The corner of his mouth curves, barely there. Not quite a smile. Something sharper.
“I’ll remember that.”
The jazz plays on.
The waiter waits.
And across the table, Maksim Korsakov keeps looking at me like he’s just discovered something he intends to unravel.
Chapter 33
Maksim
Two Months Later
Two months.
Two fucking months of her in my house, and every time I step through a door I brace for the hit, like she’s an intruder I should’ve shot on sight, except I’m the one who keeps opening the locks wider.
I’m pissed about it.Obsessedwith it. Can’t decide which feeling wins on any given day.
The townhouse doesn’t smell like me anymore.
It smells like her. Marshmallow—soft, sweet, stupidly addictive. That scent clings to everything: the sheets, the pillows, the collar of my shirts she steals when she thinks I’m asleep.
I catch myself burying my nose in her neck sometimes, inhaling like a junkie, chasing that sugar warmth until she laughs and punches my chest.
I don’t stop. Can’t.
She lights cashmere candles when she thinks I’m not looking, those thick, expensive ones that smell like expensive sweaters and quiet money. They burn low on the coffee table now, throwing gold flickers across the walls.
She’s all moved in.
My arm is draped across her shoulders, the other between her thighs—fingers tracing idle, possessive lines up the inside where she’s still slick and swollen from earlier.
Naked, under the throw blanket that’s more decoration than cover at this point. Her legs draped over mine, her back against the arm rest. My cock rests heavy against her leg—half-hard again, because apparently two rounds weren’t enough when she’s this close.
Her hair has grown, the purple streaks are ghosts now, faded to pale lilac at the tips, washed out by too many showers, too many nights of my hands fisting it while I fucked her from behind, from the side, against walls, over counters. I’ve redyed mine twice, but the blue’s fading. What’s left is sky blue in the blonde,natural,the color my father used to spit at. “Weakness,” he’d say, like the shade itself was proof I’d never be strong enough.
I hated it then. Hate looking at it now. Every mirror feels like an accusation.
Her fingers slide into my hair, tugging gently at the roots. Nails scraping just enough to drag me back.
I blink. Realize I’ve been staring at the candle flame, lost in the rhythm of her breathing.
“What did you say, Beda?” I mutter, voice gravel from sex and silence.
“I said let it grow out.” Her thumb brushes the shell of my ear, soft. “No more colors.”
My hand stills on her thigh. Fingers curl in—possessive, instinctive.
“No.”
She tilts her head, studying me. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t like the blond.” The words come out flatter than I mean them to. “Reminds me of shit I’d rather forget.”
Her eyes flick over my face, searching, not pushing.
