Chapter 11
The shower was much smaller than the one in Maxim’s bathroom, and although he thought it would have made him uncomfortable, there was a certain coziness to the close walls and the fluttering floral shower curtain.
He’d managed to wake up before Pippa. He’d pulled on his jeans and shirt and hovered in the kitchen for a minute, wondering if he should make her breakfast. He was imposing on her home, dirtying her spare sheets, using her soap and her towels and her extra toothbrush.
Yet assuming someone’s meal preferences held a level of intimacy he wasn’t sure she would expect, or even want.
First a shower, and if she was awake by the time he emerged, then he’d ask.
Maxim rubbed suds over the back of his neck.
The soap smelled like her. The instant the thought came to him, he frowned.
Of course it smelled like her. She used it.
Next, he’d be astounded by the fact that Pippa had been naked in this same shower.
That she’d massaged shampoo into her hair from the cream-colored bottle sitting with a collection of other products in a hanging wire rack.
He suddenly became aware of the water droplets trickling over his skin like gentle fingertips.
His eyes fluttered shut and he let himself sink into the bliss of heat and wetness and the slippery glide of his soapy hand over his chest. That bliss spread and tightened and when he glanced down, he was sporting a rather furious erection.
Maxim didn’t need this now. He attacked his hair with vigor, as if he could scrub the thought out.
He would simply ignore this boner until it went away, and if he had to scour his body with the pumice stone hanging from the spigot until he bled, then he’d do that.
Because he couldn’t take care of it here.
Definitely not here. Not in Pippa’s small shower stall where there was the slightest chance he’d get cum on her shower curtain, and where she’d definitely also been naked and wet.
Oh, he was in trouble.
It was far too easy to imagine her in here with him, her small hands splayed on the chipped ceramic tiles, her fingers curling and trembling, breathy moans puffing out of her with the rhythm of his thrusts.
He tipped his head so the water cascaded over his forehead and plastered his hair against his eyebrows, then scrubbed his face with both hands.
This wasn’t the sort of erection that would be content to drift out of existence after stopping by for a brief visit and then skip off with barely a glance backward.
This was the angry, determined sort of erection, and it wasn’t going anywhere until he addressed it.
Maxim heaved a grumbling, defeated sigh.
He lathered the soap, took his cock in hand, and made a valiant attempt to shove any feelings of guilt away.
He was taking advantage of Pippa’s hospitality and using thoughts of her to get himself off, and it was so goddamn fucking wrong, and he shouldn’t be doing it, but he couldn’t exactly step out of her bathroom with tented jeans and a raging hard-on and expect to be capable of conversation about what foods she enjoyed in the morning.
Of course, there was always the possibility that she might come in.
She might need her toothbrush or an article of clothing out of her laundry bin.
He’d hear the door squeak open. She’d say his name.
There’d be a throaty edge to it, like she was asking a question she already knew the answer to.
When she pulled back the shower curtain, he’d be facing her, cock jutting up proud and ruddy.
Maybe his hand would still be wrapped around it so there wouldn’t be any doubt about what he was doing before she entered.
Maxim’s breath hitched and he stroked himself faster. She’d twist her fingers in his hair, hold on tight as he carried her across the room, then he’d dump her on the counter and fingerfuck her until her pretty lips quivered and her eyes rolled back in her head.
Thankfully, he missed the shower curtain when he came. The tiles were cold against his temple. As soon as the euphoria faded, guilt flooded in quickly.
It doubled when he had to rinse a few drops of his cum from her shampoo bottle.
Maxim really should have gone home after that.
It would have been the considerate thing to do.
He’d just jacked himself off in Pippa Beverly’s shower to thoughts of Pippa Beverly, and despite having made her breakfast (and cleaned all of the cookware after he was done), he still felt like he was hovering around the scene of his own crime.
She was quiet over her plate of scrambled eggs. Every time he caught her looking at him, she turned away with a swiftness that made him wonder if she somehow knew what he’d been up to.
“Thanks for this,” she said suddenly.
Caught mid-bite, Maxim raised an eyebrow and made an inquisitive “Mmph?”
“The food. It’s very good.”
He swallowed a bit too much at once and cleared his throat. “The butter takes most of the credit.”
