Kissing Tolstoy (Dear Professor Book 1) Read online

  “You know I’m irritated.” I arched my eyebrows in challenge. We’d finished dinner hours ago, and had been sitting on the sofa, facing each other on opposite sides. My feet were tucked under my body as I sipped on my second glass of wine.

  And let me tell you, this was really good wine. Really good.

  His grin spread, as though irritating me had been his heart’s desire. “What can I do to make it up to you?”

  “Admit you’re wrong.” I glowered at him. Or at least I tried to glower at him. It was hard to glower at Luca.

  His look was equal parts teasing and skeptical. “That’s not what you want.”

  “Oh? Really?”

  “Yes. I know you better than you think. Remember, I’ve read all your papers.”

  “And I’ve attended most of your lectures. And seen you in leather pants.”

  He ignored that, continuing as though I hadn’t spoken. “You want me to tell you that your proclivity and bias towards romanticism makes you blind to the—”

  I scoffed loudly, inelegantly, setting my drink on the table behind the sofa and squeezed my eyes shut, “I’m not listening to this. You’re just being contrary to be contrary. If you continue in this manner I shall sing Pirates of Penzance very loudly until you cease and desist.”

  Luca’s deep laughter met my ears before I’d finished my threat. He reached for me, tugging me forward and placing a kiss on my mouth, like he couldn’t help himself, catching my bottom lip with a gentle bite. A thrill raced through me, sparks of happiness tightened my lungs, desire pooling low in my abdomen. But instead of pulling me closer, he set me away.

  I peeked at him, opening only one eye, and found him grinning at me. “You seem to be smiling a lot.” I couldn’t keep the discontent from my tone.

  “You make me smile.” Luca was biting the tip of his thumb again, his happy expression melting away any disappointment I felt about the laconic nature of our kiss.

  Opening my other eye, I squinted at him. “Tell me something.”

  “Ask me anything.”

  “That night, during the first week of the semester, when you stopped by my restaurant. Who were you with? Those people at your table?”

  Some of the mirth and good vibes drained from Luca’s features. “That was my family.”

  “Are you Russian? I mean, are you from Russia?”

  He nodded, though he said, “Yes. And no.”

  “Which is it?”

  “I mean, I am Russian. My mother was born in Switzerland, but she is Russian. My father was born in Ukraine, but he is also Russian. Both sets of my grandparents left Russia in the early days of the USSR. I was born in Switzerland.”

  “Oh.” I sat straighter in my seat, trying to assemble the puzzle pieces while I volunteered, “I was born in Springfield.”

  “Illinois?”

  “No. Springfield, Transylvania.”

  He flashed an amused smile, tilting his head just slightly.

  I was pleased to see his good humor return. “So, Switzerland?”

  “Yes.”

  “And? Did you grow up there?”

  “Not all the time.”

  “You’re being vague, Luca.” I lifted my eyebrows at him and pointed at his face. “Stop being vague.”

  He expelled an audible breath, glancing over my shoulder. “Fine. My grandparents own—or they owned—a diamond mine in Russia, sold it to the government and invested the money in global markets. They’ve done well for themselves, investing the money.”

  “Why don’t you sound happy about that?”

  He didn’t look happy about it either, much of the light had left his eyes.

  Luca shrugged, his gaze moving up and to the left. “I see the world clearly, now that I am older, and I’m disappointed by the country of my grandfathers. Russia used to be great, a nation of philosophers, brilliant thinkers, artists, and scientists. Not anymore. It hasn’t been great for a long time, not since Stalin purged the thinking class. Contrary to popular belief, he didn’t murder the bourgeoisie, he murdered anyone with talent. Do you know what that does to a society? I find it’s difficult to be proud of my heritage, of a culture I now consider mediocre at best, monstrous at worst. Russia is irrevocably crippled, stained by its totalitarianism—to which it still subscribes, like sheep—and rivers flow, the sky weeps with the blood of what once made it great.”

