Chapter 5 Lily
Lily
Iwake to his hand between my thighs.
Not unusual—this is how most mornings start now. His fingers sliding through the mess he left there hours ago, spreading it, pushing it back inside me. He's obsessed with keeping me full of him. Won't let me shower until he's added to whatever's already there.
"Leonid." My voice is thick with sleep. "What time is it?"
"Early." His breath is hot against my neck, his cock hard against my ass. "Go back to sleep."
"Hard to sleep with your fingers inside me."
"Then don't sleep." He withdraws his hand, grips my hip, and notches himself at my entrance. "Just feel."
He pushes in slow. I'm swollen from last night—from every night—but so wet it doesn't matter. My body opens for him like it was made to, and maybe it was. Maybe this is what I was always meant for.
"So tight." He bottoms out, groans against my shoulder. "Every fucking time. Like your pussy was made just for me."
"Maybe it was."
He laughs, low and rough, and starts to move. Long, lazy strokes that make me gasp into the pillow. His hand slides up under my shirt—his shirt, the one I always sleep in—and finds my breast. Rolls my nipple between his fingers until I'm squirming.
"I have to leave for work in an hour," he murmurs. "Think I can make you come twice before then?"
"You can try."
"I don't try." He pinches my nipple, hard, and I cry out. "I succeed."
His hand leaves my breast and slides down my stomach, between my legs. Finds my clit and starts circling. The dual sensation—his cock filling me, his fingers working my clit—is overwhelming. My hips jerk against him, chasing more.
"That's it." His voice is dark, approving. "Fuck yourself on my cock. Take what you need."
I do. I rock back against him, matching his rhythm, feeling him hit something deep inside me with every thrust. The pleasure builds fast—it always does now, my body trained to respond to him—and I'm already close, already climbing.
"Going to come for me?" His fingers speed up. "Going to come on my cock like a good girl?"
"Yes—yes—"
"Then do it. Come. Now."
I shatter. The orgasm rips through me, my whole body clenching around him, his name torn from my throat. He fucks me through it, keeps fucking me after, his pace relentless.
"One," he counts, voice strained. "One more, solnyshko. Give me one more."
"I can't—"
"You can." He pulls out, flips me onto my back, and drives back in before I can catch my breath. This angle is deeper. Harder. He hooks my leg over his shoulder and pounds into me, the headboard slamming against the wall.
"Look at me." He grips my chin, forces my eyes to his. "Look at me while I fill you up."
I look. I can't look away. His ice-blue eyes are blazing, his jaw tight, his whole body coiled with need.
"I'm going to come inside you," he says. "And you're going to come with me. Understand?"
I nod frantically. His thumb finds my clit again, pressing hard, and that's all it takes. I fall apart for the second time, screaming his name, and he follows me over—burying himself to the hilt and flooding me with heat.
We stay like that for a long moment, tangled together, both of us shaking.
"Two," he says finally, a smug smile tugging at his lips.
I shove at his shoulder weakly. "Show-off."
He laughs and kisses me, soft and sweet, completely at odds with the way he just wrecked me.
"I have to shower," he murmurs against my mouth. "Don't wash. I want you wet all day. Want you to feel me every time you move."
"That's filthy."
"Yes." He pulls out slowly, watches his cum leak out of me with dark satisfaction. "It is."
The penthouse feels different when he's gone.
Quieter. Bigger. But not empty—not anymore.
I've filled it with small pieces of myself over the past three weeks.
The throw blanket I bought for the couch because his minimalist décor made me cold.
The herbs growing in little pots on the windowsill—rosemary, basil, thyme.
The stack of cookbooks I've been working through, pages marked with sticky notes.
I strip the bed and start the laundry. Pull on leggings and one of his t-shirts—I have my own clothes now, beautiful things he bought me, but his shirts still feel like home.
My thighs are sticky as I move around the kitchen. He wasn't kidding about wanting me to feel him all day. Every step is a reminder of where he was, what he did, what I let him do.
What I begged him to do.
I make coffee. Drink it standing at the window, watching the harbor. The morning light paints everything gold, and I catch myself smiling for no reason. Just... happy. Content in a way I never knew I could be.
My phone buzzes. Him.
