Chapter 21: Saturday With Nancy
The shower steam was still clinging to the bathroom mirror when Jess’s phone buzzed on the counter. Alexey watched from the doorway, a towel around his waist, as she scooped it up, her damp hair plastered to her neck.
“Nance!” she answered, grinning. “What’s up, you menace?”
He could hear the tinny, enthusiastic chatter on the other end. Jess leaned against the sink, her eyes flicking to him, a smile playing on her lips. “Yeah, he’s right here. We’re being disgusting and domestic. I know, it’s shocking.” A pause. “Today? Kind of planned on wearing him out in other ways, but okay.” She winked at him. “Yeah, yeah. The usual spot? An hour.”
She hung up. “That was Nancy. She’s performing her sacred duty as mutual friend and wants a status report. Also, she misses my face. And, apparently, yours.”
Alexey felt a minor, familiar spike of social anxiety. Nancy was great, but the idea of sitting in a cafe, making normal conversation, felt like trying to speak a forgotten language after the weekend they’d had. His body was a map of her possession—the faint ache when he sat, the tender skin on his shoulder, the deeper, lingering fullness that seemed to have reshaped something inside him. How did you make small talk with that sitting between you?
“You okay?” Jess asked, reading the hesitation on his face. She stepped close, the damp heat of her body cutting through the steam. Her fingers traced the edge of the towel at his hip.
“Yes,” he said, and found he meant it. “It is just… a change of gears.”
“Think of it as a victory lap,” she said, and kissed him, slow and deep. “Now get dressed. I call shotgun on picking your outfit.”
The cafe was a bubble of warm light in the overcast afternoon. The air smelled of roasted beans and cinnamon. Nancy was already at a corner table, a half-finished latte and a weathered paperback in front of her. She saw them and her face lit up, a wide, unrestrained smile.
“There they are!” she called, not too loud, but enough to turn a few heads.
Jess steered Alexey through the maze of tables, her hand a firm presence on the small of his back. He felt exposed, but in a way that was strangely exhilarating. He was walking proof of her. Nancy stood up and enveloped Jess in a tight hug, then turned to him, her arms open.
“Alexey! Get in here.” He submitted to the hug, which was surprisingly strong for a librarian. “You look good,” she said, pulling back, her eyes shrewd and happy. “Rested.”
“He should be,” Jess said, sliding into the booth. “I’ve been working him hard.”
Nancy snorted, sitting back down. “I bet. So. Spill. But first, coffee.” She flagged down a server.
The normalcy of ordering—Jess getting a double espresso, Alexey a cappuccino—was a gentle anchor. Nancy launched into a story about a patron who’d tried to check out a DVD using a Blockbuster card from 2003, and the tension in Alexey’s shoulders began to dissolve. Jess laughed, a bright, clear sound that turned a few more heads, and her knee pressed against his under the table.
“Okay, enough stalling,” Nancy finally said, leaning forward, her elbows on the table. “You two. How’s it going? And don’t give me the polite version. Jess already gives me the NC-17 version via text, but I want the director’s commentary.”
Alexey felt a blush creep up his neck. Jess just smirked, stirring her tiny cup.
“It’s good,” Jess said, simple and direct. Her foot hooked around his ankle. “He’s a quick study.”
“I can imagine,” Nancy said, her gaze flicking to Alexey. “And you? Is she as terrifying as she seems?”
He took a breath, considering. The words felt important. “She is… precise,” he said finally. “It is not terrifying. It is… clarifying.”
Nancy’s playful expression softened into something more genuine. “Huh. Clarifying. I like that.” She raised her latte in a mock toast. “To clarity, then.”
They clinked cups. The conversation meandered. Nancy asked about the terrible movie they’d seen. Jess recounted the physics-defying car chase with dramatic flair, making Alexey interject with his own dry corrections. They bickered amiably about Tarantino’s best soundtrack. It was easy. Normal.
Except for the undercurrents.
