Chapter 18
KATIE
Iwake with my palm still resting over Artur’s scar.
Pale early light reaches the bed through the narrow gap below the blinds and reveals the change in texture under my fingers. Smooth skin gives way to a raised band below his right ribs. The scar widens toward his side before narrowing along his back.
Artur is awake.
He lies where I left him, one arm behind his head with the other resting across my waist. Gray eyes watch my face without asking me to move.
From the hips down, the sheet covers him in a pale fold, while above it morning light reveals the difference between skin protected by clothing and the lighter band along his waist. Dark hair spreads across his chest, catching gold at the tips before narrowing over the firm planes of his stomach.
Old damage interrupts the strength along his right side, but sleep has taken the tension from every scar.
Against my cheek, muscle and warm skin rise evenly with each breath, a quiet movement more intimate than anything he did to me awake.
Nothing in his posture performs strength for me; his shoulders rest against the mattress rather than occupying it, and the hand at my waist lies open.
“How long?” I whisper.
“I know you drool when comfortable.”
I check the pillow and find it dry.
His mouth shifts at one corner.
“Liar.”
“You appeared alarmed. I corrected the morning.”
The joke is quiet enough not to disturb the tenderness left from the night. His body still carries tension under me, but the tremor has left his hands.
When I move my palm slightly across the scar, Artur’s breath deepens without stopping me.
“What do you need?” I ask.
His eyes move toward the ceiling. “The perimeter report.”
“That’s what the boss needs. I asked about the man who woke beneath the bed.”
Ventilation moves softly through the pause.
“I don’t know,” he says. “I understand favors with conditions. I don’t understand comfort that asks nothing from me.”
He tells me about gifts that opened negotiations and kindness offered before a request. In his world, a solved problem creates influence even when nobody names the exchange. People remember who paid the hospital bill or protected a business, then answer when the giver calls.
“What did Misha give you?” I ask.
Artur looks toward the blinds. “Noise. Bad advice. Half my clothes disappeared whenever he visited.”
“What did he expect?”
“That I’d continue being his brother.”
“Reckless of him.”
His mouth moves faintly. “He often was.”
The grief remains in the answer, but it no longer closes the room.
“You don’t have to answer it with anything.”
“That is the unclear part.”
The admission has no confidence wrapped around it; he lets me see uncertainty without turning it into a problem I must solve.
I rise onto one elbow and look at him.
Dark hair lies flattened along one side of his head. Stubble shadows the lower half of his face after a night without shaving, and sleep has left a faint crease beside his mouth. His chest is broad under me, dark hair spreading across the center before narrowing over his stomach.
I have seen this body under shower water and over mine during sex. I have never seen him remain still for my attention.
My fingers follow the scar toward his back, and smaller marks cross above the main burn where glass entered. One smooth patch beneath his ribs holds less warmth than the skin around it.
I shift behind him so the morning light reaches his back. The burn continues below his right shoulder blade in a pale sweep before breaking into smaller marks near his spine. Muscle moves under the damaged skin whenever he braces one arm on the mattress.
Artur keeps his face turned toward me, though allowing me behind him requires a different trust than lying under my hand because he can’t watch every touch before it arrives.
“Can you feel this?” I ask.
“Pressure.”
I move farther toward his side. “Here?”
“Everything.”
His stomach contracts when my nail passes lightly over the sensitive edge.
I bend and press my mouth there.
Artur’s hand closes once at my waist.
I kiss the scar without pretending the damage needs praise. The skin is uneven against my lips, tight in one place and soft in another. His pulse beats beyond it, steady enough that I feel each movement against my mouth.
My tongue traces the border between damaged skin and the darker hair along his side; salt from sleep rests there. Artur exhales through his nose, the sound rougher when my mouth reaches the place with full sensation.
I return to that edge and kiss it again. His fingers spread over my back, holding without redirecting me.
“Katie.” His voice roughens while his fingers hold me closer.
I continue along his ribs.
He allows the attention without making a joke or directing my pace. That trust reaches me more deeply than the sight of his erection rising beneath the sheet.
