Early light filters through the windows, pale and golden, and I wake in Maksim's arms knowing everything has changed.
Last night was monumental. Not just the realization that I was still a virgin, that the violation I'd carried for years wasn't as complete as I'd believed. But the way Maksim held me after. The way he washed me clean. The way he listened to my darkest secret and didn't flinch, didn't pull away, didn't look at me like I was damaged goods.
I'm sore. Pleasantly so. A reminder of what we did on the piano, of how my body opened for him, of how he moved inside me with reverence that made me forget to be afraid.
The sheet pools around his waist, leaving his upper body exposed to the morning light. I take my time looking at him. The sculpted muscle. The tattoos marking his skin like a map of a lifeI'm only beginning to understand. The scars scattered across his torso. Some faded white, others still pink and raised.
There's hair dusting his lower belly, a trail that leads down to a V cut so defined it makes my mouth water. And beneath the thin sheet, an impressive erection tents the fabric.
He's still sleeping. His breathing is slow and even, his face relaxed in a way I've never seen when he's awake.
I can't help myself.
My fingers move on their own, reaching out to trace the line of his hip. The sheet shifts. I pull it lower, exposing him completely.
He's beautiful. Long and thick and hard.
I touch him lightly, just my fingertips against the silky skin. His cock jolts in response, and I freeze, looking up at his face.
He moans in his sleep. Low and rough and absolutely devastating.
Heat coils low in my spine. The sound of him, pleasure escaping without permission, makes me bold.
I grow braver. Let my hand wrap around him, marveling at the contradiction of soft skin over iron hardness. The tip glistens with moisture, and I have this unbearable need to taste it.
Slowly, carefully, I position myself between his legs. Lower my head until I can feel the heat of him against my lips.
I let my tongue touch the tip. Just barely. A whisper of contact.
Another moan. His hips twitch.
Encouraged, I take him into my mouth. Just the head at first, lips wrapped around the crown, tongue exploring the texture.
"What are you doing,moya zhena?"
His voice is rough with sleep and desire. I lift my head, heat flooding my cheeks, and find him watching me with eyes gone heavy-lidded and intense.
My wife.He called me wife. The word in Russian sounds like a claiming, and it sends arousal spiraling through me.
"I've never done this before," I admit. The vulnerability costs me, but the reward is worth it when I see how his expression shifts to hungrier. "Tell me what to do."
I feel him get bigger in my hand. Harder. The response to my inexperience is visceral and undeniable.
"There isn't much you can do wrong," he says, voice dropping lower. "But I'll guide you."
His hand comes up to cup my jaw. Tilts my face so I'm looking directly at him.
"Start slow," he says. "Take as much as feels comfortable. Use your tongue. Pay attention to how I respond."
I lower my head again. Take him back into my mouth, deeper this time. His exhale comes sharp.
"Good." The word is strained. "Now move. Up and down."
I do as he says. Up and down, my lips tight around him, my tongue exploring the ridges and veins I can feel against sensitive flesh.
His hips flex. His hand slides into my hair, not guiding, just resting there. Present.
"Breathe through your nose," he murmurs. "Take your time."