When Jess got up to use the restroom, she paused by his side. Her hand, casual and sure, cupped the back of his neck. Her thumb stroked the tense cord of muscle there once, a silent command to relax, before she bent and kissed his cheek, her lips lingering for a half-second too long to be purely platonic. He caught the faint, clean scent of her soap.
He watched her walk away, the confident sway of her hips in her jeans. When he turned back, Nancy was watching him with a knowing, delighted smile.
“You’re so gone,” she said, not unkindly.
He didn’t deny it. He took a sip of his cappuccino, the foam clinging to his lip. “It is obvious?”
“Only to everyone with eyes. The way you look at her. The way she just… handles you. It’s good.” Nancy’s voice dropped a little. “She seems really happy, Alexey. Like, settled-happy. Not bored-happy. There’s a difference.”
He nodded, a lump forming in his throat. He’d been so focused on the sheer physical reality of Jess, on surviving and thriving under her attention, that he hadn’t let himself consider her perspective in any real depth. The idea that he could be the cause of that ‘settled-happy’ feeling was dizzying.
Jess returned, sliding in beside him. Not across from him. Beside him. Her thigh pressed its full length against his. She picked up his cappuccino and took a sip without asking, leaving a faint smudge of her lipstick on the rim.
“So, Nance,” Jess said. “We haven’t properly thanked you for your meddling.”
“It’s my specialty,” Nancy said, beaming.
“No, seriously.” Jess’s tone lost its edge of玩笑. She reached over and took Nancy’s hand, giving it a squeeze. “Good call. The best call.”
The simplicity of the gratitude hung in the air for a moment, sincere and warm. Nancy’s eyes got a little shiny. “Okay, don’t get mushy on me, Tanaka. You’ll make me cry into my scone.”
The afternoon bled away. They ordered a second round. At one point, Alexey’s hand rested on the seat between them. Jess, mid-sentence about a client’s logo redesign, laced her fingers through his, her thumb tracing circles on his palm. The contact was effortless, automatic. A public claim he realized he desperately loved.
When the bill came, they fought over it briefly before Jess won, swatting Alexey’s hand away from his wallet. “My treat. For the matchmaking services.”
Outside, the grey sky had spit a little rain, slicking the sidewalks. They stood under the cafe awning, saying their goodbyes. Nancy hugged Jess, then turned to Alexey.
“You take care of her,” she said, but her eyes were saying the opposite. Let her take care of you.
“I will try,” he said.
Nancy grinned. “That’s all anyone can do.” With a final wave, she turned and walked towards the bus stop, her steps light.
The moment she was out of sight, Jess’s demeanor shifted. The public ease tightened back into that focused intensity. She turned him to face her, right there on the damp street. Her hands came up, framing his face. Her eyes searched his.
“You did good in there,” she said, her voice low.
“I did not do anything,” he said.
“Exactly. You were just you. Which is all I want.” She kissed him, not a chaste peck, but a deep, claiming kiss that tasted of espresso and possession. When she pulled back, her gaze dropped to his mouth. “Now, get in the car. I have ideas.”
The yellow Mini Cooper awaited. As he slid into the passenger seat, the familiar scent of her, of them, enveloped him. The ache returned, not as a memory, but as a live wire. The cafe, the laughter, Nancy’s approval—it was all a pleasant, hazy backdrop to the central, pulsing truth of Jess and what she demanded of him. The gears had changed again, seamlessly. The quiet sanctuary of his apartment, the crisp white sheets, the samovar on the shelf—they were calling. And he was ready to go home.
And he was ready to go home. The word ‘home’ had become a fluid thing, no longer just his sterile apartment with the samovar. It was wherever she decided it was.
“Not yours,” Jess said, as if plucking the thought from his head. She started the engine, the Mini giving a responsive purr. “Mine tonight. I want you in my space. I want to see you surrounded by my weird art and my disastrous closet.”
He liked the sound of that. “Okay. Your rules.”
“Always,” she said, but she was smiling. She pulled into the late afternoon traffic, the wipers swiping at the intermittent drizzle.