My mouth travels over his stomach, following the dark line of hair toward his navel before I turn to kiss the unscarred side with equal care, Artur’s body tightening beneath every slow contact.
His hands close around the shirt hem, pulling the white cotton over my head before he seats me across his thighs. Cool air reaches my breasts, and my nipples tighten beneath his attention.
From my face, his gaze moves downward: across my shoulders lies loose hair, drawing his attention to the breasts lifted by my position over him.
Darker than the surrounding skin, my nipples remain sensitive from his mouth the night before.
His attention continues over my waist to the soft curve of my stomach.
I resist the impulse to straighten or make the view more flattering, giving Artur the same stillness he offered when I studied him.
I take Artur’s hand and place it over my right breast. His palm closes around its weight while his thumb traces the edge of my nipple. The touch remains exploratory, learning how the peak changes beneath different pressure.
He turns his hand slightly, watching how the breast settles against his fingers. His thumb passes beneath the curve where skin stays warmer, then returns to the nipple in a slow line. The attention makes me feel seen rather than assessed.
He watches my face rather than the breast in his hand.
“Harder,” I whisper.
His thumb presses more firmly, sending pleasure beneath my skin without the sharp urgency of our earlier nights.
Artur sits up slowly, and his mouth reaches my other breast, closing over the nipple with warm suction. One hand remains around my waist while he listens to my breathing. When it catches, his tongue repeats the motion that caused it.
I thread my fingers through his hair.
His stubble brushes the soft underside of my breast. The roughness makes me shiver, and Artur lifts his head.
“Cold?”
“No. Keep doing that.”
He rubs his cheek against the same place deliberately.
The quiet laugh escapes before I can contain it.
Artur’s mouth curves against my skin. “Specific instruction improves performance.”
“Careful. You’ll discover asking works.”
He kisses the center of my chest, then lowers me onto the mattress.
Nothing in the movement is hurried; he lies beside me rather than covering me, using one hand to explore the line from my waist to my hip. His fingers pause over the faint marks left by his grip during our first night.
He kisses the inside of my elbow before following the arm to my wrist. Artur presses his mouth to my pulse, then waits until I curl my fingers around his.
The hand travels back over my ribs, and he learns the slight difference between my breasts and the place beneath my left one that makes me inhale sharply. When he finds it, he repeats the touch without claiming discovery aloud.
I cover his hand and press it more firmly against me.
He bends to kiss one fading mark.
My legs open when his hand moves between them. His fingertips pass through the damp hair above my sex before reaching the wetness along my folds. He spreads me gently, looking down only after I nod.
His gaze lingers until heat spreads across my chest. Morning light shows the pink inner skin and the clear slickness gathering at my opening. Artur watches one drop move toward the sheet before collecting it with his thumb.
“Beautiful,” he says quietly.
The word holds no performance because he says it as an observed fact.
The morning light leaves nothing hidden, and he sees the slick skin and the small movement of my body toward his hand.
Artur slides one finger inside me.
I inhale through the fullness, and he moves slowly, learning the angle that pulls a soft pressure through my pelvis. My hips lift, inviting the second finger that follows.
His thumb finds my clitoris and circles without haste as his fingers move inside me. Pleasure builds without taking the room away, leaving me able to hear the vent and feel the sheet beneath my heels with Artur’s breathing close to my ear.
He holds the pace until my hips begin following his hand, then matches me. The patience makes every sensation distinct, the stretch around his fingers and the damp slide of his palm against my thigh.
I turn my face toward him. “Kiss me.”
He does.
His mouth is soft despite the hand between my legs. I taste sleep and the coffee neither of us has made. My arms close around his shoulders, drawing him nearer while the pressure gathers low in my stomach.
The orgasm approaches slowly enough that I feel every stage, from my thighs tightening around his wrist to the shortening of my breath. The first contraction closes around his fingers before a deeper wave follows.
Artur keeps the same rhythm until my hips stop moving.
He withdraws his hand and holds it between us, fingers shining in the morning light.
I take his wrist and bring them to my mouth.
His pupils widen while I taste myself from his skin.
“That wasn’t in the instructions,” he says.
“Consider it a bonus.”
Artur rolls onto his back and draws me over him.