Chapter 6
Maya
I'd already texted Ivan. He said he'd be over around eight.
Griffin was still at work, something about a server migration that couldn't wait. I'd kissed him goodbye at six, told him to take his time. The lie sat bitter in my mouth.
Tonight, I was going to be with Ivan. After a year of not seeing him, not hearing his voice, not feeling his hands on my skin. My body was already humming with anticipation, nerve endings firing at the mere thought of him.
I spent all day trying to prepare. Laundry. Fresh sheets, the good ones, the Egyptian cotton Mom had ordered from that catalog two years before she died. I scrubbed the bathroom until the tile gleamed. Cleaned the kitchen. Vacuumed the stairs.
Anything to keep my hands busy.
By seven, I was out of tasks and out of excuses. I stepped into the shower, letting the hot water beat against my shoulders until my skin turned pink. When I stepped out, the mirror was fogged, and I wiped a streak through it with my palm.
The woman looking back at me had dark circles under her eyes. Excitement? Guilt? I couldn't tell anymore.
I rummaged through my closet, pulling out dress after dress. Nothing felt right. Too fancy. Too casual. Too desperate.
Finally, I settled on the pink sheer panties, Ivan's favorite. He'd always said there was something about almost-transparent fabric that undid him. A small, mean part of me wanted to undo him completely.
A simple silk robe over nothing else. Why pretend?
The doorbell rang at 7:52. Early.
My nerves raced under my skin. I checked my reflection one last time, hated that I checked, hated that I cared, and walked downstairs on legs that didn't feel entirely steady.
I pulled the door open.
Ivan stood there in dark jeans and a gray henley that stretched across his shoulders. His green eyes found mine and stayed there, intent and hungry and just a little nervous. Almost like the man I'd fallen in love with four years ago.
His cologne hit me first, the same one he'd always worn. Cedar and bergamot. My body remembered it before my brain caught up, awareness flooding through me, nipples tightening under the silk.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi."
Brilliant. A year apart and that was all I could manage.
His gaze traveled from my face to my robe, lingering on the V where the silk gaped. When his gaze returned to mine, his pupils had blown wide.
"You look..." He stopped. Swallowed. "Can I come in?"
"That depends."
"On what?"
"On whether you're going to finish that sentence."
A smile tugged at his mouth. "You look like you're trying to kill me."
"Is it working?"
"Yes."
I stepped aside, and he moved past me, leaving a trail of that cedar scent in his wake. I closed the door and leaned against it for a moment, trying to remember how to breathe.
"I have wine," I said, because I needed something to do with my hands.
"Sure."
I poured two glasses of the Malbec Griffin had brought home last week. The irony wasn't lost on me.
Ivan took the glass, our fingers brushing. "Thanks."
We stood in the kitchen, the island between us, neither of us sure how to start. I took a sip of wine and felt it burn all the way down.
"So," I said. "What does Griffin know? About tonight?"
Ivan's voice dropped. "He knows I'm here. He knows what this is."
"That's not what I asked."
"What did you ask?"
"Does he know about before? The three years?"
"He knows enough."
"That's not an answer."
"No," I admitted. "It's not."
Ivan set his wine glass down. "I don't want to talk about Griffin."
"What do you want to talk about?"
"I don't want to talk at all."
He moved around the island, and my breath caught. I set my glass down too, because my hands were starting to shake, and I didn't want him to see.
He stopped in front of me. Close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his body, but not touching. Not yet.
"I've thought about this," he said, voice low. "Every day for a year. What I'd do when I got you back."
My throat tightened. "And what did you decide?"
Instead of answering, he reached out and touched the edge of my robe. Just the silk, not my skin. His fingers traced the lapel down to where it crossed over my chest.
"This is new."
"A lot of things are new."
He looked into my eyes. "Show me."
I tugged the belt of my robe loose. The silk fell open, revealing the sheer pink panties and nothing else.
Ivan's breath caught. I heard it, a sharp intake that made heat settle low in my belly.
"Christ." His voice had gone rough. "You knew exactly what you were doing, didn't you?"
"Maybe."
He shook his head slowly, eyes still fixed on my body. "Pink. You remembered."
"I remember everything."
It was true. I remembered the way he liked his coffee (black, two sugars), the way he slept (on his stomach, one arm thrown over me), the way he came (with my name on his lips, always my name).
I remembered all of it, and it had been slowly killing me. And I couldn't let any of it go.
Ivan reached for me then, properly this time. His hands slid inside the open robe, settling on my waist, and I shivered at the contact.
"I missed you," he said against my hair. "God, Maya. I missed you so fucking much."
I didn't say it back. Couldn't. If I started saying true things, I might not stop.
"Show me," I said instead.
He kissed me then, and it was nothing like kissing Griffin. Griffin was playful, teasing, light. Ivan kissed me hard, possessive, his tongue sliding against mine, teeth catching my bottom lip hard enough to sting.
I grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him closer, needing more contact, more pressure, more everything. He groaned into my mouth and walked me backward until my hips hit the counter.
"Upstairs," I managed between kisses. "Now."
He didn't need to be told twice.
Ivan carried me up the stairs, actually carried me, like I weighed nothing, my legs wrapped around his waist. By the time we hit the bedroom, his shirt was gone and my robe was somewhere on the landing.
He set me on the bed and stood there for a moment, just looking at me. I propped myself up on my elbows, watching him watch me.
"What?" I asked.
