Maggie #2
I drop my bag onto the chair by the door and kick off my shoes, letting them land wherever they fall before heading into the kitchen for a bottle of water.
The cold hits my throat as I take a long drink, leaning my hip against the counter while the quiet wraps around me after a day of barking dogs, ringing phones, and Jules’ running commentary in my ear.
I stand there for a moment, letting my shoulders loosen before I push off and make my way to the sofa.
The book I left here this morning is still where I dropped it, face down like it gave up on me.
I pick it up and curl into the corner, tucking one leg under me as I open it and try to find my place.
The words are easy, the kind of story I can fall into, but tonight they don’t stick.
I read a line, then another, but end up staring at the same sentence without taking it in.
After a minute, I sigh and close the book, resting it on my chest as I lean back against the cushion.
“Well, that’s not good,” I murmur, already knowing exactly what the problem is. Because the second I stop trying to focus on anything else, my mind goes right back to him.
Alexei.
Not in pieces, either. All of him.
The way he stood in the doorway, not in a hurry or looking around like he needed to figure the place out.
Like he already knew where he was, and that was enough.
Broad shoulders under his coat, and everything about him put together in a way that makes you look twice without meaning to.
Dark hair, a shadow of stubble along his jaw, and those ice-blue eyes that feel like they see right through you if you let them.
And Lord help me, I’ve never had much luck with men who look like they should come with a warning. It’s the way he watches and pays attention without making it feel heavy, like he sees more than he says and keeps most of it to himself.
I drag a hand over my face, pressing my palm briefly to my eyes.
“This is ridiculous,” I tell the empty room, because it is. He’s a man who walked into the shelter with his daughter. That’s it. A man I met once and accidentally tried to hand a dog treat like I’d lost my entire mind.
The memory hits, and I groan into my hand before dropping it, staring back up at the ceiling.
“Good Lord.”
And somehow, instead of making me want to crawl under a rock, it makes me laugh quietly, the sound low in the empty room.
He didn’t make it worse, didn’t laugh or turn it into a big deal.
He just let it pass and moved on, like it didn’t matter as much as I thought.
That, more than anything else, stays with me.
My fingers tighten a little on the edge of the book as my thoughts wander, sliding past what happened into everything around it.
The way he crouched down in the grass in that suit like it didn’t bother him one bit.
The way his hand moved when he brushed that curl off Ivy’s forehead, like he’d done it a hundred times, careful without making a thing out of it.
I swallow, my throat suddenly a little dry despite the water I just drank.
“Okay, Maggie,” I say quietly, “we’re not doing that.”
Because I know where that road leads. I’ve been down roads that seem harmless at first, feel easy and warm, just interesting enough to follow, and I know better than to pretend I don’t see the signs. Still, my body doesn’t quite get the message.
A slow warmth builds low in my body, making me lean back against the sofa without thinking. It’s not about anything specific, not a detailed fantasy from one of my romance books, just the idea of him being closer, his quiet attention focused on me instead of from a distance.
My breath slows, my chest rising and falling a little deeper as I let the feeling move through me instead of fighting it outright.
“Good grief,” I whisper, half under my breath, because this is exactly what I tell myself I don’t do anymore.
But I don’t push it away. I let it sit for a minute, just letting it be what it is.
It’s that steady pull of awareness and the memory of standing in front of someone who didn’t have to prove anything to be noticed.
When it finally fades, it leaves a subtle tension behind. I let out a slow breath, my body sinking into the sofa as the moment passes.
I blink up at the ceiling, one corner of my mouth lifting. “Well,” I murmur, “that was unfortunate.”
After a second, I get up and grab my book out of habit. I turn off the lamp as I head to my bedroom, the apartment falling into shadow. I drop the book on my nightstand, pull my shirt over my head, step out of my jeans, and leave them in a pile near the bed before grabbing a towel from the dresser.
The bathroom light hums when I turn it on. I start the shower and let the water run while I undo my braid. Steam creeps into the mirror, softening the edges of the room as I step under the spray. The heat hits my shoulders and runs down my back, easing out the last of the day’s tension.
