Chapter 29
?
Julia
We're leaving for Chicago later today. I know he needs rest, needs to recharge before whatever fresh hell awaits us there.
But when I look toward his desk, there he is.
Maksim. Shirtless, wearing only a pair of loose gray sweatpants, headphones clamped over his ears, his intense gaze fixed on the dual monitors casting an eerie blue glow across his face.
I slide out of bed, moving silently on bare feet, but it doesn't matter. He senses me before I even reach him, his fingers finding my thigh, a gentle touch that sends shivers up my spine as he pulls off the headphones.
"Did I wake you?" he murmurs, his voice low, laced with regret and something else, something I can't quite decipher in the predawn stillness.
"Didn't feel you next to me," I whisper back, settling onto his lap, facing him, my arms looping loosely around his neck.
His hair is tousled, evidence he managed at least a few hours of sleep, but it's not enough.
Not with the weight he carries. My fingers thread gently through the dark strands, trying to smooth the worry lines creasing his forehead.
"What has you so preoccupied at this hour?
" I ask softly, leaning forward slightly, my eyes scanning the screens behind him, trying to make sense of the jumble of words and phrases.
My brain feels sluggish, still half asleep, even though sunrise is usually my favorite part of the day.
The information refuses to coalesce. Then, it hits me.
"Are you learning Spanish?" The question comes out breathlessly, my voice trembling slightly as I turn back to meet his gaze. The gray of his eyes seems lighter in the dim light, almost translucent, and I have to consciously draw air into my lungs to handle the sudden intensity of this moment.
"Started a few nights ago," he admits, a hint of something like shyness in his voice.
Even in the near darkness, I can see a faint flush creep up his neck, staining his cheeks.
"Don't really have a knack for languages," he adds, his gaze dropping for a fraction of a second, "but I want to understand you. "
"But I don't speak Spanish with you," I whisper, leaning in, pressing soft kisses to his cheek, his jawline, needing the contact, the reassurance.
His hands slide down my back, settling possessively on my hips, pulling me closer until my chest brushes against the hard planes of his. The friction sends a jolt straight through me, and I know he feels the way my body instantly reacts, betraying my desperate need for him.
"You do sometimes," he murmurs, his voice dropping lower, rougher, as his mouth finds the sensitive skin of my neck, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses along the curve.
"When you're close," he breathes against my skin, his tongue tracing the spot where his teeth had marked me before, "right before you come.
" His mouth moves higher, finding the shell of my ear, his breath hot against my skin.
"When I'm between your legs," he continues, his voice a low growl, "and I bite you, just a little. "
His tongue flicks out, tracing the curve of my earlobe, and I know he can feel the slick heat pooling between my legs, soaking through the thin fabric of my nightgown, proof of the havoc he wreaks on me with just his voice, his touch.
"Max," I gasp, my hands fisting in his hair, needing an anchor in the storm he’s unleashing inside me.
"And I want to understand everything," he says, his voice vibrating against my ear, sending shivers down my spine. "Every word, every sigh, every broken plea. I want it all. In any language. Just for me."
They're already yours , I want to tell him.
No matter what language spills from my lips in those moments, lost in pleasure, his name is always the anchor, the constant refrain.
But the fact that he wants this, wants to understand the language of my birth, the words that sometimes escape when I'm completely undone…
it creates a strange, fluttering warmth deep in my chest, threatening to burst. Is it possible for a heart to break from being too full?
His voice is still a low rumble against my ear as one of his hands slips beneath the hem of my nightgown, finding how much he affects me. That specific rasp in his voice, the one reserved for moments like these, unravels me completely.
"Hmm," he murmurs, his fingers finding my clit with unerring accuracy, "I think you woke up because you needed someone to touch you right here, amor."
A strangled sound escapes me, and I instinctively press myself harder against his hand, needing more, always needing more of him. It doesn’t matter how many times we do this, the craving to feel him skin-to-skin, joined, inseparable, is a constant, gnawing ache.