Thinking about you.
Then: About how you looked this morning. About the sounds you made.
Then: I'm supposed to be paying attention to this meeting but all I can think about is your pussy.
My face goes hot. I type back: Behave.
His response is instant: Never.
I'm still smiling when I start cooking.
The stroganoff takes hours. That's the point—I want the apartment to smell like comfort when he walks in the door. Like home. Like someone's been here all day, thinking about him, waiting for him.
I found the recipe online weeks ago and bookmarked it. He mentioned once that his mother used to make it, back before—he never says before what, and I don't ask. But I remembered. I always remember the things he tells me.
The notebook by the stove is getting full.
His coffee order. How he likes his eggs.
The way he pretends to read when he's actually watching me.
That he hates cilantro but won't tell me because he doesn't want to hurt my feelings—I figured that out when I caught him picking it out of the tacos, thinking I wasn't looking.
I was looking. I'm always looking.
I chop onions. Slice mushrooms. Brown the beef in batches because the recipe says not to crowd the pan. The kitchen fills with the smell of seared meat and sautéed aromatics, and something in my chest loosens.
This is mine. This life, this kitchen, this man who looks at me like I'm something precious. Three weeks ago I was standing on an auction block. Now I'm making beef stroganoff because I remembered something he said once about his mother.
I add the broth. Lower the heat. Let it simmer.
Then I curl up on the couch with my phone and open Instagram.
My folders have grown since he first saw them. Dream home. Family. Someday. He knows about them now—caught me scrolling one night, looked through everything without saying much. I'd been mortified, but he just kissed my temple and told me it wasn't silly.
Now I add to them openly. Show him ones I love. Last week I saved a photo of a little girl in a tutu, frosting smeared on her face, laughing at something off-camera. He'd looked at it for a long moment, pulled me into his lap, put his hand on my stomach.
"Soon," he'd said.
I scroll past that photo now and my hand drifts to my stomach. My period is five days late. I haven't told him—don't want to get his hopes up, don't want to get my hopes up—but I keep thinking about it.
What if.
I hear his key in the lock at 5:52.
My whole body responds—heart racing, skin flushing, that familiar ache building between my legs. Three weeks, and the sound of him coming home still makes me feel like a teenager with a crush.
The door opens. He walks in, and I can see immediately that something's wrong. His jaw is tight. His shoulders are tense. The shadows under his eyes are darker than this morning.
"Hey." I stand, wipe my hands on the dish towel. "Bad day?"
He doesn't answer. Just crosses the room in four strides, wraps his arms around me, and buries his face in my neck.
I hold him. Don't push. Don't ask questions. Just run my fingers through his hair and let him breathe me in, slow and deep.
"Better," he mumbles after a long moment. "Better now."
"Dinner's almost ready."
"I'm not hungry."
"Leonid—"
"Not for food." He lifts his head, and his eyes are dark. Hungry. "I need you."
"Eat first." I cup his face, brush my thumbs over his cheekbones. "Then you can have me for dessert."
Something shifts in his expression. Softens. He's looking at me like—
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing." He turns his face, presses a kiss to my palm. "Everything. I'll tell you over dinner."
He eats like he hasn't eaten in days.
Two helpings of stroganoff, thick slices of crusty bread to mop up the sauce, half the salad I threw together. I watch him across the table, sipping my wine, a warm glow building in my chest.
"This is incredible," he says around a mouthful. "How did you—"
"Recipe online." I shrug, trying to downplay it. "I know it's probably not like your mother's—"
"You remembered that."
"You mentioned it once."
He sets down his fork. Stares at me with that expression I still can't read.
"I mention a lot of things," he says slowly. "You remember all of them?"
"Most of them." I fidget with my napkin. "The important ones."
"The important ones." He pushes back from the table, rounds it until he's standing in front of me. Pulls me to my feet. "You think my mother's stroganoff recipe is important?"
"It's important to you."
His hands frame my face. Tilt it up so I have to look at him.
"Lily."
"What?"
"I love you."
The words hit me like a punch. Like a blessing. Like everything I've ever wanted to hear and never dared to hope for.
