“The pants. Then the shower.”
He doesn’t complain about me ordering him around, just kisses me lightly on the lips and, leaving the ruined suit on the floor, heads toward the bathroom. I take his shirt and pants to the trash can, then go after him.
In the bathroom, I remove my clothes and get into the shower where Mikhail is already washing his hair. I take the soap from the shelf, lather my hands, and lift them to his face. He looks down at me for a second, then bends his head. There is a big black stain on his right cheek, so I start there. It comes off rather easily, and I move on to his forehead and then his neck. There is no soot on his chest, but I move my hands there anyway, stroking his skin in a round motion.
Mikhail takes a step forward and places his hands on the tiles on either side of my head, caging me between his body and the shower wall. I slide my hand lower and grip his hard cock, enjoying the way his breathing quickens.
“Not yet,” he says in my ear and, taking me by my hips, turns me around so I am facing the wall.
His hands move slowly down my stomach until they stop between my legs, and I feel his finger teasing at my entrance.
“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever set my eyes on,” he whispers and thrusts one finger inside me, then adds another, and I gasp silently. “And you, my little sunray, are as beautiful on the inside, as you are on the outside.”
When he curls his fingers inside of me, pressing the sensitive spot near my clit, a shudder rocks my whole body so hard that I have to press my forehead and palms against the wall to keep myself standing.
“Mine,” he says against my neck, winds his free arm around my midsection, and lifts me without removing his fingers from inside my pussy.
I am panting, not able to inhale enough air, as Mikhail carries me into his bedroom with my back pressed to his chest and my head thrown back onto his shoulder. It amazes me how he easily manages to carry my whole weight with only one arm, while his other hand is still buried inside of me, teasing me.
The moment he sets me down and removes his fingers, I turn and push him down onto the bed, then crawl over his huge body and sit down on his cock. It feels like home, and I come the second he fills me up, wishing so much that I could scream his name at that moment.
I keep riding him, marveling at the feel of his hands on my waist and his cock straining against my still tingling walls. Mikhail groans and starts pounding into me from below, while I clutch at his shoulders so hard that he will probably end up with nail marks. When I feel myself coming again, I arch my back and let out a barely audible scream. The next moment, Mikhail explodes inside me.
He is still panting when I lean forward. I gently touch my nose to his and bury my hands in his hair, looking into his mismatched eyes. In my chest, my heart leaps with joy every time he’s near, making me feel complete instead of a flawed, lost person I always believed myself to be. I remember Marcus calling me an ice princess once because I didn’t want to cuddle or hold hands in public. He made it sound like a joke, but I know he meant it.
It’s different with Mikhail. There is this inexplicable urge to touch him that consumes me whenever he’s around, as if my body is somehow drawn to him like a magnet. It scares me a little. Dancing was the only thing that kept me sane, so when the injury ended my career, I thought my life was over. I wanted it back, so much, and I never thought I’d want anything more. Until now.
Mikhail pulls himself up on his elbows and tilts his head to the side, watching me. “What is it, dusha moya?”
I bend to place my lips on his forehead, then his left eye, but when I move to his right one, he turns his head to the side, avoiding my lips.
He’s really sensitive about his eye, but no, I won’t let him do that.
“Mikhail . . .” I rasp, but he just shakes his head.
“Please, don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because my eye is hideous. I don’t want your lips anywhere near it.”
I grind my teeth and take his face in my hands. “It’s not,” I whisper.
Mikhail just looks at me and smiles a little. It hits me right in the chest—his impossibly sad smile.
“Okay,” he says and places a finger over my lips. “Please, stop hurting yourself because of me. You promised you won’t do that anymore.” Another sad smile. “Come here, it’s late. Let’s sleep.”
He’s in love with me. I know it without him telling me so. It’s visible in his every single act. Why won’t he let me love him back, then? My dark, dangerous husband—so strong, so unbreakable, and so heartbreakingly alone, even with me next to him. I don’t know why he won’t let me in or why he is still hiding from me. Even after I’ve seen him naked numerous times, he still wears long-sleeved shirts when I’m around during the day. Doesn’t he understand that no one will ever compare to him in my eyes? How can I make him get that through his thick head?