"Did you say something, Juls?" A low chuckle vibrates through his chest as he slides two fingers deep inside me, stretching me, filling me.
If I weren't so completely lost in the sensations overwhelming me, I might manage a clever retort. But right now, all I need is for him not to stop. I need him to keep doing exactly what he’s doing before I completely lose my mind.
"I wish you could see yourself right now, Julia." His voice, rough with his own need, somehow cuts through the haze, compelling me to open my eyes, to meet his intense gaze.
"How do I look?" I manage to ask, my breath coming in short, shallow gasps.
"Like you are irrevocably mine," he answers, his eyes blazing, and before I can respond, his mouth crashes down on mine, swallowing any words I might have uttered.
The desperate need inside me coils tighter, unbearable now, pulsing around his fingers.
I break the kiss, gasping for air, my eyes locked on his.
His pupils are blown wide, dark pools reflecting the dim light, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead, his lips slightly parted as he breathes heavily.
And yeah, he looks irrevocably mine, too.
Marked by me, claimed by me. But I don't say it.
Instead, I pull his head down again, pouring everything I can't verbalize into the kiss, and I know he understands when a low, guttural groan escapes him.
I feel the hard ridge of his erection pressed against my hip, insistent, demanding. The wave of heat crashes over me again, twice as strong this time. It's never enough with him. I could have him every day, lose myself in him for hours, and still crave more.
Shifting slightly, I lift myself just enough for his hands to impatiently shove down his sweatpants, freeing himself. Because he feels it too. This insatiable hunger between us, a fire that never quite burns out, no matter how much time we spend tangled together, lost in each other.
I position myself over him, finding the perfect angle, and without waiting, without hesitation, I sink down, taking him deep inside me. My hands grip the back of his chair for balance, my head thrown back as I gasp at the sheer intensity of being filled by him.
I feel the muscles in his thighs tense as he fights for control, trying to move slowly, deliberately.
And in this moment, suspended between urgency and restraint, the realization hits me with startling clarity — how incredibly lucky we are, finding this sanctuary, this connection, in the midst of the relentless chaos surrounding us.
That we have this, have each other. That after all these years, after everything we’ve endured, just being near him still sends frantic butterflies fluttering through my stomach.
That nothing else compares to this feeling, this sensation of being physically, irrevocably one.
I watch him throw his head back against the chair, a thick vein pulsing in his neck, his hands digging into my hips, almost painfully tight, anchoring me to him.
"Julia," he grits out, his voice strained, "let go, baby. Come for me." He swallows hard, his control fraying.
I want to make this last, stretch out these precious moments, but it's like fighting against a tidal wave.
My body yields to his command, surrendering completely.
A choked cry rips from my throat as the climax crashes over me, intense and consuming, even as he continues to move within me, driving us both higher.
When the last pulse finally subsides, leaving me trembling and breathless, he presses soft, lingering kisses against the base of my neck, his breathing still ragged against my skin.
He’s still buried deep inside me, the evidence of our joining slick against my inner thighs, but I don't care.
Because his smile, when he pulls back slightly to look at me, is so unguarded, so breathtakingly young and free, it stops my heart for a second before mirroring itself on my own face.
"Come on," he murmurs, his voice soft now, gently lifting me from his lap. "Let's get cleaned up and go back to bed. Long flight ahead."
He carries me easily toward the shower, his steps sure and steady.
There he gently washes my hair, something I’ve noticed he genuinely enjoys.
There’s always this look of pure fascination on his face as his fingers move through my hair, as if the simple act of caring for me never loses its magic for him.
I find myself watching him, memorizing the way his expression softens and how he seems completely absorbed in the moment.
Once we’re done, we dry off and head to bed, but I don’t sleep again.
Instead, I lie curled against his side, watching him sleep, memorizing the steady rise and fall of his chest, the occasional frown that creased his brow, the way his hand automatically seeks mine even in slumber.
Because I can never get enough of this man.
This man who is irrevocably mine.