21. Chapter 18
X iomara
The steam drifts out behind me in lazy swirls as I step from the bathroom into the bedroom’s cool air, towel wrapped tight around me.
Warm water clings to my skin, my hair damp and curling at the ends as I rub it gently with another towel. The lights are dim, the only sound the soft dripping of the shower and the rhythmic beat of my own heart.
I’m not expecting him home for hours. So, when the bedroom door creaks open—
I freeze.
The towel slips slightly, but I don’t reach to fix it.
My gaze snaps toward the door as it swings fully open. Zasha stands there, holding wildflowers in one hand, his eyes locked on me. Not in the way he usually looks at me—guarded, composed, unreadable.
No, this look is something else entirely. Like I’ve undone him just by existing.
Like I’m standing at the center of something he can’t resist anymore. Then he reaches behind him and quietly closes the door. The soft click echoes in my chest like a countdown.
I clutch the towel tighter, suddenly breathless. Not from fear, but from anticipation because the way he’s looking at me…
It’s not polite. It’s not restrained.
It’s like something in him has snapped. And somehow, I know—whatever happens next won’t be careful.
Zasha crosses the room in slow, purposeful strides, eyes locked on me the entire time.
He drops the bouquet in his hand onto the dresser without looking where it lands, like the flowers are a thought he can no longer hold onto.
His attention is all on me.
And he’s not hiding it.
There’s something in the way he moves—measured, powerful, quiet. Not aggressive, but deliberate and predatory.
Like he’s done waiting.
I grip the towel tighter, heart hammering so hard I swear he must hear it. But I don’t move.
I can’t.
Because this—this right here—is the moment. I’ve felt it building for weeks, simmering beneath every look, every pause, every breath we shared in silence.
He’s always handled me with care. Spoke carefully. Stepped carefully. Touched me like he was afraid I might break.
But not now.
Now, his restraint is gone. He reaches me, eyes still holding mine, and lifts a hand to the edge of my towel and pulls. The towel slips from my fingers, pooling silently at my feet. Cool air skims over my skin, and still, I don’t move.
Zasha steps back just slightly—not out of hesitation, but to see.
To take me in.
His chest rises slowly, and for the first time, I see it in full. The hunger. The reverence. The quiet storm in him that has nothing to do with control and everything to do with how deeply he wants me.
He bends and lifts me like I weigh nothing at all. His arms wrap around me with startling care, like I’m made of something precious and dangerous at the same time. I gasp, and his grip tightens just enough to ground me.
Zasha’s hands are like iron bands around my waist, lifting me effortlessly as if I weigh nothing.
His grip is firm but gentle, his touch reverent, as if he’s cradling something fragile, something precious.
I feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek as he carries me, his steps steady and deliberate.
My heart pounds in my chest, not from fear, but from the weight of the moment.
He’s holding me like I’m his answer, like I’m the missing piece he’s been searching for.
I can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling, as he lays me down on the bed with such care.
The mattress dips beneath me, soft and inviting, but I’m too aware of his presence to relax fully.
Zasha stands above me, his shadow looming large, his gaze intense.
He doesn’t rush. He takes his time, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he’s savoring every second.
His eyes never leave mine, and I feel like he’s seeing through me, into parts of myself I’ve kept hidden even from myself.
“Mara,” he murmurs, his voice deep and rough, like gravel underfoot.
There’s a hunger in it, but it’s not just physical.
It’s something deeper, something raw and unspoken.
He leans down, his lips brushing mine in a kiss that’s tender, almost hesitant.
It’s not the kind of kiss that demands; it’s the kind that asks, that seeks permission.
I close my eyes, letting the sensation wash over me, and I feel his hand cup my cheek, his thumb brushing my jawline.
He’s touching me like he’s learning me all over again, I think, my breath catching in my throat.
It’s not just his hands, it’s his eyes, his presence, the way he holds himself as if he’s afraid to break me.
But there’s strength in his touch, too, a quiet power that reassures me.
Zasha isn’t a man who shows weakness, but in this moment, he’s laying something bare, something vulnerable.
He pulls back slightly, his gaze searching mine, and I see it—the rawness, the need. It’s not just desire, though that’s there, burning like a flame between us. It’s something more, something unspoken, something that hangs in the air like a question waiting to be answered.
“Zasha,” I whisper, my voice barely audible, but he hears it.
His eyes darken, and he leans in again, his lips pressing against mine with more urgency this time.
His hands move down my body, slow and deliberate, as if he’s mapping every curve, every contour.
I feel his fingers trace the line of my collarbone, the swell of my breasts, and I shiver, not from the touch itself, but from the intent behind it.
He doesn’t look—he worships. The thought flashes through my mind as he undresses me, his eyes never leaving mine.
