12. Hayley
12
HAYLEY
I’ve dissolved. I can only conclude that I am soluble, because Maxim’s saliva has destroyed me.
As he stands up, he catches me in his arms where otherwise I swear I’d fall over, and murmurs that I’m such a good girl as he puts us both under the spray of the shower, washing off where he licked me. I’m helpless to do anything but accept his care, but can barely focus on his hand between my legs as he cleans me.
Where I’ve become a puddle, he’s hard. He magnificent and not at all soft. His whole body is the hot steel of unyielding muscle beneath velvet fur, with just enough rough hairs over his skin to make it clear he’s all man. And that pierced cock? It presses against my lower back as he holds me, the bars on the underside making my tummy do flips.
Shutting off the water, he grabs a fresh fluffy white towel—leaving the one from earlier discarded on the floor—and drapes it around my shoulders.
He uses the ends of the towel to pull me in for a kiss, still naked, and dripping with water. It’s a light kiss this time, just a press of his lips to mine, small compared to the filthy way he kissed me earlier. Like he wanted to devour me.
The corner of his mouth quirks up as he draws back, and I lean forward. Two orgasms and my body is still buzzing, but I crave more.
If I’d known nearly being killed by my sister’s boyfriend would mean my boss would get naked with me, I’d have seriously considered stealing from Ivan.
I don’t mean to, but I let out a pathetic whimper as he steps away.
“Hayley,” he says my name with a strangled laugh and tugs me close again, using the towel.
Perhaps I was getting a bit too used to Maxim on his knees for me. He murmurs something in Russian, and kisses my forehead.
It’s even sweeter, just, almost caring and paternal like a… daddy. Not that I’d know what that felt like.
And obviously excluding the fact he’s naked, tattooed, has an erection, and is old enough to be my actual father.
Tucking the towel around me, Maxim gives me a sweeping look head to toe, and turns away, grabbing up another towel and carelessly drying himself off as he pads into his bedroom.
I gulp as I get a full view of his back. There are two circular tattoos of a clock face with the shadow of a skull in it, and a detailed maritime compass. Covering his shoulders, arms and hips there are dozens of smaller tattoos and his thighs… Oh my gosh, they’re…
Powerful. Scarred. And the scars are a feature, with a long, curved white line as the skeletal backbone of a fish. Scattered stars that have circular scars at the centre. At his ankle there’s an anchor, another scar making up the rope, trailing up the back of his calf.
Arousal uncurls low in my belly. This man has lived. He’s a work of art, and I can tell that some of the tattoos are fresh—the colours bright, the black deep—and others are old and have a stretched quality, as though he got them before he stopped growing, or putting on muscle.
I just stare, taking him in as he slides open a discreet wardrobe, then pulls on black boxers.
“I…” My mouth is dry, and I grip my towel, suddenly shy. “I came into your room to ask about clothes.”
I didn’t come to perv on, then exchange orgasms with my boss, though that was the result. And I’m only here because my sister is in danger, I mustn’t forget that again, either.
“Ah.” He looks up. “Yes.” He moves to a row of pristine white shirts, and pauses before snagging two down, and offering me one. “Sorry, I don’t have anything else.”
He doesn’t sound sorry at all. Our fingers brush as I take it from him, and electricity zings between us.
I’m so conflicted. I’d like to watch him dress, but I’m embarrassed about him watching me. I needn’t worry though, because Maxim quirks an eyebrow at me, then puts his shirt aside and takes mine back.
He’s silent as he holds my gaze and reaches for the towel, giving it a tug. I squeak as I let it fall.
“Arms up,” he commands softly.
My body remembers the last time he told me what to do, and heats all over again. I raise my arms, and he slides the shirt over my head.
The moment of the fabric blinding me is so vulnerable somehow, and I tingle with it. Maxim is looking after me, just as he said he would.
It falls to my mid thigh, as big as a tent, and I feel tiny by comparison.
He moves me like a doll as he puts my arms through the ridiculously long sleeves, smiling to himself, then rolls up first one then the other sleeve until my hands are peeking out.
With a nod of satisfaction, he steps back and begins to dress himself. The shirt he gave me is soft and matte, probably cotton, but his has a subtle satin shine along two panels. He pulls on a pair of trousers, tragically covering those amazing legs, and it’s only when he reaches for a tie—a bow tie—that I understand.
“Are you going out?” I ask stupidly.
He chuckles. “No. We’re having dinner.”
I gape at him, and glance down at my own outfit. Or lack thereof. “You don’t have to go to this trouble. Don’t put on a tie when I’m…”
I gesture at the fact I’m half naked. I’m not even wearing knickers.
“I’m having dinner with the most beautiful woman I know.” He smiles, and it’s so hot it’s a good thing there aren’t more clothes to increase my temperature further, because I’d spontaneously combust.