"I love you," he says again. "I've been trying to figure out how to say it for weeks. I'm not good at this—never had to be, never wanted to be—but I can't not say it anymore."
"Leonid—"
"I've never said that to anyone." His voice is rough.
Raw. "Fifty years, and I never once felt it.
I thought there was something wrong with me.
Something broken. And then you—" He stops.
Swallows. "You cook for me. You wear my shirts.
You remember that I mentioned my mother's stroganoff once and you spend hours making it because you thought it might make me happy. "
My eyes are burning. "It's just dinner."
"It's not just dinner. It's—" He shakes his head. "You make this place feel like home. You make me feel like home. I've never had that. Never thought I wanted it. And now I can't imagine my life without you."
"Leonid—"
"You don't have to say it back." His thumbs brush my cheeks, wiping away tears I didn't know had fallen. "I know this is fast. I know I'm old and fucked up and you deserve so much better—"
"I love you too."
He goes still.
"I love you," I say, and now I'm crying for real, tears streaming down my face. "I didn't think I'd ever get to say that to anyone. I didn't think anyone would want to hear it."
"I want to hear it." His voice cracks. "Every day. For the rest of my life."
"I love you."
"Again."
"I love you. I love you. I—"
He kisses me.
It's not soft. Not gentle. He kisses me like he's drowning and I'm air, one hand fisting in my hair, the other gripping my hip hard enough to bruise. I kiss him back just as desperately, clinging to his shoulders, trying to get closer.
"Bedroom," I gasp against his mouth.
"Can't wait." He lifts me, sets me on the kitchen table. Dishes scatter, something crashes to the floor, neither of us cares. "Need you now."
He shoves my shirt up, yanks my leggings down. I'm still wet from this morning—from him, from wanting him all day—and when he drives two fingers inside me, the sound is obscene.
"Still full of me," he growls. "Still dripping with my cum."
"Leonid—"
"I'm going to fuck you on this table." He withdraws his fingers, fumbles with his belt. "And then I'm going to carry you to bed and fuck you again. And then I'm going to hold you all night and tell you I love you until you're sick of hearing it."
"I won't be." I reach for him, help him shove his pants down. His cock springs free, hard and leaking. "I'll never be sick of hearing it."
He notches himself at my entrance. Pauses. Holds my gaze.
"I love you, Lily."
"I love you too."
He pushes in.
I cry out, back arching, hands scrabbling at the table for purchase. He's not gentle—doesn't try to be—just fucks me with everything he has. The table scrapes across the floor with every thrust. Dishes rattle. Somewhere behind us, a glass rolls off and shatters.
"Mine," he grits out. "My girl. My pussy. My fucking everything."
"Yours." I'm sobbing now, overwhelmed by sensation and emotion and him. "All yours. Only yours."
He reaches between us, finds my clit. Rubs it in tight circles while he pounds into me.
"Come for me." His voice is wrecked. "Come on my cock while I tell you I love you."
"Leonid—"
"I love you." He thrusts harder. "I love you. Come for me. Now."
I break.
The orgasm tears through me, so intense it borders on pain. I'm screaming his name, clenching around him, and then he's coming too—burying himself deep and flooding me with warmth while he groans "I love you" against my throat.
We stay like that, tangled together on the kitchen table, both of us shaking.
"We broke a glass," I say finally.
"I'll buy a new one."
I laugh—wet and overwhelmed—and pull him closer.
Later, much later, we're in bed. He's curled around me from behind, one arm under my head, the other draped over my waist. His hand rests on my stomach, the way it always does now.
"The girl in the tutu," he murmurs against my hair.
"Mm?"
"The photo you saved. The one with the frosting on her face."
I smile. "What about her?"
"I'm going to give you that." His hand presses harder against my stomach. "All of it. The baby. The family dinners. Everything you've been saving pictures of."
"You can't promise—"
"I can." He kisses the back of my neck. "I will. I'm going to fill you with my baby and marry you and give you the life you've been dreaming of. That's not a promise, Lily. That's a fact."
I'm crying again. Happy tears. He doesn't try to wipe them away this time—just holds me tighter.
"I love you," he says.
"I love you too."
I fall asleep in his arms, full of him, full of hope.
Full of a future I never dared to dream about.