Maksim stands at the edge of the mattress in nothing but his boxer briefs, for a second, just looking at me.
Then he climbs onto the bed.
Slowly. Like he has all the time in the world.
His hand drifts over my ankle first, then my calf, then higher, fingertips tracing idle patterns over my skin like he’s mapping out places only he gets to know.
“You should be marked,” he murmurs.
My mouth curves against the pillow. “I already am.”
That makes something shift in his face. A dark little flicker of amusement. He leans down, nose brushing my knee, then my thigh.
“Not like that,” he says. “I mean properly.”
I tip my head. “Properly?”
His thumb drags over my hip. “Ink.”
I huff a laugh. “You giving me tattoo suggestions now?”
His gaze lifts to mine. “I have several.”
I pull my leg away. “That’s not fucking happening.”
His hand catches my ankle before I get far.
Firm.
His thumb strokes once over the bone there, slow, absent, like he’s calming an animal that doesn’t know whether to bite yet.
“Why not?”
I snort and prop myself up on one elbow, his shirt riding higher on my thighs. “Because I like my skin the way it is.”
His gaze drops when the shirt shifts.
“Liar.”
I narrow my eyes. “Excuse me?”
“You’d look good with ink.”
“That doesn’t mean I want it.”
His hand slides up my calf again, slower this time. Thoughtful. Dangerous in the way quiet men get when they’re no longer playing.
“I know where I’d put it.”
I laugh once, but it comes out thinner than I mean it to. “That sentence alone is exactly why the answer is no.”
His mouth twitches.
Then he climbs higher over me, one knee settling between my legs, one hand planted by my head. Close enough that his heat starts swallowing the space between us.
“Here,” he says, thumb brushing the sharp point of my hip through the hem of his shirt. “Low enough no one sees it unless I want them to.”
A pulse kicks low in my stomach.
