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A few days after having coffee with their friends, Ivan and Anna spent the afternoon walking through Sleepy Hollow, taking in the stores and the total Halloween vibe the village seemed to have all year round. They stopped at the two bookstores in town and picked up a few things just for fun before heading back to the house and having a quiet dinner. Anna curled up in the leather armchair in the master bedroom after dinner with a cup of tea and the new journal she purchased. A book by a local author sat to her right on the arm of the chair, but she planned to save that for when they got back to the city. She gazed up at Ivan as he wandered the room for a moment, speaking in Russian to his parents, who had called to see how he was doing. He sank to the Persian rug beneath his feet, patting it and inviting her to join him. She set aside her journal and moved her cup of tea to the small table below the window before settling before him.
The room had become their sanctuary, the floor littered with books open and closed, each one a doorway to a world where passion, love, and desire reigned supreme. She felt like he had hauled half of the bookcase upstairs, and the smell of leather-bound books permeated the air, mingling with the cool breeze that blew into the room. They had spent countless hours here, reading, discussing, and exploring the depths of Russian literature. But tonight, something was different. There was electricity in the air, a tension that had been slowly building with every page turned, every line read aloud. It was as if the words themselves had come alive, wrapping around them, pulling them closer together.
Ivan hung up the phone and tucked it in the pocket of his jeans. “No, where were we?” He sat down across from Anna, a copy of Dark Avenues by Ivan Bunin in his hands, his fingers brushing the worn cover with reverence. He opened it to a passage that had struck him deeply, one he knew would resonate with Anna as well. “Listen to this,” he said, his voice a low, resonant murmur, heavy with the weight of the words he was about to share. “This is from “Galya Ganskaya.” It starts with the the artist kissing Glaya in “the warm pink body of the beginning of the thigh, then again in the half-open mouth”.”
“Well, that’s one way of describing a woman’s pussy,” Anna chuckled. She bit her lower lip, intrigued with the way Ivan would read these passages to her.
He continues, his voice soft and intimate, as though sharing a secret meant only for them.
“In one minute, I threw off her silk white blouse, and, you know, my eyes just darkened at the sight of her pinkish body with a tan on her shiny shoulders and the milkiness of her corset-lifted breasts with scarlet protruding nipples. When I brutally threw her on the cushions of the sofa, her eyes turned black and widened even more; her lips parted feverishly - as I see all this now, she was unusually passionate…”
Anna closed her eyes, letting the words seep into her, feeling the way they intertwined with her own thoughts and desires. There was a raw, unfiltered passion in Bunin’s writing, a kind of emotional nakedness that mirrored what she and Ivan were slowly uncovering in each other. She listened as he read more, mesmerized by the sultriness in his voice. Yes, some of the literature was rough and dark and long, but everything Ivan had shared with her, everything that they explored so far, was romantic and, in the case of Bunin, erotic. “It’s like he’s describing us,” Anna whispered, her voice trembling with the realization. “This... connection we have, it’s more than just words on a page. It’s something... primal.”
Ivan’s gaze never left her as he placed the book aside, leaning closer, his presence almost overwhelming in its intensity. “Yes,” he agreed. “Bunin knew how to capture the essence of passion, of that moment when two people truly see each other when everything else fades away.”
Anna opened her eyes, meeting his, and in that instant, the world outside the study ceased to exist. They were no longer just reading the stories—they were living them, breathing them in, allowing them to shape their own narrative. “Ivan,” Anna murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “Do you ever feel like we’re not just exploring these books, but... each other? As every word we read brings us closer, makes us more... vulnerable?”
Ivan reached out, his hand gently caressing her cheek. “I think that’s exactly what’s happening,” he replied, his touch sending a shiver down her spine. “We’re stripping away the layers, just like Bunin’s characters. We’re letting the words guide us, letting them awaken parts of ourselves we might have kept hidden.” He kissed her slowly, his tongue tasing the tea on hers, the sweetness of the honey she used. “I think we are finding something between us that transcends the stories we’re exploring. That transcends our friendship even.” Anna’s breath hitched as Ivan’s fingers traced a path from her cheek down to her collarbone, his touch light and teasing but full of intent. She could feel the heat rising between them, the boundary between their literary explorations and their desires dissolving completely. “Like this,” Ivan murmured, leaning in until his lips were just a breath away from hers. “This is where the stories come alive and become our story.”
Anna closed the distance between them, her lips meeting his in a kiss that was both tender and fierce, filled with all the passion that had been simmering beneath the surface. It was as though Bunin’s words had unlocked something within them, something they could no longer keep at bay. Their kiss deepened, becoming more urgent as their hands roamed freely, exploring each other with a familiarity born of both physical and emotional intimacy. The room seemed to shrink around them, the outside world fading into insignificance as they became lost in each other.
He pushed her down to the floor, his hands finding her warm skin beneath her shirt. He cupped her breasts before pulling back slightly, his breath warm against her lips. “This,” he said, his voice thick with emotion, “this is what Bunin was writing about. That raw, unfiltered connection, where nothing else matters.”
