The night he’d returned home, I’d gone to bed angrier and more hurt than I could ever remember. Now, a week later, I remained hurt, confused…and much to my shock, horny. Until sex with Maxim, I hadn’t considered that I was missing out on anything. But I was, and I was in the part of my cycle when I craved touch. I missed our physical connection and orgasms.
I missed us, but Maxim was still keeping secrets: though he never said a word about it to me, his documents had arrived from the State Department without him ever having to attend a hearing. Maxim was once again a legal resident, thanks, in part to my agreeing to marry him. I only knew because my daddy called while I was on the way home. My parents realized something was wrong, but I didn’t have it in me to tell them I was sure Maxim and I were veering toward divorce.
So, I remained silent, not asking about his immigration status, pretending everything was fine when nothing was.
I was so alone, and I wanted a release to ease the tension that built, built, built in my body.
I wanted the makeup sex Naomi crowed about. But no.Of courseI wasn’t that lucky. Probably because Stella was correct and Maxim hadn’t ever wanted me, not really.
Damn, I was a mess of negative thoughts and no self-confidence. I hated that I felt that way, but I didn’t know how to pull myself out of the ever-increasing funk.
Yes, I realized what I was doing, and yes, I knew I needed to use certain therapies to reframe my current mental state. But it was much easier to work on other people’s problems, just like it was much more likely the cobbler would make other kids’ shoes first.
I’d learned that in school—we were our own worst clients. I probably should start seeing someone about my funk, but I kept putting it off.
“I’ll call Cormac and get the name of his cleaning service.” Maxim looked up from his book—a thick tome on some European leader I’d never heard about before. He set the book aside with a firm snap of the cover—Maxim only read hardcovers. He’d told me only the wealthy could afford such books in his hometown.
The man cleaned his own toilets and floors but bought boxes of hardcover books.
“Never mind. I know you don’t like people in your space.”
Maxim rose and stretched his arms over his head, his biceps bulging as he twisted, no doubt working out some kinks in his neck from sitting with his head bent over the book. His T-shirt rode up, exposing a sliver of skin above the waistband of his joggers.
“It isn’t my space. It’sourspace. So, what would you prefer?”
An orgasm. An apology. An explanation for lying to me. A promise you won’t ever do it again. An undying confession of love that puts me at the center of your world…like you’re at the center of mine.
Even though it freaks me out, even knowing you don’t want kids and I do… Even knowing you only married me to get your Green Card and that excuse is now gone, too.
I settled on one. “How can I trust that you won’t lie to me again?”
“Because I won’t.”
I shook my head. “I need more than a promise, Maxim. You already gave me that.”
My gaze narrowed on that strip of skin, the color lighter than his arms, the faint dusting of coarse dark hairs, the flex of his belly as he twisted…and caught me ogling.
“Like what you see?” he rumbled.
I nodded because I didn’t want to stop petting his gorgeousness with my eyes. “You know you look fantastic.” I crossed my arms over my chest. His gaze dropped to my boobs, so I slid my arms under them and pushed them upward. His nostrils flared. Ah, so he wanted me, too.
He did that man-thing of pulling off his T-shirt using one arm and my knees turned to water as my thighs clenched. I even moaned, though I bit it off.
“Now you can see every bit of me that belongs toyouand only you,” Maxim said.
I narrowed my eyes. What was his game?
He didn’t even try to flex, like some men would as he strolled toward me, all confidence, dripping hotness. Taking one of my hands, he frowned at the chill in my fingers. I’d turned the air conditioner back down to his preferred setting, which always left me cold. He brought my hand to his chest, where he settled my hand in the sparse dark hair that covered his smooth, warm skin before lifting the other and placing that hand next to the first. His nipples pebbled under my palms. My breathing sped up and my core grew warmer, achier.
I pressed my hands tighter against his skin, reveling in his body heat, and tipped my head back to meet his smoldering gaze. When I tried to step back, he snagged his arm low around my hips while his other clamped both of my hands to his chest.
“Don’t. I’ve missed you.” He gently pressed his growing bulge into the soft give of my belly. I whimpered and my core clenched, too empty, needy.
He rocked again and my head fell back, mouth open. I couldn’t help it—Maxim Dolov seemed to have a short-circuit switch when it came to my libido.
He leaned forward, his nose rubbing along the sensitive skin on my jaw. “You smell good.Always. You are so soft. Your voice is sweet and brings me joy.”
“That’s not true. You’re barely ever in the same room as me.”
