his palms were warm on her damp cheeks. Her heart was soaring again as she kissed him over and over again.
“Please, forgive me, Alex. I should have told you in Moscow. I should have told you how much I loved you. I was afraid. I’m so sorry.”
He shushed her quietly, wiping away her tears.
“Простите. I am sorry,” he said, enveloping her in his arms. “I was afraid, too.”
She looked up at him, grinning through her tears. “You are not afraid of anything.”
“Dat not true, Kroshka,” he said shaking his head. “I never knew I could want something so much or hurt so bad when you were gone.”
He brushed the last tear from her face. “I am still afraid.”
“You do not have to be. I love you, Alex,” she brushed her fingers across his lips, her tears threatening to fall again. “My heart is yours.”
His lips were on hers again, his body pressing hers against the door. She fumbled with the doorknob and they nearly fell inside the room. He laughed and whisked her up into his arms. He carried her to the bed and lay her gently against the pillow, his kisses never ceasing. She felt as if her heart were finally beating again, that somehow the world was brighter once again. He loved her. She could hardly believe it. He kissed her neck just the way he’d always kissed it, the way he still did in her dreams. He lay down next to her on the bed, his hand brushing across her trembling stomach.
“Alex,” she whispered, “this is real, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Kroshka, it is. Because I can feel your heart beating and your breath on my cheek. I can feel the softness of your skin and the goose bumps that rise when I run my fingers across it. I can feel your hands on my back and your lips on my neck. It is very real.”
She kissed him hard, lifting up his shirt and sliding her hands across his chest. He sat up and pulled the shirt over his head. The sight of his chest wakened such longing inside her. The smell of him, the softness of his lips on her skin, the warmth of his touch, it was all she wanted for the last several months. She was trembling all over as he began unbuttoning her blouse. She was finding it quite difficult to breathe. Then he was kissing her again. His kisses were like a spring rain after months of drought. Her whole body was coming to life again. The clothes were coming off quickly now until finally, she felt the weight of him on top of her. His arms cradled her beneath her shoulders and his hands were entwined in her hair. She ran her fingers across the powerful muscles in his back and up his shoulders. His kisses were soft and gentle. She found herself drowning in the deep blue pools of his eyes as he entered her.
“Я люблю тебя, Zoey,” he whispered softly against her lips as he pressed deeper and deeper inside her. “I love you.”
His voice was deep and musical. Everything he said she heard as a symphony, as strong and powerful as if Mussorgsky himself had written them. This was where she belonged, with him. It didn’t matter where they were. She was with him. She was home.
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