Anna’s eyes fluttered open, meeting his gaze. His eyes were filled with a mixture of desire and something deeper—something that went beyond the physical. “I feel it too,” she whispered, her voice trembling with the intensity of her feelings. “It’s like we’re creating our own Dark Avenue, where every touch, every word, is a step deeper into... us.”
Ivan smiled a slow, sensual smile that made her heart skip a beat. “Then let’s keep walking down this path,” he whispered, his lips brushing against hers as he spoke. “Let’s see where it leads us.”
And with that, they let go of all hesitation, all fear, and gave themselves fully to the moment. Even their lovemaking after reading Nabokov wasn’t as intense, as raw, as the connection they were feeling now. Their connection had become something more—a living, breathing thing that pulsed with every heartbeat, every touch, every whispered word.
Chapter Seven
They didn’t leave the house for two days as a summer storm raged through the Hudson Valley. The electricity was out, and Ivan had managed to find every candle he could to keep the downstairs lit. They had enjoyed a light supper of buckwheat blinis with goat cheese and herring, Okroshka – a Russian cold soup – and Walnut Rugelach Ivan had made from his grandmother’s recipe the day before. Anna sat curled up on the couch while Ivan wandered the bookshelves, looking for a very particular volume. He was humming himself, and Anna smiled as she watched him. This was a side of her best friend that she had come to love more than she realized she would. The side that wanted to do nothing more than take care of her and show her his culture, his homeland, beyond the politics. Her anticipation was building as she waited for him to choose the work that would guide their journey tonight.
At last, Ivan pulled a book from the shelf, a small smile playing on his lips as he turned to face Anna. “I think this will do,” he said, his voice a deep, resonant purr that sent a shiver down her spine. He held up the book for her to see—Doctor Zhivago by Boris Pasternak.
Anna’s eyes lit up with recognition, her pulse quickening at the sight of the book. “Zhivago,” she whispered, her voice filled with reverence. “Such a beautiful yet sad story.”
“Exactly,” Ivan replied, his eyes darkening with intent. “One filled with passion and desire and the fact that a choice needed to be made. We’ll use his words as our guide, letting them lead us to the choices we make tonight.”
He approached her slowly, his presence commanding and magnetic, as though he were a character stepping out from the pages of the very book he held. Anna felt her breath catch in her throat as he knelt before her, his gaze never leaving hers. He opened the book to a marked page, the sound of the turning pages filling the silence between them. He asked her to wear something provocative, and she pulled out the slinky negligee Amy had convinced her to purchase. Ivan began to read aloud, his voice rich and velvety, drawing her into the world of Tolstoy’s characters.
“…This frail, thin girl is charged, like electricity, to the limit, with all conceivable femininity in the world. If you come close to her or touch her with one finger, a spark will illuminate the room and will either kill you on the spot or electrify you for life with her magnetically inductive, whining proclivity and sadness.”
The words were heavy with meaning, their intensity palpable. Anna’s heart raced as she listened to the description of Lara’s beauty. Every woman would hope to be described like that. She could feel the power of the literature coursing through her, heightening her senses, making her acutely aware of every breath, every movement, every look they shared.
As Ivan continued to read, he reached out, his hand gently caressing her leg, the touch as light as a whisper. The simple act of contact sent a wave of heat through her, the anticipation growing with every passing second. Ivan’s voice was hypnotic, each word weaving a spell around them, binding them together in a shared experience that transcended the physical. He appreciated the negligee she was wearing, the satin outlining her breasts, the small panties peaking from the hem, his fingertips so close to her heat.
“She could never have imagined that he danced so well. What clever hands he has, how confidently he held her by the waist! But she won’t let anyone else kiss her like that. She could have never imagined that so much shamelessness could be concentrated in other people’s lips when they were pressed against your own for so long.”
“The power of words,” Ivan murmured as he closed the book, his hand still resting on her leg, “is that they can create worlds—worlds that we can step into, that we can make our own. Tonight, let’s step into this one together.”
Anna felt a thrill of excitement at his words, her body responding to the promise they held. She reached out, placing her hand over his, guiding it higher up her thigh. “Take me there,” she whispered, her voice trembling with desire. “Show me how deep this world goes.”
Ivan’s smile was slow and seductive as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against her ear. “I’ll take you wherever you want to go,” he promised, his voice a low growl that sent a shiver through her. “Tonight, we’ll create our own story—one that’s written not with ink and paper but with touch and sensation.”
He stood, pulling her up with him, his hand sliding around her waist to draw her against him. Anna could feel the hard lines of his body through his clothes, the heat of him seeping into her, igniting a fire that had been smoldering since they first began their literary explorations together. With a swift, decisive movement, Ivan lifted her and carried her to the low bar counter. The marble was cool against her skin as he leaned over her, his eyes burning with intensity. He was no longer just Ivan—he had become a character in their own story, the charismatic guide who would lead her through the twists and turns of their desires.
Anna felt herself surrendering entirely to the moment, to the story they were creating together. She reached up, threading her fingers through his hair, pulling him down for a kiss that was both fierce and tender, filled with the passion that had been building between them for so long.