The city slid past, a blur of grey steel and glowing windows. The warmth of the cafe, the comfort of Nancy’s approval, began to recede, replaced by the more immediate, humming energy contained within the car. He watched her drive. Her focus was absolute, one hand draped over the gear shift, the other steering with relaxed competence. He studied the line of her jaw, the way her bottom lip caught between her teeth when she checked her blind spot.
A quiet, daring impulse unfolded in his chest. It wasn’t a thought so much as a physical need, an answer to the unspoken command he felt radiating from her. The seatbelt clicked open, a sharp sound in the quiet cabin.
Jess glanced over, a question in her eyes. He didn’t speak. He just slid down in the passenger seat, his body angling towards her. The console was a hard press against his rib, but he ignored it. His fingers found the button of her jeans.
“Whoa, Alexey,” she breathed, her gaze flicking between him and the road. Her surprise was a tangible, delicious thing. It wasn’t refusal. It was pure, unadulterated shock.
He got the button open, the zipper a harsh rasp in the confined space. He didn’t hesitate. He pushed the fabric aside, finding her already half-hard, warm and silken against his cheek. The clean, familiar scent of her skin, mixed with the subtle fragrance of her detergent, filled his senses. He took her into his mouth.
A sharp, gratifying gasp escaped her. Her hand left the gear shift and immediately wove into his hair, not yanking, just claiming. “Fuck. Okay. Hi there.”
Her other hand stayed on the wheel, knuckles white for a second before relaxing. She adjusted her grip, her thumb stroking his temple. He worked her slowly, using his tongue in the ways she’d taught him, savoring the weight and taste of her. He heard the indicator click, felt the car glide into the slower right lane. She wasn’t driving with her usual aggressive efficiency anymore.
She drove like she was savoring it. The speedometer hovered well below the limit. She navigated the rainy streets with a luxurious calm, every stop light a gift, every green light an invitation to continue. Her hand on his head began to guide him, a gentle but insistent pressure encouraging him to take more.
“Deeper,” she murmured, her voice thick. The streetlights began to flicker on, casting long, moving shadows across her concentrated face. “Yeah, just like that. God, your mouth.”
He obeyed, relaxing his throat, letting her push him down until his nose was buried in the soft, shaven skin at her base. He breathed her in, the sensation of being used like this in the moving vehicle, in public yet utterly hidden, sending a reckless thrill through him. His own arousal was a distant echo, secondary to the profound satisfaction of feeling her swell and pulse against his tongue.
Her breathing grew ragged, a counterpoint to the swish of the wipers. Her thighs tensed under his cheek. The guiding hand in his hair became less gentle, more directive, setting a slow, penetrating rhythm that matched the lazy pace of the car. “Right there, baby. Don’t stop. I’m so close.”
He could feel it building, the tightening of her muscles, the faint tremor in her grip. She let out a long, low groan that was almost a sob, her foot easing off the accelerator as the car coasted through another intersection. The world outside was a watercolor smear of light and rain.
Her climax hit silently at first, a profound stiffening, then a hot, sudden release that flooded his mouth. She pulsed again, and again, a soft, continuous cry falling from her lips as she rocked gently up into his face, milking the sensation for every last drop. He swallowed diligently, taking all she gave him.
Finally, she stilled, her body going pliant. Her hand slipped from his hair to cup his jaw. He slowly drew back, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. Then, in the dim, dashboard-lit space, he turned to her and opened his mouth, showing her.
She glanced over. A slow, wondrous smile spread across her face. He closed his mouth, swallowed visibly, and opened it again for her inspection, clean and empty.
A giggle burst out of her, happy and unguarded. She shook her head, her eyes back on the road, gleaming with affection and wicked pride. “You are full of surprises, Korkov.” She reached over and squeezed his thigh, her touch firm and possessive. “Now sit up. We’re almost home.”
He did, fastening his seatbelt with a soft click. The rest of the drive passed in a contented silence, broken only by the patter of rain and the quiet hum of the heater. The earlier clarity Nancy had observed in him solidified into something even more certain. This was the contract. This was the language. And he was fluent.