After by Varian Krylov Read Free Book Online Page A

flexing. She watches his face as his body gets taut, quivery, and his breathing goes shallow and irregular.
    “Are you always quiet like this?” she whispers.
    “No.”
    “Let me hear you,” she coaxes. He goes still. Breaks eye contact. Breathing heavy. “You being quiet doesn't change anything. You're still fucking me, getting off. So let me hear you.”
    His eyes come back to hers and there's a still, quiet moment between them. And then be starts, his body working against hers. He tips his forehead until it touches hers, and his serrated panting fills, breath by breath, with a low, feral growl. She curves a hand at the back of his neck, sanctioning this closeness. Her other hand settles at the small of his back, over the undulating muscles there, then glides down, up, from the valley of his waist to the swell of his ass.
    “I want,” he pants, “I want to kiss you.”
    She parts her lips and takes his mouth in an eager kiss. Like an electrical connection has been made a current seems to shake his body in a fit of convulsive shuddering and his low, rasping growl swells to a long, plaintive groan and she breaks their kiss and holds his face between her palms for a few moments, watching him as he lifts himself over her and her eyes flicker and she sucks in her breath as he withdraws and with a few urgent strokes spills over onto her belly. She looks down, eyes moving over the pattern of puddles, at his cock—vivid and slick—still caught in his fist.
    “You all right?” he asks. He is being careful not to touch her, now.
    “I'm fine.” She sounds calm. Almost hollow.
    “I'll get a towel.”
    Without touching her at all John gets off the bed. The water runs for a bit in the bathroom, and she pulls the sheet up as far as she can without getting it dirty.
    “It's warm, but not too hot,” John tells her, then carefully mops up the little puddles with the damp cloth.
    As she gets out of the bed and moves toward the window, the filmy fabric of her gown unfurls, covering her indifferently. While she stands there, staring out, John pulls on his uniform, his socks and boots. He goes to her slowly. Her gaze stays fixed on some point in the distant dark.
    “I don't know if you remember. Your first night here, after...the mess hall. I brought you back here. You were only semi-conscious, and I was worried for you, so I stayed. I slept in your bed with you. Held you. It would be nice to sleep like that again, holding you, sometime. If you ever think you'd like that. Just tell me, if you ever want me to stay.”
    “Okay,” she says. “But now I want to be alone.” She doesn't come to the door to say good-bye. Her habit is to stay away from the door. John reaches for the first deadbolt, hesitates, then turns back toward Eva. “I'm okay, John,” she says, still looking out the window. “I just need a little time to myself.”
    “Sure. I understand.” His voice is low and sad. “Tomorrow night,” his voice trails off.
    “I know.”
    He hesitates for a moment, then says, “Goodnight, Eva.”
    When the door shuts and three deadbolts click into place, Eva turns out all the lights in the room and pulls a chair up by the window. She sits there, staring out, for hours, and only goes to bed after watching the sun rise.

CHAPTER FOUR
    In what used to be the officers' conference room, which, on Smith's orders, three of the men have converted into a kind of theater, a bank of monitors blinks to life. The din of male voices goes silent. Fourteen men fix their stares on the twelve screens, peering anxiously at four facets of Eva's room.
    There's no movement. No life. No flesh. Only the austere planes of floor and ceiling and walls, intersections in corners, the cold angles of furniture.

    * * * *
    John knocks. No answer. He unlocks the door, opens it, steps through. The little red lights glowing below the lenses mean the cameras are on. But they're always on.
    Eva's nowhere in sight.
    When he calls her name, her voice