"Nothing changed." He was looking around the room. "It still looks exactly the same."
It did. The same white sheets, the same photos on the dresser, the same lamp my mother had bought in Kyoto twenty years ago. A time capsule of a life I couldn't quite let go of.
"It's been a year, Ivan. Not a decade."
"Felt like a decade."
I sat up, reaching for his belt. "Some things changed. I changed."
"Yeah?" He let me unbuckle it, let me slide the leather through the loops. "How?"
"I'm not as patient as I used to be."
When I reached for his zipper, he caught my wrist.
"Slow down."
"Why?"
"Because I waited a year for this. I'm not rushing."
"What if I want to rush?"
"Then you'll have to wait."
He pushed me back onto the mattress, gently but firmly, and crawled over me. The weight of him. God, I'd forgotten the weight of him, how solid he felt, how safe. It pressed me into the sheets.
He kissed my neck, my collarbone, the hollow of my throat. His hands found my breasts, rough calluses catching on my nipples, making me arch up into his touch.
"Ivan..."
"Let me," he said against my skin. "Just let me."
His mouth replaced his hands, tongue circling one nipple while his fingers worked the other, and I gripped the sheets because I needed something to hold onto.
But then his hand slid down my stomach toward my panties, and I grabbed his wrist.
He looked up, surprised. "What..."
"You don't always get to run this."
I pushed at his shoulders, rolling us until I was on top, straddling his hips. His eyes went wide, then dark with hunger.
"Since when?"
"Since now."
I unzipped his jeans myself, reached inside his boxers, and wrapped my fingers around him. He was already hard, thick and hot in my palm. When I stroked him, his head fell back against the pillow.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Maya..."
"Shh."
I slid down his body and took him in my mouth.
He tasted clean, like soap and skin, and I'd forgotten this too, the weight of him on my tongue, the way he pulsed when I sucked. I took him as deep as I could, relaxing my throat, and his hand fisted in my hair.
"Jesus..." His hips lifted off the bed. "Just like that. God, just like that."
I worked him until my jaw ached, until he was leaking against my tongue, until his thighs were shaking with the effort of holding back. Then I pulled off with a wet pop and crawled back up his body.
"I need you inside me," I said. "Now."
He flipped us again, apparently my control only went so far, and yanked my panties down my legs. His fingers found me wet, slick, ready.
"Still so tight," he murmured, sliding two fingers inside. "Still so fucking perfect."
I grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand away. "I said now."
"Demanding."
"You love it."
"I do."
He positioned himself at my entrance and pushed in slowly. Too slowly, making me feel every inch. My body stretched to accommodate him, that familiar fullness, that edge of almost-too-much.
"Okay?" he asked, fully seated.
"Move."
He did.
Long, deep strokes that made my toes curl. He knew exactly how to angle his hips, how to hit the spot inside me that made stars burst behind my eyes. My nails raked down his back, leaving marks I'd see later on his skin.
"More," I gasped. "Harder."
He gave me more. He gave me harder. The headboard started to knock against the wall with every thrust, and some distant part of my brain noted that the neighbors could probably hear, and the rest of me didn't give a damn.
And then, unbidden, unwanted, I thought of Griffin.
Not a conscious choice. Just a flash. Griffin's hands, broader than Ivan's. Griffin's mouth, softer. The way Griffin would...
No.
I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to force myself back into my body, back into this moment, but my brain kept slipping sideways.
Griffin's rhythm is different. Griffin talks more, dirty and sweet. With Griffin, I don't think at all.
With Griffin, I could let go. With Ivan? I was scared to.
"Hey." Ivan's voice cut through. He'd stopped moving. "Where'd you go?"
My face flushed hot. "Nowhere. I'm here."
"You're not." He studied me. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Keep going."
"Maya."
"I'm fine. I just..." I pulled him down and kissed him. "I want to be here. With you. I'm trying."
He searched my face. I couldn't tell if he believed me.
What the fuck was wrong with me?
I'd spent a year missing Ivan. Dreaming about exactly this moment. And now that I had it, I was cataloguing differences instead of feeling anything.
Ivan was here. Ivan was inside me, finally, after a year of dreaming about exactly this, and my stupid broken brain was running comparisons like it was filling out a spreadsheet.
It wasn't that Griffin was better. That wasn't the point. The point was that I couldn't be all the way here. Couldn't let myself disappear into this moment the way I wanted to.
Some part of me held back. Always. Hedging my bets. Keeping one foot out the door.
Not this. Not now. Be HERE.
I opened my eyes and made myself look at Ivan's face. Really look. The crease between his brows. The way his forehead tightened with focus. The flush spreading down his neck. This man. This specific man who had broken my heart and come back to put it together again.
I grabbed his face and kissed him, messy, desperate, more teeth than technique.
"Stay with me," I said against his mouth, though I wasn't sure if I was talking to him or myself. "Stay with me."
"I'm here." He thrust deeper. "I'm right here."
I anchored myself to the sensation, the stretch, the fullness, the friction. Anchored myself to his green eyes locked on mine, to his ragged breathing, to the sound of my name falling from his lips.
It almost worked. Almost.
He flipped me onto my stomach, pulling me up onto my knees, and entered me again from behind. The angle was different, deeper, and I buried my face in the pillow and stopped trying to think at all.
His thrusts grew faster, harder. The headboard knocked against the wall.
Somewhere below us, a door clicked shut.
Then the bedroom door creaked open.