14. Aria #3
“You’re falling asleep in a chair.” There’s amusement in his voice, but also concern. “Let me take you to bed.”
Before I can protest, he’s scooping me up into his arms, cradling me against his chest. I should argue. I can walk, but I’m too tired. Instead, I let my head rest against his shoulder, breathing in his cedar and leather scent.
He carries me through the quiet house and into his bedroom. Maksim sets me on the edge of the bed, and I realize I’m still in the clothes I wore to try and escape. They feel tainted now, contaminated by what happened.
“I need to shower,” I say, my voice thick with exhaustion. “I feel…I need to wash off the last few days.”
“Okay.” He helps me stand, his hands steadying me when I sway. “Come on.”
He leads me into the bathroom, and I expect him to leave. But he stays, moving to the large glass-enclosed shower and turning on the water. Steam begins to fill the room.
Then he turns back to me, his eyes soft. “Let me help you.”
I nod, too tired to be self-conscious.
His hands are gentle as he tugs at my shirt and drops it to the ground. Then he unclasps my bra before he gently pulls down my pants. My underwear slips down my legs while he kneels before me.
There’s nothing sexual about it. Just tenderness.
He helps me into the shower, and the hot water feels like absolution, washing away the fear and stress. I stand there for a long moment, letting it soak into my skin, my muscles, my bones.
Then Maksim is there, and I hear the rustle of fabric as he strips off his clothes. Through the steam, I watch him undress as all his clothes are discarded on the bathroom floor. He slides open the glass door and steps into the shower with me, completely naked.
The water streams over his broad shoulders, plastering his dark hair to his head, running in rivulets down the planes of his chest and abs. He’s beautiful—all hard muscle and masculine strength—and the way he’s looking at me makes my breath catch.
“What are you doing?” I ask, though my voice comes out breathless rather than surprised.
“Taking care of you.” He reaches for the shampoo and pours some into his palm. “Turn around.”
I do, and his hands are in my hair, massaging my scalp, working the shampoo through my long dark strands. It feels incredible—not just the physical sensation, but the care behind it. The intimacy behind his simple act. I stifle a moan, my knees buckling.
His fingers work through my hair with slow, deliberate movements, finding all the tension points, working them loose. I can feel the stress starting to drain from my body with each stroke. I let my head fall back slightly, giving him better access, and hear his sharp intake of breath.
“So beautiful,” he murmurs, his lips close to my ear. “I used to dream about this. About taking care of you. Being allowed to touch you like this.”
I shiver despite the hot water, and his hands pause.
“Cold?”
“No.” My voice comes out husky. “Not cold at all.”
He resumes his movements, tilting my head back further to rinse the shampoo. His fingers are gentle but thorough, working out every trace of suds, and I’m acutely aware of his body behind me—the heat of him, the controlled strength in every movement.
When my hair is rinsed clean, he reaches for the conditioner and works it through the ends of my hair with the same careful attention. Then his hands slide to my shoulders, and I feel him step closer, his chest nearly touching my back.
“You carry so much tension here,” he says, his thumbs finding the knots in my shoulders and working them with firm pressure. A low moan escapes me and I hear a pleased growl come from Maksim. “Let me help.”
I let my head fall forward, giving him access, and he massages my shoulders, my neck, finding every point of tension and coaxing it loose. It’s almost meditative—the hot water, his hands, the steam surrounding us.
After he rinses the conditioner from my hair, he reaches for the body wash. He works up a lather, then his hands are on my shoulders again, sliding down my back in long, smooth strokes. I arch into him.
“I love touching you,” he murmurs. “Feeling your skin under my hands. Knowing you’re here with me.”
His hands slide lower, washing my lower back, the curve of my spine. Then lower still, to my hips, my bottom. His touch is thorough but reverent, like he’s memorizing every curve and inch of skin.
“Turn around,” he says softly.
I do, and the look in his eyes steals my breath. Desire. Awe. Like he can’t quite believe I’m standing here with him.
He pours more body wash into his hands, and then those hands are on me again starting at my shoulders and sliding down to my collarbone. His thumbs trace the delicate bones there, and I watch his face as he touches me and see the concentration and tenderness.
Then he lowers toward my breasts. His thumbs brush over my nipples, and I gasp, need pulsing nearly painfully between my legs. The sensation shoots straight through me, pleasure mixed with that sweet sensitivity.
“Does that hurt?” he asks immediately, concern flashing in his eyes.