  Despite the stark nature of the topic, I found myself falling under the spell of his poetic prose. Unthinkingly, I said on a sigh, “You should write a book.”

  His eyes cut to mine and bemusement lingered behind them. “Actually, I am.”

  “You are?” I bounced in my seat—just once—excited by the prospect of Luca writing a book.

  “Yes. And it’s horribly depressing. It’s about a professor in Stalin’s Russia—USSR—and everyone dies.”

  I’m a sick, sick individual, because the description made me smile with enthusiasm. “That sounds awesome. Please tell me there is doomed love.”

  He chuckled. “Yes. There is a tragic love story. I doubt anyone will read it. But it’s a story I feel is important in order for the West to understand modern Russia.”

  “Can I read it?” I blurted, before I could think better of the request.

  He didn’t give me even a second to regret the overly familiar and downright invasive entreaty, nodding once and saying, “You may. If you wish.”

  “I do wish. I wish very, very hard.”

  “You might be the only one who does read it.” He regarded me with what I recognized as open affection, causing my heart to do another of those achy, tight, hot flutters. “Literature and philosophy, questions of the soul and the purpose of being, these are dying pastimes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean there’s no money to be made in explaining the motivations of dead artists, in teaching people to think critically, carefully, to know themselves. Departments like medicine and engineering—the essentials, as they’re called—bring most of the cash flow into the university, subsidizing departments like mine. If we can’t write a book, secure grants or endowments—which are very rare—then we’re moved to adjunct positions, with no benefits or security.”

  “Have you? Applied for grants?”

  “Yes. Tons. I’ve received some—smaller ones, but still enough to cover my publishing and writing time—but not nearly enough to justify my existence.”

  I frowned. “Are you, I mean, are they moving you to an adjunct—”

  “No.” He shook his head, an unmistakable bitterness flavoring his words as his gaze moved to his glass of vodka. “My family is quite wealthy and have donated an endowed chair in my name to the university. My position is very secure.”

  Studying him, the undercurrent of frustration behind his words and the line of his mouth, I pressed, “And that bothers you?”

  His eyes cut to mine. “Of course it bothers me. I put myself through school—partially with academic scholarships, yes—but also by working the whole time, paying my own way. I didn’t discover that my job offer was contingent on the endowed chair until months after I’d accepted the position.”

  “Why didn’t you leave? Go elsewhere?”

  “Because the endowment doesn’t just pay my salary. It saved half the tenured positions in the department,” he admitted quietly, looking solemn, and maybe a little sad.

  “Hmm.” I studied Luca, recognizing the fierce disappointment in himself for what is was. He’d clearly wanted to make his own way in the world, separate from his past, but—unbeknownst to him—his family had taken that decision away.

  However. “But hasn’t that always been the way of art?”

  “What do you mean?” Luca regarded me over the rim of his glass, lifting an eyebrow in question.

  “Haven’t industrialists paid the salary of artists for centuries? And before that, rich merchants sponsored them? And before that, the masses did so through taxes and tithes paid to governments and churches? Hasn’t each global
society subsidized art and artists? Been patrons for philosophers, authors, and poets? Isn’t that just the way of the world?”

  Luca frowned thoughtfully, still looking unhappy.

  I gave him a small smile. “I’ll graduate with a degree in electrical engineering this coming spring, and after that I want to get a master’s degree and a professional engineer license. Do you know why?”

  “Because you’re good at the math,” he deadpanned.

  “No.” I laughed, shaking my head at his dour expression. “That’s not why. Though I am good at the math. But other than that, other than enjoying math and science and being pretty darn good at them both, I want to make money. I want to have a job where I can support myself and my reading habit.”

  A wrinkle of curiosity and confusion appeared between his eyebrows. “You may enjoy math and science, but you love literature. I see it, I know you do.”

  “You’re right. I love to read, but I’m not a writer. I love philosophy, but I’m not a philosopher. I love art, but I can’t paint, I can’t draw or sculpt. I love movies and the theater, but I’m a terrible actor. Therefore, I’m a patron,” I finished proudly.

