He makes a sound that's halfway between groan and moan. "That's amazing. Don't stop."
I work my thumbs into the knots along his spine. Slide my fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp with gentle circles. Feel him melting under my touch, the tension gradually releasing as exhaustion wins out over whatever's been driving him.
"You're perfect," he murmurs into the mattress. "Fucking perfect."
After several minutes, when his breathing has evened out and his muscles have softened, he turns over. Pulls me on top of him in one smooth motion, settling me across his hips with my knees on either side.
His hands find my waist. His eyes, tired but intense, lock onto mine.
"You're amazing," he says, voice rough with emotion that has nothing to do with exhaustion. "The best thing that's ever happened to me. To all of us."
My lungs forget how to work. This feels different from his usual flirtation. More serious. More real.
"I know this started as a financial agreement," he continues, thumbs stroking small circles on my hips through my clothes. "But for me, it's evolved past that."
His eyes search mine. Vulnerable in a way I've never seen him.
"What about you?" The question hangs between us, weighted with hope and fear in equal measure.
The honest answer terrifies me.
That I'm in too deep to find my way back out.
But he's looking at me with such raw honesty that I can't lie. Can't hide behind deflection or humor or strategic distance.
"Yes," I whisper, the word barely audible. "For me too."
Relief transforms his expression. Joy. A smile that makes him beautiful despite the exhaustion.
He pulls me down and kisses me with a tenderness that makes tears prick my eyes. Slow. Deep. Communicating everything we're not saying out loud.
I sink into it. Let myself feel the full weight of what we're acknowledging. Let the fear and the hope and the desperate wanting crash over me without trying to control any of it.
His hands slide under my shirt. Find bare skin. The touch is electric, sending arousal spiraling through me.
I kiss him harder. Rock my hips against his, feeling him hard beneath me. Needing this. Needing him. Needing the connection that proves this is real and not just wishful thinking in my desperation.
His hands move higher, sliding up my ribs toward my breasts.
Then someone clears their throat.
We both freeze.
I turn my head toward the open door.
Zakhar stands in the doorway, one hand on the frame, his expression caught somewhere between uncertainty and hunger. His eyes move from me to Alexei and back again. His jaw tightens. His shoulders tense.
The silence stretches. Heavy. Charged with possibility and tension in equal measure.
None of us moves. None of us speaks.
We're suspended in this moment, all three of us caught in the gravity of what's happening and what could happen and the choice that needs to be made right now.
I could pull away. Could let propriety dictate what comes next.
Or I could choose this. Choose them. Choose to stop holding back and see where this actually leads.
I reach for the hem of my shirt. Pull it over my head in one smooth motion. Let it fall to the floor, leaving me in just my bra and pants, skin flushed and pulse hammering.
