A laugh almost slips out of me. Of course she isn’t. I’m surprised there wasn’t a fight. Katya is lethal in her own right.
“I know,” I say.
Her silence shifts. Softer now. Listening.
“I’m on my way home,” I tell her. “I’ll bring you something.”
Another pause.
This one smaller. “Okay.”
I hang up and head for the bike. The anger is still there. But now it has somewhere to go for relief.
Home.
Chapter 51
Ayla
Two Months Later
The hallway light is still on, a thin gold line under the door, but inside it’s just us and the dark blue spill from the city outside. I’m already under the sheets when he comes back from the bathroom, towel slung low on his hips, hair damp at the ends. He doesn’t turn on the lamp. He never does when it’s late like this.
He stops at the foot of the bed and looks at me.
I’m propped on one elbow, sheet pulled up just high enough to cover my breasts, legs tangled in the cotton like I’ve already given up pretending I’m not waiting. His eyes drag over the shape of me under the fabric—slow, lingering, the way he looks at something he already owns and still wants to remind himself he does.
“You’re staring,” I say.
His mouth curves, small and knowing. “You’re in my bed.”
“Ourbed,” I correct, mostly to be difficult.
He lets the towel fall. Doesn’t rush. Just steps out of it and pulls the sheets off of me. He climbs onto the mattress, knee first, then the other, until he’s over me, caging me without touching yet. The mattress dips. My body instinctively shifts toward the center of him, thighs parting a fraction before I can stop them.
He notices, like always.
One hand plants beside my head. The other slides down, finds my hip, thumbs the tattoo there like he’s mapping territory he’s already claimed a hundred times. His skin is still warm from the shower. Smells like his body wash and mint.
“Legs,” he says. Quiet, commanding. Just the word, low and certain.
I could argue. I almost do—I feel the stubborn little spark in my chest, but then his thumb strokes once, slow, across the crease where thighmeets hip, and the spark gutters out into something hotter. I open for him.
He settles between my thighs, heavy and warm, cock already half-hard and brushing the inside of my leg. Just resting there, letting me feel the weight, the heat, the faint metallic promise of those bars I know by heart now.
His mouth finds my throat first. No teeth. Just lips, open, dragging up the side until he reaches the place he marked earlier. He kisses it—soft, almost tender, then sets his teeth there, light pressure, enough to make me arch and press my breasts against his chest.
“Maks…”
He hums against my skin. The sound vibrates straight down my spine.
Then he shifts, lines himself up, and pushes in—slow, one long continuous slide until he’s seated deep and I’m full in that heavy, stretching way that still makes my breath catch every damn time. No rush. No slam. Just him filling me until there’s nowhere left to go, until my body has to soften and accept every inch.
I make a small, helpless sound into his shoulder. My nails dig into his back, not hard enough to break skin, just enough to hold on.
He stays there. Doesn’t move. Lets me feel him throb once, twice, inside me. Lets me adjust. Lets me feel how perfectly we fit when there’s no hurry, no audience, no adrenaline to chase.
“You good?” he murmurs against my ear.
