Chapter 10
MOLLY
Iwake before the sun, my body humming with the restless awareness that Samuil is somewhere in this sprawling penthouse. Last night, sleep only came in scraps. I drifted in and out, my mind circling the same thoughts over and over until I finally gave up and climbed out of bed.
Every time I fell asleep, I thought about how much I’d shared with him. I told him more about my past than I’ve ever told anyone, and he actually listened. And that was terrifying.
I said too much. I know I did. But he shared a lot too.
He made me feel like I wasn’t alone, like I wasn’t the only person with a completely fucked up childhood.
Somewhere between the quiet confessions and the long silences that didn’t feel empty at all, some invisible wall between us cracked. There’s no pretending otherwise.
It almost makes me wonder if I should tell him about the baby. There’s clearly a softer side to him.
The kitchen is still dark as I slip into it, bare feet silent on the cool tile.
I flick on a single soft, golden light, enough to brighten the room without waking the whole apartment.
My hands move automatically, gathering ingredients, cracking eggs, slicing fruit, warming bread, filling the space with the soft sound of sizzling butter and the scent of cinnamon from the French toast batter.
I’ve never done this before. I’ve never gotten up early and cooked breakfast for a man.
But he listened to me without judgment. He opened up to me just because he knew it would make me feel less alone.
He gave me the space to fall asleep and didn’t try to wake me.
He carried me to bed like I weighed nothing and covered me up like a child.
I’ve never been tucked in before. I’ve never had anyone take care of me like that.
For the first time in my life, he made me feel something close to belonging.
My chest tightens at that thought. I press my palm against the cool counter and wait for my heart to steady. This is dangerous territory. I still don’t know anything about him, and his life seems messy. Messy and dangerous in a million different ways.
I flip the French toast in the pan. I don’t expect it to come out perfect, but cooking helps the swirl in my chest settle a little. I plate everything carefully and wipe the edge of the dish the way I once saw on a fancy cooking show.
The elevator hums, and I hear the muted sounds of footsteps. I look up and see Samuil walk in, dressed in jogging clothes and sweating. I didn’t realize he’d left the apartment.
My heart stutters in my chest. I freeze, like I’ve been caught doing something illicit.
Still, when he enters the kitchen, sweat-damp and breathing steadily, shirt clinging to his chest before he grabs the hem and pulls it over his head, I feel a rush of heat so sudden I almost step backward.
His skin is glistening and his muscles are taut. His shoulders are broad, and his hair is slightly disheveled from the wind. His entire presence fills the room in an instant, and I’m suddenly aware of every inch of bare skin under the thin fabric of my sleep shirt.
He stops halfway across the room, eyes dropping to the table, then lifting to me.
“What’s all this?” he asks quietly.
I clear my throat. “I made breakfast,” I say, sounding lame even to my own ears.
His brows lift slightly, almost in disbelief. “For me?”
“For both of us,” I say, even though my appetite is a fragile thing lately. “Just… I don’t know. As a thank you.”
He stares at me for a moment longer, unreadable. Something in his expression softens, but he doesn’t let it settle. He looks down at himself instead.
“I need to shower first,” he says, wiping a bead of sweat from his temple.
“I like you like this,” I say before I can stop myself.
Heat shoots up my neck as soon as the words come out. His head snaps up, eyes sharp and dark, pinning me in place.
He doesn’t comment. He simply watches me for a long, simmering beat that makes my skin prickle. Then, with a low sound that might be amusement or something deeper, he turns and walks toward his room.
I release a slow breath the moment he disappears around the corner.
What am I doing?
I return to the table, adjusting the plates even though everything already looks neat. My palms are damp. My body is too warm. My nerves feel like live wires sparking under my skin.
It’s the hormones, I tell myself. The early pregnancy. The nausea that comes and goes in unpredictable waves. The strange mixture of joy and terror living inside me like two halves of the same truth.
But that’s not it. Not entirely.
Last night wasn’t just emotional. It was intimate in a way that had nothing to do with sex. He shared something painful about his childhood. I told him things I’ve never told anyone, not even Kelly. A strange thread formed between us, fine and fragile, but real.
And now I can’t seem to breathe normally when I think of him.
He glances at the food, then at me. “Did you poison it?” he asks dryly.
I roll my eyes, relieved by the joke.
“Yes. Of course. I figured the best way to handle this whole mess was to murder you with cinnamon and carbs.”
He cuts into the French toast, takes a bite, and closes his eyes briefly as if surprised by how good it tastes. When he opens them again, I’m still staring at him. I try to look away, but the connection holds.
“What are you thinking?” he asks.
I hesitate. Then the truth slips out.
“How much I like being around you.”
His knife stills. His expression tightens almost imperceptibly, like he wasn’t expecting that. Like he’s not sure what to do with it. He studies me across the table, eyes moving from my face to my hands to my throat, like he’s reading my thoughts.
“I was also thinking about how grateful I am.” I swallow. “That you care enough to make sure I’m safe. Even when I was being difficult about it.”