There’s something almost sacred in the way he removes my clothes, as if he’s unveiling something precious, something he’s been longing to see.
His touch is reverent, his movements careful, and I feel myself surrendering to him, piece by piece.
When he finally steps back, his own clothes discarded, I drink him in.
Zasha is a man carved from stone and shadow, his body a testament to years of discipline and strength.
But in this moment, he’s not the enforcer, not the man who commands fear and respect.
He’s something else entirely, something raw and exposed.
He climbs onto the bed, his weight settling beside me, and I feel the mattress dip beneath him.
His hand finds mine, his fingers lacing through mine, and I squeeze, needing the connection, needing the anchor.
His other hand moves to my waist, pulling me closer, and I feel the heat of his body against mine, the hardness of his chest against my breasts.
Our bodies come together slowly, not in a frenzy, but with a deliberate, aching slowness.
It’s not about urgency; it’s about connection, about the way our skin meets, the way our breaths sync.
Zasha kisses me again, deeper this time, his tongue tangling with mine, and I moan softly, the sound swallowed by his mouth.
His hand moves down, sliding between us, and I feel his fingers brush against my core, wet and eager. He groans into the kiss, the sound vibrating against my lips, and I arch into his touch, needing more. But he takes his time, his fingers teasing, circling, never quite giving me what I want.
“Zasha,” I whisper, my voice thick with need, but he just smiles against my skin, a small, private smile that sends a shiver down my spine.
He shifts above me, his weight pressing me into the mattress, and I feel him, hard and insistent, against my thigh.
His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, we just breathe, our chests rising and falling in sync.
There’s so much in that look, so much he’s not saying, and I feel overwhelmed, not just by the sensation, but by the rawness in his eyes.
He enters me slowly, his hips moving with deliberate control, and I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders.
He’s big, filling me completely, and I feel stretched, full, in a way that’s both uncomfortable and exhilarating.
But he doesn’t rush, giving me time to adjust, his eyes never leaving mine.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice a rough whisper, and I feel my cheeks flush, my heart swelling at the words.
He begins to move, slow and steady, his hips rocking into mine, and I meet him, my body rising to match his rhythm.
It’s not fast, not frantic, but it’s intense, every thrust sending waves of pleasure through me.
I feel him everywhere, his hands gripping my hips, his lips brushing my neck, his breath hot against my skin.
“Mara,” he groans, his voice thick with need, and I tighten around him, my walls clenching as I chase my release. His eyes meet mine, and I see it—the vulnerability, the need, the raw emotion he’s been holding back.
I’m close, so close, and I feel him quicken, his movements becoming more urgent, more desperate. His name falls from my lips, a plea, a surrender, and he kisses me, deep and hungry, as we teeter on the edge.
And then we fall, together, our bodies trembling as we climax, our cries mingling in the air. Zasha collapses on top of me, his weight heavy but comforting, his heart pounding against mine.
For a long moment, we just lie there, our breaths slowly returning to normal, our bodies still joined. His hand moves to my hair, his fingers threading through it, and I close my eyes, letting the sensation wash over me.
But as I lie there, in the aftermath of what we’ve just shared, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more, something still unspoken, still hanging between us. Zasha lifts his head, his eyes meeting mine, and I see it—the question, the uncertainty, the raw emotion he’s still holding back.
And I wonder, as his lips brush mine in a soft, tender kiss, what it is he’s not saying. What it is he’s still afraid to let go of. The room is wrapped in stillness, thick with the scent of skin and warmth and something that feels like peace.
Our bodies are now tangled beneath the sheets, my cheek resting over the steady rhythm of his heart. Neither of us speaks, but it’s not silence. It’s reverence.
A pause that holds weight — like we both know something just changed between us, even if we haven’t put it into words yet.
Zasha’s fingers move lazily along my back, a silent promise in every touch. And for a while, we just breathe. Then, after a few minutes, he exhales — slow, like something just landed in him.
I feel him shift beneath me.
He brushes a kiss to my forehead and murmurs, “I almost forgot…”
I lift my head, dazed and drowsy, watching as he slips from the bed, naked but unbothered, moving across the room like he’s on a mission.
He stops at the dresser.
And that’s when I see it — the bouquet of wildflowers.
Still wrapped in crinkled paper, the stems slightly tilted from where he dropped them earlier.
Zasha picks them up carefully, like they’re something fragile.
He walks back towards the bed and gets back into it, holding the bouquet out with both hands.
“These were supposed to come first,” he says quietly. “But I couldn’t wait.”
Something in my chest pulls tight. This man—this sharp-edged, lethal man—brought me wildflowers, but couldn’t wait to hold me.
I take them from him slowly, pressing them to my chest like they’re made of gold. A smile curves at the corner of my mouth. “You’re not as bad at this as you think.”
His lips twitch into the smallest smile. But it’s real.