  As I spoke his expression cleared, his eyes growing sober with understanding and—if I was reading him correctly—with respect.

  I continued, “Don’t worry, the world will always need art, and artists, and literature. Just like it will always need industry and medicine. One is not more or less important than the other, at least I don’t think so. Why do we have art? To make life beautiful, to understand each other. And why do we have science? To make life easier.”

  “And you don’t think you’re a philosopher?” Luca’s eyes moved between mine, a quiet kind of appreciation making his features even more handsome.

  That made me grin. “I’m not. But sometimes I pretend to be when I’m debating with my—” I cut myself off, catching the word boyfriend before it left my mouth, and swallowed instead.

  Luca’s gaze flared, and grew intent, watchful. “With your what?” he asked slowly, setting his drink to one side but never taking his eyes from mine.

  “With my lover,” I said with faux-haughtiness.

  His eyes flared again. “Not your boyfriend?”

  “No. You’re not a boy.”

  “False.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Fine,” he leaned forward, his gaze dropping to my lips, “call me lyubov moya.”

  My lashes fluttered at his use of Russian, other parts of me fluttered as well. “Um, what-what does that mean?”

  “And I’ll call you malen'kaya lisa.”

  “Oh my,” I breathed, attempting to swallow. “That better mean badass.”

  “It means little fox.” His voice dropped, his hand sliding from my knee, and up my skirt. “Which I believe is very apt.”

  “Okay,” I agreed, because . . . sexy. Like a fox.

  “Malen'kaya lisa,” he whispered, bending to my neck before whispering, “Lyubov moya.”

  “Yes.” I gripped his shoulders for balance, figuratively and literally.

  I was sitting on the couch, theoretically in no danger of falling off said couch, but I was also dizzy.

  So. Dizzy.

  Things between us were moving quickly and my heart was full speed ahead. I didn’t know if I could put on the brakes, even if I wanted to. But I didn’t want to. What I wanted was more—of him, of this, of us—and I wanted it all now.

  Was he too old for me? Was I too young for him? Would the differences in our ages and circumstances, life experience, and bank accounts ultimately prove too much to overcome?

  Maybe more importantly, was he my kind of nice?

  Perhaps.

  Perhaps not.

  But, ultimately, what did it matter?

  “Anna, spend the night.” His fingers inched higher, dancing lightly over my skin, then retreating. “Spend the night with me. We’ll take things slow, but,” he placed a kiss on my jaw, “stay with me.” Another on my chin. “Wear my shirt, let me watch the morning caress your hair and flawless skin, read the paper with me in bed, let me—”

  “Yes to everything after the word Anna,” I blurted, eliciting a delicious, rumbly chuckle, which ended abruptly as I palmed the front of his pants and stroked.

  Damn, he felt good.

  If Russian literature and tragic novels had taught me one thing it was this: disappointment and heartache might be around the next corner. But adventure, love, joy, and happiness—the living of a rich, meaningful life—was now.

  And let us not forget about the ever present possibility of a nearby, but yet undetected blood illness.

  Yes.

  Better to make out with my hot, brainy ex-professor now, just in case a blood illness is lurking around the corner!

  “I think you are going to be the death of me, Andrei.” I captured one of his hands, moving his fingers under my shirt, encouraging him to palm my breast, and moaning when he did so.

  “No.” His gaze grew impossibly dark, his eyes now a deep indigo, holding mine captive.

  “No?” I cupped his jaw, placing a fervent kiss on the corner of his mouth, wanting his lips on mine.

  “Not death, Natasha.” His words held a dangerous edge, as though the reins of his restraint were near breaking, yet he managed to whisper harshly, “I suspect we will be the life of each other,” just before he claimed me with a soul deep, heart recalibrating kiss.

  And I knew, my course had been irrevocably altered. My future reshaped.

  Nothing in my life would ever be the same.

  Epilogue (in two parts)

  ** Anna **

  What is my life?

