Page 55 of Double Apex

“I might say—” The words stall in my throat. I turn my head again, closing my eyes, shutting him out and chasing the orgasm creeping up to claim me.

“I know what I’d say, if I were holding the woman I love in my arms.”

Cosmin pushes deep again, and I moan. He kisses my shoulder, my neck. His fingers move in my hair, and thesliding on my scalp is an added splash of pleasure, compounding the sweet ache pushing me to the edge.

“I would tell her that her face is the first image which comes to me in the morning—her plump lips, bewitching freckles, forest-green eyes…” His hands tighten in my hair, and I suspect he’s close too. “The way her smile detonates in my heart like a Roman candle, the way I want to kiss away her little scowls and pouts.”

A ripple of something both blissful and pained dances across his expression, and he lays his full weight on me—my God it’s fucking heaven—and slides his hands down my arms to dovetail our fingers, moving our joined hands above my head. The delectable thrusting of his cock is driving me half crazy, and my locked ankles flex at his lower back.

“I’d tell her she lives in my soul, and I in hers.” His voice is ragged, and with a broken sound he grits his teeth, trying to hold back for me. His movement pauses before he clearly loses the battle with self-control and surges into me hard and high, crying out.

Something about his surrender is so touching that my chest prickles with unexpected emotion, and as I feel his hot release, the golden net around me closes and lifts me high.

My legs drop and splay wide as I churn my hips to meet his last shuddering thrusts, surfing a wave of a climax that leaves me breathless. But notquitebreathless, because—what the holy hell? Is thatmespeaking?—I hear myself saying, “I love you… oh fuck, I do…” and how is it both so right and so wrong? Have I lost my mind?

I jerk a hand from his and clap it over my mouth, and he pulls it away and kisses me hard. Once I get a breath, I backpedal like mad.

“I didn’t mean… Seriously, that’s… Oh, Jesus Christ, Cos. I only meant that’s what I’d say if I was in love—”

“I know, draga. Nu-ti fie rusine de tine. There’s no need for shame.”

“I really didn’t—”

“Please.” His hand covers my lips gently. “Don’t say you didn’t mean it.” He moves off me and gathers me against his chest. “Let me enjoy this lie,” he whispers into my hair.

As our heartbeats align and settle, I listen to the steady music of his breathing, and wonder if it’s a lie after all.

16

ROMANIA

MID-JUNE

COSMIN

The Ardelean Foundation children’s home, Vlasia House, is midway between Balotesti and Snagov. It’s a lovely, forested area near the water, with trails and small meadows.

The building is fifteen thousand square feet and sits on thirty acres. The ground floor has the kitchens, a massive dining room to fit sixty children and staff, and the administrative offices. The second floor has twenty bedrooms for the boys and girls, in addition to those for staff. The upper floor contains classrooms, a recreation room, and a library. The building is plain but surrounded by lavish gardens—both flowers and food crops—maintained by the children, which lends a softening effect.

When Viorica and I pull slowly up the driveway in her silver Dacia Duster, I see kids squeeze against the classroom windows upstairs. A head of white-blond hair bounces upand down in the crowd of children like a pogo stick—nine-year-old Crina, who made the bookmark Phaedra commented upon in Montréal.

A group of the first-year students stands in the south garden with their teacher Domnisoara Petrescu, gathering early vegetables. Warmth floods my chest at the sight of their faces, chattering and pointing at us.

“I am happiest here,” I say, almost to myself.

“As am I.” My sister shuts off the car, quietly watching the children with me.

After a minute, she reaches for my hand and squeezes it. The tension that has hovered throughout our half-hour drive, after an earlier quarrel, eases.

When Viorica told me I needn’t rent a car because she could pick me up in Bucharest, I was surprised—typically she’s far too busy to meet me at the airport. But she said she’d been in the city on business, about which she was evasive.

It was a further surprise to see her in a dress and heels, hair loose, wearing lipstick and jewelry. Working with children as she does, her attire tends toward sensible and stain resistant, without cosmetics to be smudged or accessories to be snagged by little hands.

I thought she’d had an afternoon date, the way she frowned self-consciously when I commented on her outfit. When I picked up a thick manila envelope on the passenger’s seat as I got into the car, she snatched it away and tossed it into the back seat. My anger coasted in on a wave of suspicion as I realized she’d been to see Grigore Lupu about the donation.

A heated argument in the parking lot followed, in which respective accusations of deception and selfishness were thrown with the merciless precision only siblings can wield. She threatened to walk away and leave me to drive to Vlasia House alone if I wouldn’t drop the issue, and a stiff silence rode north with us.

Viorica releases my hand now, giving it a pat.

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