33. Aj
The shower is cold. Barely warm enough to be tolerable, but it’s the only thing keeping me from climbing back into bed and staying there all day.
I scrub my hair quickly, trying not to think about anything but getting through the next forty-eight hours.
The moment I step out, I’m grabbing my towel—until I notice his shirt.
I stare at the black fabric hanging on the door hook.
I hesitate, then reach for it, running my fingers over the soft, worn-in cotton before pulling it on over my damp skin.
It smells like him—leather and pine and something that’s just Wolff.
I inhale deeply, letting the scent wash over me.
It feels like the closest I’ll get to holding him again.
It’s pathetic.
But I do it anyway…because…I’m not ready to say goodbye to him. I’m nothing to him, but he became something to me. Even if it doesn’t mean anything.
I check myself in the foggy mirror, the shirt hanging loose around my thighs, the collar slipping off one shoulder. Before I open the door and walk into the room.
Wolff’s not there.
I freeze mid-step, glancing around the small cabin, the bed still messy from where I slept. The chair by the door is empty.
A thought barely forms before the door opens and he enters, water dripping from his hair. He must have gone on the deck. His gaze sweeps over me once before settling on the shirt.
Something flashes across his face too fast for me to catch. Disgust? Annoyance?
I don’t know.
He doesn’t say anything. Just walks past me.
I watch his back for a second, my stomach twisting. Is this going to be it? Silent distance until we dock?
“Breakfast,” he says, dropping a bag on the bed.
“What?”
“We’re eating in here.”
I stare at the bag. “Oh.”
He sits on the edge of the bed with his back to me, unpacking food.
“Extra blueberries.” He holds out a muffin.
My nose wrinkles automatically before I glance down at the chocolate-chip muffin in his hand.
“Did you just make a joke?” I take the muffin slowly, fighting the smile trying to pull at my mouth. “Wow. Who knew I married a comedian.”
He glances back, green eyes locking with mine, and for half a second, it feels like he might actually smile. Then it’s gone.
“Eat.”
I settle across from him on the bed, peeling the wrapper back while rain lashes violently against the porthole beside us.
The whole ship groans with the storm. I try not to think about the fact that he remembered I hate blueberries.
Which somehow feels more intimate than half the things he’s done to me.
I break off a piece of the muffin, watching him between bites. Dark, damp strands of hair fall into his eyes while he checks something on his phone with that same permanently irritated expression carved into his face.
“So, any other riveting conversations planned for today, or are we sticking with the strong, silent husband routine?”
A quiet snort leaves him before he shakes his head slightly. No insult, and he didn’t tell me to shut up. That might be progress.
“Wolff.”
“Hm.”
I twist the wedding band around my finger nervously before forcing the words out.
“What if…” My throat tightens. “What if I want to see you again after this?”
His hand stills.
I try to laugh it off before he can answer. “I mean, not like this. Obviously. But maybe we could—”
“You don’t want that, AJ.”
“But I do.”
His jaw tics.
I stand before I can stop myself, crossing the small cabin until I’m right in front of him, my legs brushing against his knees.
“Can’t we at least talk sometimes? I just…” My fingers tighten around the ring. “I don’t want to pretend none of this happened.”
His eyes finally lift to mine.
It was a mistake to ask…to start this conversation. Because the second he looks at me like that—all intense and unreadable—I feel my chest aching all over again.
“Besides,” I murmur, trying to force the tension back into something lighter, “I know you’re going to miss my stories.”
One of his hands slides slowly up my bare leg. Goosebumps erupt instantly across my skin.
“No one would miss your stories, solnyshko.”
His rough palm drags higher, pushing beneath the hem of his shirt I’m wearing. Heat curls low in my stomach.
“Liar. You love my stories.”
Fingers flexing harder against my thigh, he pulls me closer, forcing me between his legs.
“You talk too much.”
His mouth brushes against my stomach through the thin fabric of the t-shirt, and my breath catches as his hands move higher, spreading over my hips.
I know what he’s doing; he’s changing the subject. And the worst part is, I’ll let him. Because at least when he touches me, I don’t feel him pulling away.
“So do something about it.”
His grip tightens instantly.
“You and that fucking mouth. Always pushing. Always needing attention.”
A shaky breath leaves me when his hands smooth up my waist, cupping my breasts.
“Only from you.”
The second the words leave my mouth, something shifts in his expression. His forehead presses briefly against my stomach as his hands fall to my thighs.