That table, set with a rose, and a candle, and fancy plates. That’s for me ? I tug at the hem of his shirt I’m wearing, and gulp, but excitement is fizzing through me.
“I put my best suit on, malishka, for that,” he says matter-of-factly, as he shrugs on a formal black tux jacket. “Except my best shirt. That looks better on you.”
“Okay, but no more.” I reach out a hand to stop him as he stoops to pick up socks and shoes. “Otherwise, I’ll feel underdressed.”
It’s not a particularly funny joke, but he laughs like it is, and shakes his head as he removes the tie. “Da. True. I should match you.”
He’s absurdly handsome barefoot, in an open shirt that reveals the tattoos that cover his neck up to his prominent Adam’s apple and the start of his short beard.
“Would you have dinner with me?” With a twinkle in his eye, he offers me his arm like we’re going to a fancy event.
A giggle bubbles up in me, despite everything, and I take his arm, sliding my hand over his strong forearm, and squeeze as subtly as I can. He’s solid muscle.
My heart skips when he leads me to the table, pulls out a chair for me, and then lightly strokes my shoulder as he says he’s going to check on the food.
The caress ripples through me. It’s like now we’ve broken the wall between us down, he can’t stop touching me.
“I don’t need much,” I say as I watch him in the kitchen, moving with smooth efficiency but his expression a dark frown, as though the food not being perfect is the issue after an evening when my sister went missing and five men tried to kill me. “Really, don’t go to any?—”
“Dinner will be the best I can provide,” he replies seriously.
“But—”
“I own restaurants and cafés because I cannot cook, but I have an excellent chef who knows how to make things fool-proof.”
I grin, but I can’t help but gasp when he brings plates of what looks like plump, deep-fried pastries, potatoes with herbs, stuffed red bell peppers, a salad made bright with beetroot, and bowls of heavenly scented broth.
“This smells so good, is it Russian?” I admire the golden parcels as he places one onto my plate then cuts it for me.
“Piroshki. My favourite quick evening snack when I come back late.”
I’ve never heard of it, but when Maxim takes the seat opposite me, I pick it up and take a bite. Fluffy batter-like bread gives way to smooth cheese and acidic bacon, with fragrant herbs and onion.
I let out a mewl of pure delight. “That is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”
Maxim smiles, his grey eyes soft, and there’s no trace of the dangerous man who shot five men to save me.
“How is this not all burnt?” I blush a bit as I ask, because I was the reason he was delayed in the shower.
“Thankfully, this is not the first time an… Incident has prevented me eating when I expected,” he says with a twist of wry humour. “So I always ensure the oven turns off of its own accord.”
This happens often? Jealousy spikes me. “I guess sex is distracting.”
I wouldn’t know, but saying that makes me feel a bit better. More casual. Less naive.
“No.” Maxim scowls. “Not that. I’ve never brought a woman here before.”
“Then…?” The enquiry falls from my mouth.
“Usually it’s business—killing someone—that interrupts my evening,” he says stiffly. “That’s what I meant.”
There’s an awkward pause.
He’s a mafia boss. I keep forgetting. I know so many things about this man, but I didn’t realise he was Bratva. I had no idea it would melt me when he kissed my ear. I was clueless that he wouldn’t hesitate to kill to protect me.
“Please, eat.”
I flush when that word echoes what he said in the shower about eating me . I wasn’t aware that he’d do that with such enthusiasm, either.
I’ve fancied myself in love with Maxim since the beginning, and repeated in my mind that it was absurd. But I find as I eat at his table and he tells me about each dish, that I’m falling further into this feeling I shouldn’t call love. The broth turns out to be borscht, which is tomato, beef, and vegetables, and is really delicious, but what I adore is the slices of his life that he describes when he first had a dish, or why he likes it.
“I’m an orphan too,” I tell him, impulsively, when he reveals that the herb and garlic roast potatoes remind him of those he had as a child in a Russian orphanage.
Then it’s as easy as all the times at the end of work as we talk about our families. My heart sticks in my throat because for all that I’m worried about my sister and this has been insane, now we’re clean again, and at a table, he’s the same big gentle bear of a man as I thought.
But with food, and all his attention focussed on me. We eat until there’s almost nothing left of the amazing dinner, that although Maxim brushes off compliments in favour of his Russian chef and housekeeper, I can tell that he has taste, and rewards his staff for a job well done.
“That was delicious, I couldn’t eat another bite, thank you,” I say when we’ve slowed to only picking at a little more every five minutes and he continues to offer me more. Even though I’m not ready for this to end. I could talk with Maxim all night.
“Certain? I’ve got dessert.” He gives me that sweet smile.
Me. I want to be his dessert.