“No.” I’m breathing faster now. “No, it feels…it feels good. Everything is just more sensitive.”
His eyes darken. “Everything?”
I nod, unable to speak.
He continues his exploration, his soapy hands sliding over my ribs, my waist. Then he stops, both hands resting on my stomach on the small swell where our baby grows.
“My baby,” he says roughly with emotion. “Our child. I still can’t quite believe it sometimes. That you’re pregnant with our baby. That I get to have this.”
Tears sting my eyes. “Maksim—” I break off before I take a deep breath.
“I love you. I’ve been in love with you for eight years.
” The words spill out, unable to be contained any longer.
“Even when I thought you were conspiring to kill your brother, I never stopped loving you. Even when I hated you for finding us. I never stopped loving you.”
His hands go still on my stomach. For a moment, he’s as still as a stone. The water streams between us, steam swirling around us like we’re in our own private world.
Then he’s pulling me into his arms, crushing me against his chest, his face buried in my wet hair.
“I never stopped loving you,” he says, his voice breaking. “Not one day in eight years. That’s why I couldn’t stop searching. I couldn’t let you go. You and Daniel and this baby are everything to me. Everything.”
I pull back to look at him, and his eyes are bright with unshed tears, water streaming down his face.
“I love you, Aria.” His hands frame my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones with infinite tenderness. “I’m going to protect you and our children, and we’re going to get through this together. I promise you. I swear it.”
“I love you too.” My voice breaks. “I’m so sorry I didn’t trust you sooner. I’m sorry I kept Daniel from you. I’m sorry for all the years we lost—”
He cuts me off with a kiss and it’s deep and desperate and full of eight years of longing. I kiss him back just as fiercely, my hands sliding up his chest to grip his shoulders, needing to be closer and erase every inch of distance between us.
The kiss deepens and turns hungry. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, and I give myself over to it completely. His hands slide down my body, gripping my hips, pulling me flush against him.
I can feel him—hard and thick against my stomach—and heat floods through me. My hand slides down between us, wrapping around him, and he groans into my mouth.
“Oh fuck,” he hisses.
I stroke him slowly, feeling the weight and heat of him in my palm. His hips jerk forward involuntarily, and I can feel him pulsing in my hand.
“God, that feels good,” he breathes against my lips. “I’ve dreamed about you touching me like this.”
I stroke him again, firmer this time, and his head falls back with a groan. I watch his face—the way his jaw clenches, the cords standing out in his neck, the way his eyes squeeze shut like he’s fighting for control.
“Open your eyes,” I whisper.
He obeys and the look in them takes my breath away. They’re molten silver, dark with desire. I hold his gaze as I stroke him again, squeezing him gently.
“Fuck.” The word hisses out between clenched teeth, his chest heaving. “Aria, if you don’t stop, I’m going to embarrass myself like a teenager.”
The vulnerability in the admission makes me laugh softly. “Would that be so terrible?” I ask, stroking him again.
“Yes.” But he’s smiling now, even as his hips thrust into my hand. “Because I want to be inside you, and if you keep doing that I’m going to fucking come right now.”
I release him, and he lets out a shaky breath. But before he can recover, I’m sinking to my knees in front of him, the warm water streaming over both of us.
“Aria, what are you—” His words cut off on a strangled groan as I take him into my mouth.
He’s thick and hard on my tongue and I sigh at the familiar taste of him. I missed the feel of him, and the sounds he makes when I do something he particularly likes.
His hands fist in my wet hair. “God, your mouth,” he moans. “I’ve missed your mouth so fucking much.”
I hum around him, taking him deeper, and his hips jerk forward. I can feel him trembling, fighting to stay still.
“Aria,” he says desperately. “Love, you need to stop. I’m too close. I want—”
I release him with a soft pop and look up. The sight of him—chest heaving and eyes wild fills me with satisfaction and love in equal measure.
“What do you want?” I ask, my voice husky.
“You.” He pulls me to my feet, his hands urgent now. “I want you. All of you.”
His mouth crashes onto mine as he backs me against the shower wall. The cool tile is a shock against my heated skin, making me gasp into his kiss.
“I’m going to worship you,” he murmurs against my lips, his hands sliding down to grip my thighs. “I’m going to show you exactly how much I love you. How beautiful you are. How perfect.”
But instead of lifting me immediately, his hands slide between my thighs and his fingers find me slick with more than just water. He curses.