She hears the shower turn on. As she hobbles into the bathroom, Aleksandr catches her wince in the mirror. The grin he gives her is rude.
“Come on,” he says, undoing the drawstring of his pants. Kicking them off, he steps into the shower. After a moment’s hesitation, Lili drops the sheet and follows him in, letting the glass door fall shut behind her.
It’s incredible, the hot water: hard pressure, steam. Standing under one of the waterfall showerheads, Aleksandr scrubs his hands over his face, running through his hair before looking at her.
“Come here,” he says. Lili does as he says, expecting—something, but not how he angles her into the water, letting it soak her hair.
“Your hair’s a mess,” Aleksandr explains.
Uncertain, Lili watches him, as he starts washing her hair. He runs his fingers through the thick fall of it, lathering shampoo into her scalp; telling her when to close her eyes, tilting her head back. She feels like a child being taken care of. She’s not sure what to do with that.
Once her hair’s clean, his hands continue roaming.
She keeps watching him, fragile vulnerability slipping under her skin as he washes the rest of her. Their playful, lighthearted mood steadily drains away. His gaze shifts to something intent, serious. Slipping over her wet body, his palms mold against the slope of her waist, the gentle run of his fingers over her ribs.
Some blood on her thighs mingles with his spend. His hand moves between her legs, carefully.
Her breath catches. Need flickers again, like a flame she thought was gutted.
She leans into his hand on her. “Please,” Lili whispers, voice almost lost in the rush of water.
A frown mars the focus of his possessive gaze. “Sweetheart, I don’t think you can—”
Lili grasps his wrist. “Please, I—”
His fingers move over her, and it hurts, it really does. Stinging pain makes her bite back a hiss, but it doesn’t come anywhere close to dampening the neediness brewing inside of her.
Aleksandr’s fingers still. He looks down at her, expression inscrutable, and Lili freezes.
This was it—she was too much. Sheistoo much. Hot embarrassment floods her, and she braces for it: the rejection, the shameful sear of insufficiency.
Instead, he kisses her.
Much softer than before: that first night, this morning. His fingers curl into the hair behind her ear, holding her face. Lips soft against hers, his tongue presses into her, opening her mouth, gentle.
Something stutters in Lili. Breaks a little, cracks open.
But then he’s grasping her hips. He lifts her up against the wall, the chill of wet marble against her back. “Take a breath,” he says, and she nods.
He was right. It is too much, too soon, as he slides back inside of her, thick and hard. But Lili makes herself take it, enduring the swell of pain, the protest of her body. She wants to drive away the softness fermenting under her skin.
But instead of pushing her, forcing her: There’s the slip of his skin against hers, her gasps rising higher each time he thrusts into her—the slide of her wet skin against the cold wall, the fall of his breath against her neck—the stroke of his thumb along the line of her jaw, the way his mouth moves against her throat. These lingering kisses, heat and steam, a severe gentleness.
Her chest tightens. Not physical, no, it’s in her chest but deeper: the way he touches her, the glance of his gaze, that possessiveness and softness inexplicably mingling—
No. It’s something instead of nothing, and she doesn’t want it. She wants suffering, but of his making, not her own.
If she touches that—pain, but a lucid, fathomless pain, not the pain at his hands, but the pain inside of her—she’ll never get out. She’ll fall into the cracks of herself.
She tightens her arms around him. “Don’t be gentle,” she whispers. “Please—I can take more.”
“Lili, we just—”
“Don’t begentlewith me,” she pleads, frustrated.
Anger flashes in his eyes.
Good,she thinks.Good.
