“I want to make you feel good.”
A faint smile curves her lips. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Nikogda.”
Her eyes open, lifting to meet mine. “What does that mean?”
“It means never,” I tell her, cupping her cheek.
“Oh…” The word comes out shallow, almost shaky.
She looks at me like she wants to say something more, something she is not sure she should.
But I told her the truth. Every woman before her was nothing. A forgettable night or a power play. Maybe it started out that way with her too, but it’s more now.
I rinse the shampoo out before adding conditioner to her ends, working it through her long hair, and she leans against me again. Water rushes down her back as I rinse her strands, my palms trailing down her shoulders, her arms. She’s soft and wet and perfect, and it terrifies me how much I want to protect that softness. How much I need it.
My knuckles trail slowly down her spine, and she shivers at the touch. “I can’t remember what life felt like before you.”
She goes still for a moment, then turns to face me, water gliding down her skin. “Was it better or worse?”
Reaching for the soap, I take my time working it between my hands, wanting to trace every inch of her with the care I’ve never shown anyone. “Would it make me weak to admit I prefer my life with you in it?”
A soft smile lifts her lips, her lashes lowering as I smooth the lather over her. Her fingertips slide up my back, and the simple touch quiets the dark restlessness inside me.
“Not as much as it makes me to admit I’ve fallen for a man I had no business falling for.”
I let out a growl, backing her up against the wall. “We are two very complicated people, aren’t we, Ms. Prosecutor?”
My cock grows thicker at the sight of her brows knitting, the way her beaded tips beg for my tongue.
“We are…” She lifts to me, nipping my lower lip, and I curse under my breath. “But maybe a little complication makes life worth living.”
In an instant, my mouth is on hers, the kiss hard and demanding. She tastes like everything I have never deserved and everything I wish I was worthy of.
When we finally break, her fingertips brush along the rough stubble of my jaw, and my eyes fall shut as I take in the warmth of her touch, the way it sinks straight through my skin. Every time my hands move over her, I feel it: the subtle tremble in her muscles, the small catch in her breath. Her body responds to me in ways she does not seem fully aware of, and it pulls something fierce out of me. It makes me want to test the limits of that quiet trust she keeps giving me, to see just how far it might reach.
I kneel slightly, picking up the soap and gliding it along the backs of her legs, behind her knees, between her thighs. Her gaze is on me, strong and unwavering, like every part of her always is.
When I’m done, she takes the soap from me as she starts working it over my chest, dragging the bar down the center, then using her palms to spread the suds. My muscles tighten as she traces along the edges of the scars on my chest, cracking open something buried deep.
“Where’d you get these?” Her voice is quiet. Careful. Like she’s afraid of the answer.
I watch her hand. Not because I don’t know what to say, but because I’m not sure I’ve ever said it out loud.
“My father,” I finally answer, and the words taste like rust. “He liked to play games.”
She lifts her eyes to mine, and I see it there: pity.
“Games? What kind of games?”
I let out a dry laugh. “Loyalty. Strength. Obedience. Whatever he decided we needed to prove that day.”
She doesn’t interrupt, just listens, her hands still moving like they can erase the past.
“I was maybe six the first time he made me hold a knife to my brother’s palm. Said if I didn’t do it, he would hurt him worse. Said it was love. That proving you would sacrifice anything for your family was the highest honor.”
“Jesus, Aleksei.”
