His voice is gruff, when he speaks, and it raises goosebumps along my spine, but the words are oddly soft.
“Let’s get you ready for bed,” he rasps, reaching for my toothbrush and putting some toothpaste on it before handing it over.
Only after I start to brush does he do the same for himself.
It’s an oddly intimate act, brushing our teeth at the same time.
I don’t know that Pyotr ever cared to share space during my bedtime routine. And even though it’s just brushing my teeth, I find myself blushing every time our eyes meet.
He waits for me to lean over and spit my toothpaste in the sink before he goes to the other basin to follow suit. Then he watches, his gaze curious and expectant as I take a makeup cloth and clean my face. Usually, I have a rather meticulous process of cleansing and creams, but my feet are throbbing, and I don’t really want to stand on them to properly wash my face. So instead, I splash some cool water on it, washing away the makeup remover.
Then I dig for the conviction to slide off the counter and hobble into the bedroom.
But before I can muster the courage, Miko’s scooping me back into his arms. My heart flip-flops dangerously as he carries me to the bed and sets me down like I weigh nothing.
“Where are your, ah, nightclothes?” he asks, glancing toward the dresser as he tries to pick the right word.
Last night, we never got far enough to put clothes back on, and I smile as I point to the appropriate drawer. “Thank you.” It feels like I’ve said those two words to Miko more in the past twenty-four hours than I did during the entire year of my marriage to Pyotr—and the contrast is stark.
I’m genuinely grateful for Miko’s acts of kindness, and I can’t recall the last time my former husband did something to merit the word.
Pulling a silk tank top and matching blue sleep shorts from the top drawer, Miko brings them over and drops them on the bed beside me.
Then he leans in to grasp the hem of my dress.
My breath catches, my skin warming as he guides the fabric up my thighs, his fingers brushing lightly against me along the way.
Bracing on my palms, I lift my hips, and he pulls the dress higher, bringing it up over my shoulders, arms, and head as I raise my hands to let him.
As I reach behind me to unclasp my bra, he turns his attention to my tank top, getting it ready for me rather than openly staring at my body or turning the moment into a sexual act.
I can see his arousal, though, pressing against the seam of his jeans, and my mouth goes dry as my body responds instinctually.
Heat blossoms in my core, and I press my knees together to hide my excitement, confused by its sudden intensity when he hasn’t even touched me like that.
I hold up my arms once more to let Miko dress me, and a shiver races through me when the soft fabric slithers across my skin.
Is it completely mental that I wish it were his hands?
They’re a hundred times more calloused—and strong enough to steal the breath from my lungs—but for some reason, I crave their roughness.
My pulse quickens when his fingers hook inside the elastic waistline of my panties, and he pulls them slowly down my hips, just like he did last night.
But once the flimsy lace finds the floor, he reaches for my sleep shorts, reversing the process with such chaste discipline, I wonder if maybe I’m imagining his excitement.
I don’t understand what it means.
This careful distance, his gentle touch. It feels so completely foreign, it’s starting to make me anxious.
So, when he straightens and starts to strip his own clothes, I watch, trying to understand what he wants.
Shedding his henley and jeans, Miko gives me one perfect glimpse of his chiseled body.
Then he’s trading out his boxers for a fresh pair before he comes to bed.
A smirk curls the corners of his lips when he catches me watching him.
“Like what you see,topolina?” he teases.