“Don’t say shit like that, AJ.”
His head tilts back slowly, eyes locking onto mine, and something tightens painfully in my chest. I want to touch him. Drag my fingers through his damp hair, feel the rough scrape of his beard over my skin, trace every scar on his body.
I want him to look at me the way he did in that closet—like he couldn’t stop himself. Like I was something worth wanting despite everything that’s been done to me. Despite the scars. The bruises. The parts of me that feel ruined beyond repair.
His fingers slide higher up my inner thigh until his thumb presses along my core, rubbing me through the thin cotton of my panties. I shudder at the sensation, my hips jerking forward.
“Such a needy little thing.”
I gasp as he pushes the fabric aside, fingers gliding through my slickness. Hooking the waistband, he pulls my panties down my legs to the floor.
“Wolff…”
“Always so fucking ready for me.”
He suddenly grips my hips firmly and slides his body off the bed, yanking my hips toward his face. He lies back on the edge of the mattress, head tilted, staring up at me with hungry eyes.
“Ride my face.”
I swallow hard and shift my legs wider, my thighs trembling as I straddle his face. The second my knees hit the bed on either side of his head, he yanks me down, burying his mouth against my pussy.
A broken moan tears from my chest.
His tongue drags through my folds in one long, greedy stroke, licking from my entrance to my clit and back down again. He eats me like he’s starving, tongue pushing inside me, fucking me with deep, wet thrusts while his nose grinds against my clit.
My hands fly to the headboard to steady myself, head falling back as pleasure rolls through me.
“Fuck— Wolff…yes…”
Gripping my ass cheeks, he spreads me wider as he devours me, his beard scraping against my sensitive skin with every move. He moans against me, the sound vibrating straight through my pussy.
Sucking my clit into his mouth, his tongue swirls around it, and I cry out, my hips rocking for more. He groans and pulls me harder, forcing me to grind against his mouth as he licks me in slow, torturous strokes.
“This cunt tastes so fucking good.” His voice is muffled, rough, and goddamn if I don’t almost come right then.
He slides his fingers through my wetness before he starts to slowly push one inside my pussy and the other in my ass.
“Oh, fuck,” I yelp, lifting my hips away.
Grabbing my ass, he slams my hips back down.
His mouth closes over my clit again, sucking and teasing while his fingers begin to pump slowly in and out of both my holes. I can’t take much more. My thighs shake, my stomach tightening as the pressure builds, my fingers fisting his dark, thick hair.
I look down, chest heaving, and he meets my eyes. Something about the intensity in his gaze between my thighs shatters me.
My whole body spasms, pleasure rippling through me as I cry out his name. He keeps licking me through it, scissoring his fingers in my holes.
His other arm bands around my thighs and forces me to stay put, drawing out every pulse of my orgasm until I’m trembling and oversensitive.
I try to pull back, but he growls against me, tongue lapping at the cum leaking from my pussy.
“Stay,” he rasps.
He drags his tongue through my folds, cleaning up every drop of my release. When he finally lets me go, I collapse onto the bed beside him, panting, my body still buzzing.
He pushes off the floor, and the mattress dips beneath his weight as he moves over me. His hard chest presses against my back, heat sinking into my skin while his beard scrapes along my shoulder. Burying his face in my hair, he inhales slowly.
“You smell like me, solnyshko.”
I’m warm all over as his hands slide up my sides, rough palms skimming my ribs while his mouth finds the back of my neck. Teeth scrape against my pulse before his tongue drags slowly up the side of my throat.
My eyes close instantly as I moan.
Before Akim—before the collar, the chains, the hands around my throat that only ever meant pain—I used to love this. Loved being touched here. Kissed here. Grabbed here.
Now even accidental contact near my neck sends panic through my veins.
But not with him.
Or at least…less with him.
The realization hits hard enough to make my throat tighten. Wolff’s mouth brushes my pulse again, slower this time, and something inside me aches so badly it almost feels unbearable. I don’t want this to end. Don’t want him to pull away and leave me alone with my own head again.
I swallow hard.
Then do something stupid.
My fingers slide over the sheets until they find his wrist. The second I touch him, I feel the subtle tension that always lives inside him—that instinctive readiness to pull away—but I tighten my grip before he can.
Slowly, I guide his hand upward.
His body stills immediately behind me. Every muscle locking tight against my back as I bring his palm to my throat.
Right over the place the collar used to sit.
Silence stretches between us.