After a while, when our breathing has evened out and the world has stopped spinning, Erion moves. "Stay here."
He goes to the bathroom. I hear water running. He comes back with a warm damp towel, the heat of it a shock against my sensitive skin.
He cleans me gently, with a care that contradicts everything that came before. Takes his time. Makes sure I'm comfortable. Then he massages my wrists where the belt was, his strong fingers working out any soreness, checking for marks.
"You okay?" he asks again, his voice softer now. Vulnerable in a way I haven't heard before.
"Yes," I say. Mean it completely. "I'm more than okay."
He holds me for a while after that, his arms solid and warm around me. Kisses my forehead with a tenderness that makes my chest tight. "I'll be right back."
He leaves the room. Returns a couple minutes later carrying something.
A slice of the chocolate cake we bought this afternoon in Zurich. The one with the dark chocolate ganache and the delicate layers.
"That's for Artan and Luan when they get back," I protest weakly.
He tsks, a sound of mock disapproval. "There's plenty. They won't miss one slice."
He looks around the room, like he's considering something. Weighing options.
Then, like he's just had the brightest idea, he takes the cake off the plate. Places it directly on my belly, the cool ceramic gone, just chocolate and cream against my skin.
"Next to eating you," he says, his eyes meeting mine with mischief and heat, "the best thing is eatingfromyou."
I laugh. Can't help it. The absurdity and intimacy of it hitting me at the same time.
He lies beside me, propped up on one elbow. Takes the fork. Gives me a small bite, chocolate rich and sweet on my tongue. Then takes one himself, his eyes never leaving mine.
We eat like that. Taking turns. Quiet. The silence comfortable and easy in a way I didn't expect.
My eyes land on the medal hanging from his necklace, catching the light. Silver and worn, the engraving faded with age and touch.
"What does that mean?" I ask.
He touches it automatically, his fingers closing around the metal like he's done it a thousand times before. "Saint George.Shën Gjergjiin Albanian. My grandmother gave it to me when I was young. She was the only person who really cared about me."
He pauses, and I see something shift in his expression. Something that looks like grief.
Then he continues, his voice quieter now. "She said he's a warrior-saint. That he fights monsters instead of avoiding them. That he'd look after me because I'd have to fight a lot of monsters in my life."
His thumb rubs across the surface of the medal, the motion automatic and soothing.
"She was right," he adds, and the sadness in his voice makes my heart ache.
I don't push for more. Don't ask questions. Just let the moment sit between us, heavy with things unsaid.
We finish the cake in silence. Erion licks the remaining crumbs and ganache from my belly, his tongue warm and soft against my skin, making me shiver.
"Now I'm ready for dessert," he says, his voice dropping lower, becoming rough again with renewed desire.
He spreads my legs gently, settles between them. His hands are warm on my thighs, holding me open.
His eyes meet mine. Dark. Hungry. Full of promise and intent.
Then he lowers his head.
28