The smell of soap fills the room as I stand there a little longer than I need to, letting the warmth work through my sore muscles and quiet my mind.
By the time I step out and wrap the towel around myself, the thoughts that followed me home are pushed to the back where I can pretend they don’t matter.
I walk back into the bedroom and drop the towel to pull on an old nightshirt and a pair of soft cotton panties. I hang the towel over the chair without thinking and crawl into bed, turning onto my side and pulling the blanket up to my shoulder.
The ceiling fan whirs overhead, and somewhere outside, a car passes, the sound fading quickly. I lie there for a few minutes, letting my breathing even out and the quiet ease back in. But even with my eyes closed, he’s still at the edge of my thoughts, and I’m not sure what to do about it.
My fingers curl into the pillow as my mind keeps going back to him, standing in the doorway like he had nowhere else to be.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to hold onto the memory of how he looked, how he didn’t have to try.
Heat rises slowly in my chest, spreading before I can stop it, my heart beating a little faster.
I draw one knee up, bracing against the sheets, the movement sending a wave of awareness through me that makes me release a quiet breath.
“This is a bad idea,” I murmur, because it is. I don’t know a thing about him. Don’t know if he’s single, if he’d even look twice at me, or if he’s just a man who walked into the shelter today and won’t think about it again.
But my hand moves on its own, slipping beneath the blanket. My fingertips graze the hem of my shirt, then dip lower, sliding under the elastic band of my cotton panties. The skin there is already warm and slightly damp.
In the darkness of my bedroom, the fantasy takes over.
It starts innocently enough, just my mind filling in what I didn’t see.
I imagine the fabric peeling away from those shoulders, revealing the full expanse of the artwork on his skin.
I picture the muscles in his back rippling as he moves, and the definition of his arms as he tosses the shirt aside.
Then, the fantasy spirals, slipping its leash. It’s not just him stripping anymore. It’s him stripping me.
I imagine Alexei standing at the foot of my bed, those ice-blue eyes locked on mine as he stalks forward.
He doesn’t ask, he takes. In my mind, those big, inked hands grip the hem of my shirt and yank it over my head.
The air hits my skin, making my nipples pebble.
I’m exposed and vulnerable, the power radiating off him intoxicating.
My middle finger slides through my folds, finding the slick wetness that has gathered there. I’m not just wet. I’m throbbing, aching with need. I circle my clit slowly, teasing myself, matching the pace of the imaginary Alexei in my head.
In the fantasy, he pushes me back onto the mattress.
He doesn't waste time. His mouth is on my neck, biting down hard enough to leave a mark, his stubble scraping against my sensitive skin. One of his hands palms my breast, squeezing roughly, his thumb dragging over the nipple until it’s a tight, painful peak.
I gasp into the quiet room, the sound loud and shameless.
“You're already soaked for me,” the imaginary Alexei growls, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through my chest.
I nod frantically in the dark, my hips bucking off the mattress to meet my own hand.
I slide a finger inside, pretending it’s his thick cock stretching me open.
He feels huge and overwhelming. In my mind, he’s kissing his way down my body, nipping at my ribs, licking the skin of my stomach until he reaches the waistband of my panties.
He doesn't pull them down. He rips them aside, the fabric tearing in his haste.
The thought of his strength, that raw violence, sends a shockwave straight to my core. I add a second finger, curling them upward to find that spongy spot inside that makes my toes curl. I’m panting now, the blanket kicked halfway down the bed as I writhe against the sheets.
He moves between my thighs in the fantasy, his broad shoulders forcing my legs wider apart. I can feel his hot breath against my pussy. He looks up at me, his eyes locked on mine, the tattoos on his shoulders pulling and flexing as he moves. Then he dives in.
I cry out, my back arching off the bed. He isn't gentle. He licks me with long, flat strokes of his tongue, devouring me like I’m his last meal.
He sucks my clit into his mouth, humming around it, the vibration shooting sparks of electricity up my spine.
My hands fly to my head, fingers tangling in my hair, pulling hard as the sensation builds to an unbearable peak.
“Alexei,” I whisper into the darkness, the name falling from my lips like a prayer.