“Ah. I’ll make sure to thank it too.”
“Great, um, good.”
What the fuck is happening? The atmosphere at Pippa’s table had all the uncomfortable hesitation that followed a one-night-stand, except without any of the tentative intimacy.
Or post-coital bliss. After his night on her couch (at her suggestion), he’d assumed she wanted him around for either additional talk or the lessons he’d repeatedly mentioned.
Teaching a witch to punch had sounded reasonable in Maxim’s head.
Maybe a little fun, too, if he was being honest with himself.
There could be surreptitious touches, flirting, that whole “Here, no, like this,” bit where he’d stand behind her and position her arms correctly while standing very close.
And if she appreciated his help with this, then maybe she’d want his help with more.
Hunched at Pippa’s table with his perfect scrambled eggs sitting heavily in his stomach, it appeared as if he had assumed incorrectly.
Pippa hopped up from her seat, grabbed Maxim’s empty plate, and brought it to the sink. She was wearing leggings today, and Maxim had to force his attention elsewhere so he wouldn’t linger on the parts of her legs that had been hidden by the loose joggers from yesterday.
“I need to head out and take care of some stuff soon,” she said.
Maxim looked over at the stiffness in her voice and frowned. “Of course. I don’t want to intrude on your day at all.”
Pippa blinked. “Oh, no, that’s not—” She flicked the water off her fingers and gave him a contrite smile. “I didn’t mean it like that. You haven’t been intruding.”
She was holding herself differently. Despite her smile and the warmth in her words, there seemed to be a tension winding through her body, one that Maxim had only seen when he’d approached her in the office with a task he knew she wouldn’t want.
“Are you sure?” he said.
“Yes. It’s just, after last night, I really need to—” She broke off suddenly with a startled expression and pinched her lips together, then turned to the sink and busied herself with the sponge.
He stood slowly, unease crawling up his neck.
“Last night? What do you mean?” Had he done something wrong?
Had he made her uncomfortable by having her basically disrobe in front of him so he could touch her?
Had she not actually wanted him to stay the night, and her suggestion had essentially been just an empty offer because it had been the considerate thing to say?
But . . . no. She would have spoken up. He knew Pippa well enough by now.
She wasn’t the sort of person to make empty offers for the sake of appearance, and she certainly would have threatened him with some sort of magical injury if he’d overstepped in any of his terrible attempts at flirting.
And the terrible, horrible, no-good, sweaty, steamy, self-indulgent shower was this morning, and not last night, so she couldn’t possibly have been referring to that.
“What’s going on, Pippa?” he said.
She paused and stared hard at the dish in her hands before scrubbing viciously. “It’s nothing to worry about.”
Ah yes, because those words always helped. Usually when someone said them, in that precise order, it meant exactly the opposite.
Pippa caught sight of whatever angst-filled look must have been overtaking Maxim’s face. She let out a soft frustrated grunt and tossed the sponge into the basin with a slap. Her shoulders slumped in defeat.
“There was something here last night,” she said. “On my balcony.”
Well, he hadn’t been expecting that answer, but at least it didn’t include him.
“What do you mean?” he said. “Like a squirrel? Raccoon?”
“Demon.”
His stomach dropped slightly before he remembered their conversation about demons pursuing all the same ventures as humans, and how being demonic wasn’t an automatic brand of evil intent. “Why was it on your balcony?”
Pippa sniffed. “I think it was here to kill me.”
Maxim’s stomach fully dropped this time and chose to settle somewhere by his knees. “What?”
“My apartment’s warded,” she said quickly. “It couldn’t get in.”
“Why do you think it was here to kill you? And why—” He choked a little. “Wait, did it try to get in? Were you in danger? Were we in danger?”
“No,” Pippa said, and shook her head quickly enough to set her curls bouncing. “It must have just stood there for a while. Maybe it felt the wards.”
How was that better? Maxim’s skin crawled at the thought of something lurking beyond Pippa’s window, waiting for her to leave her apartment.
For her to be distracted enough for one of the wards to lapse.
Maybe that wasn’t how they worked, but she hadn’t exactly been forthcoming with the minutiae, and his context was a decade plus of impractical knowledge about how interrupted concentration affected spell casting.