His gaze sharpens, darkens, and something warm curls low in my stomach. He stands slowly, like a predator rising from the grass. I freeze.
He walks to me, stopping inches from my chair. My pulse stutters. I tilt my chin to look up at him. His eyes burn down at me, steady and focused.
“You’re not difficult,” he says quietly.
I laugh softly. “That’s generous of you.”
Before I can say anything more, he cups the back of my neck and lowers his mouth to mine.
The kiss starts gentle, testing, and warm. My breath catches. My fingers curl against the edge of the table. His thumb strokes the soft place just under my ear, coaxing me closer as heat unspools through my body.
Then he deepens the kiss, slow at first, then more certain, more consuming.
His lips move against mine with a hunger that steals my breath.
I open to him, letting the sensation flood me.
My hand lifts, sliding over the firm line of his chest, feeling warmth and muscle beneath the soft cotton of his shirt.
He makes a low sound deep in his throat that vibrates through me.
He pulls me up from the chair, and I rise willingly, almost melting against him. His arms slide around my waist, drawing me tight against the hard plane of his body. The contact sends heat spiraling between my legs. My stomach flutters, my skin tingling everywhere he touches.
He kisses me like he’s been waiting for this for days. Maybe longer. Maybe since the last time we were together.
My body answers him without hesitation. I press into him, fingers curling at the nape of his neck. He deepens the kiss again, mouth hot and insistent, tongue teasing mine until I gasp.
He moves his hands down my spine, slow and deliberate, stopping at the small of my back. He lifts me from the chair and pulls me against his hips, and I feel him harden instantly through the fabric of his pants.
A soft sound escapes me. He swallows it in a kiss.
He moves to my throat, kissing slowly down the side of my neck.
His breath is warm, his lips hot, and each kiss sends a shiver racing through me.
I tilt my head to give him more room. His hand slides beneath the hem of my shirt, fingers brushing the sensitive skin of my waist. I inhale sharply. My body pulses, needy and aching.
He murmurs against my throat. “Come with me.”
He pulls back just enough to take my hand. His grip is firm, warm, and confident. He leads me toward his bedroom. Our breaths come out uneven, our hearts pounding.
Inside, the air feels charged. Expectant. He turns and cups my face gently, searching my eyes for hesitation. There is none. I rise onto my toes and kiss him again.
This time he grows hungrier, kissing me with a slow, deep intensity that steals my breath. His hands roam my body, sliding under my shirt, lifting it over my head. I raise my arms without thinking. The shirt falls somewhere behind me. He stares at my bare skin with heat that makes my knees weak.
“You look incredible,” he murmurs, voice low and rough.
Heat blooms across my chest, belly, and between my thighs. He lowers his mouth to my collarbone, kissing the soft skin there, then lower, tracing the slope of my breast. I gasp, and he tightens his arm around my waist, pulling me closer as if afraid I might lose balance.
He lays me down on the bed, slow and intentional. His hands slide over my sides, down my hips, then up again, learning me with gentle but possessive strokes. I arch into him, my body begging for contact.
He strips the rest of my clothes away and undresses himself in sharp, efficient movements. And then he is above me, warm and solid and so incredibly careful it almost hurts.
He kisses me again, softer now, as if savoring the moment. His fingers skim down my stomach, stopping just below my navel. I stiffen instinctively, my hand shooting out to grab his wrist.
He lifts his head, studying my face. “Are you all right?”
I force a breath. “Yes. I’m just sensitive.”
He nods like he understands and kisses me again, moving lower, trailing heat across my belly, my hipbones, my thighs.
His mouth finds the most sensitive part of me and pleasure sweeps through me so sharply I bite back a cry.
His tongue moves slow and deliberate, coaxing me open, coaxing me higher, coaxing me toward that familiar trembling edge.
I come with a soft, broken sound, my thighs tightening around his shoulders. He murmurs something I can’t quite understand, but it feels like praise against my skin.
He moves back up my body, kissing my stomach, then my breasts, then my throat. When he reaches my lips, he kisses me deeply, letting me taste myself on his tongue.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he whispers.
I shake my head. “Don’t stop. Please.”
He slides into me slowly. Carefully. Each inch sends a wave of heat through me until he is fully inside, filling me, stretching me, grounding me. He pauses there, forehead pressed to mine, breath shaking.
“You feel incredible,” he murmurs.
He begins to move, slowly at first, with deep, rhythmic thrusts that drive me insane. I arch into him, clinging to his shoulders, feeling every inch of him, every pulse of pleasure that builds and builds.
He keeps kissing me the entire time, long and deep and consuming, until the world falls away. When I come again, he follows, pulsing inside me with a low groan that vibrates through my entire body. He collapses gently, bracing himself so he doesn’t crush me, breathing hard against my shoulder.
For a long moment, we lie tangled together, skin slick, breath uneven, hearts racing in the same rhythm. I close my eyes and let myself feel everything. The warmth, the safety, and the terrifying, impossible sense that this man is somehow becoming part of me.
And all the while, the secret rests under my heart, small and silent. A tiny heartbeat I will protect with everything in me.
Even from him.
Especially from him.