  I awoke, acutely aware of the man curled behind me, his arms wrapped around my waist after another night of sleeping together.

  To be precise, we were on night number four of sleeping together. And on each of these four nights we’d cuddled—fully clothed—but mostly slept.

  That’s not so say we’d been ‘together’ for just four days. No. We were now just entering our second month of being ‘together,’ and yet had spent just four nights—including our first night—sharing a bed. Where we’d slept.

  Just slept.

  Like that first night.

  When Luca Kroft said he planned to take things slow, I discovered what he really meant was putting a big old pin in hanky-panky and making up for all the conversations we’d missed while he was pretending I didn’t exist.

  Luca and I now saw each other all the time, and that was glorious. We ate at least two meals together each day. We discussed the logical fallacies of nihilism and debated its pragmatic uselessness; we both agreed: pragmatically speaking, nihilism was useless.

  We talked about everything, impassioned conversations covering a wide range of topics, from the changing nature and utility of beauty to the evolution of prime time television (from must see to Netflix binge-watching).

  We’d even discussed the fact that I was on birth control, and that we were both clean, and how careful we’d both been in the past with sexual partners.

  And yet, every night, after a handful of heated kisses, he’d set me away, leave me hot and bothered. And aching.

  So much aching.

  It was the kind of ache that would make Dostoyevsky proud.

  But rarely, like last night, when we’d talk and lose track of time, and the hour grew ridiculously late, Luca would be too tired to drive home. He would stay over.

  And sleep.

  Just. Sleep.

  Oh, Andrei. You rascal, you. Giving Natasha a taste of the forbidden apple and then withholding all your tasty, tasty fruit.

  To put it another way, Luca was a fruit hoarder.

  I’d considered bringing up his habit of kissing me senseless then abandoning me to my wretched unrequited passion. I’d thought about it a lot. But ultimately, I didn’t.

  Because the truth was, I enjoyed his fruit hoarding. I loved the anticipation, each kiss an inferno, every time we said goodb
ye I burned and pined until we met again.

  I loved it.

  Maybe I’m a masochist? Hmm . . . could be.

  But do I care? Hmm . . . no I don’t.

  So instead of focusing on what we hadn’t yet shared, I focused on enjoying his company and squeezing every ounce of awesome out of our moments together, memorizing the way he laughed at my jokes. Or how he’d bite his thumb and gaze at me like I was wonderful when I was in the middle of a particularly heartfelt speech. Or his habit of holding my hand and kissing my knuckles, each one in turn, while his stare held mine transfixed. Or how he’d sigh—sometimes dejected, sometimes frustrated, rarely with amusement—when reading and grading the papers of my classmates. Or how he brought me a single lily each time he picked me up after my evening shift at the museum restaurant. Or how he left me sweet notes on my kitchen counter, notes I wouldn’t discover until after he’d already left.

  Or how he appeared to be just as frustrated and greedy for more sexy times as I was, but held himself in check with impressive restraint. I loved watching his control thin and shred, how each time he pulled away at the end of the night he’d grow quiet and surly, and pace, and leave like quiet thunderstorm had taken up permanent residence within him.

  In this regard, he was so deliciously unusual.

  As Luca and I lived in a modern world very little (logistically) kept us from sealing the deal, what with the advent of birth control and safe sex practices. Yet, for whatever reason, we didn’t.

  He wanted to wait. He’d never said as much out loud, but his actions made his intentions obvious.

  And it was a beautiful, torturous thing.

  He was so great, and being with him was easy and so great, and I absolutely loved every second of the time we shared. So why would I complicate—i.e. ruin—things by complaining about the turtle pace of our physical intimacy?

  I wouldn’t and I didn’t.

  I ached, and it hurt so good, and this was my life, and I loved it so much.

  So I squeezed his arm where it wrapped around me. I closed my eyes. I took a deep breath, enjoying the twistings and achings and flutterings. I wanted to remember these sensations for the rest of my life, however long they might last.