Chapter 9-Maya
My lips are still tingling when I escape into the bathroom. That kiss— holy shit .
My knees nearly gave out, and I’m not even sure I could string words together if I tried.
I brush my teeth, trying to steady myself, but the mirror doesn’t lie—my cheeks are flushed, my eyes too bright, my mouth swollen from Rico’s claiming kiss.
I look like a woman who’s just been thoroughly wrecked, except he’s only kissed me.
When I peek back into the bedroom, I see him sliding my suitcases into his enormous walk-in closet, already busying himself with the task of unpacking for me.
Like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to take over.
Like he’s not just reorganizing my life but staking a claim on it.
I mumble something about freshening up and shut the bathroom door behind me.
The space is massive, sleek, elegant—marble floors, gleaming fixtures, a vanity so wide it makes my little rental look like a dollhouse.
My old place wasn’t bad, but it was practical. This? This is luxury.
And when my eyes land on the oversized spa tub in the corner, gleaming under recessed lights, my body aches with the thought of sinking into it.
So why wait?
I strip down to nothing, piling my clothes onto the cool counter. For once, I don’t let myself think about the curves I usually try to hide.
My full breasts, the round swell of my hips, the soft belly that’s starting to hold more than just me.
I turn the faucets, and warm water gushes into the tub, steam curling into the air.
Curious, I pad barefoot to a tall cabinet beside the tub, tugging it open in search of bath salts or oils.
Something to make this moment feel indulgent, a little less like I’m rattling around in someone else’s world.
That’s when the doorknob clicks.
I freeze.
The door swings open, and there he is— Rico —filling the doorway like a dark, beautiful storm.
I gasp, spinning around, arms flying up in a useless attempt at modesty.
But who am I kidding? I’m a big girl. Curves, softness, all of me out there in the open.
My arms don’t cover half of what I want them to.
My skin burns, heat crawling up my neck.
“Rico—”
But he ignores my flustered attempt at modesty. His eyes drag over me, slow and scorching, leaving trails of fire everywhere they land.
The air between us crackles.
And for a beat, I can’t breathe at all.
“What are you doing in here?”
I find my nerve, but my voice still comes out shaky, and my arms are still crossed uselessly over my chest.
“This is the bathroom, isn’t it?” His tone is maddeningly calm, like I’m the one being ridiculous.
“Um, yes.”
“I have to brush my teeth.”
I blink at him, incredulous.
“You couldn’t wait?”
He tilts his head, lips curving in that way that always undoes me.
“Nah, Songbird. I couldn’t wait.”
I inhale sharply as his onyx gaze drifts downward, slow and deliberate. His eyes trail over every inch of me, pausing on the gentle swell of my belly, then lower, then back up again, searing me alive.
When his gaze lingers on my breasts— fuller now, straining against my arm as I try, and fail, to cover myself —I can’t stand it.
I suck in a breath, mortified.
“You changed,” he murmurs, his voice rough silk. “You’re bigger here.”
Shame claws at me. My defenses snap into place.
“I know I’m fat, Rico. You don’t have to point it out.”
His eyes flash, sharp and wounded. He closes the space between us in two strides, voice low, commanding.
“Hush. You know I wasn’t saying that. I never would. Your body is— and always was —perfect to me, Maya.”
The words hit me like a strike to the chest. No one’s ever said that to me before. Not once.
Not in all the years of feeling like the too-big, too-soft girl who didn’t belong anywhere.
A hot tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it. I shake my head, choking back the sob building in my throat.
“D-don’t. Don’t say things like that.”
His brows furrow.
“Why not? It’s the truth.”
I shake my head.
“Maya, you have to know how beautiful you are.”
“Stop.”
“Why? Why should I stop telling you how fucking gorgeous you are, Songbird?” he demands.
“Because,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “I know about you and her .”
His whole body goes rigid.
“Her?”
“Yeah.” My mouth twists bitterly around the name. “I know all about your latest muse, Rico. I know about your Diablita .”
That’s the nickname the press gave her after Rico dedicated Fuego Lento—the song I wrote the lyrics for, for him—to her .
Lucy Volkov.
The beautiful heiress.
The fairytale princess in the tabloids at his side.
The taste of jealousy and sorrow burns on my tongue.
I hate it.
I hate her for a moment even though I have no idea how this can be her fault.
Lucy Volkov didn’t ask to be born beautiful. Hell, for all I know she did nothing to entice Rico. He pursued her.
But I can’t control my feelings.
Thankfully, my hate for her is fleeting.
Still, I hate him for making me feel this way.
For breaking me open with his words, then reminding me of every headline that gutted me.
And worst of all—I hate myself for still wanting him, even now.