What the fuck is wrong with me because my cheeks heat at the insinuation.
Russet: I’m sore.
Maxim: Is that a compliment?
Russet: That type of joke makes you sound like a teenager.
No dots appear and he never responds. Either my new husband is a terrible texter or my sarcasm has already pissed him off.
“I make you a salad for lunch,” Olga says as I pass through the living room.
“Okay.” More like give me a pizza and let me stress eat, but sure, salad sounds great.
The suitcases are gone from the bedroom, and the linen on the bed is fresh. A few toiletry bags sit on the bathroomvanity, Olga knowing better than to come between a woman and her makeup products.
But I’m not searching for lipstick or my favorite mascara. Instead, I untwist a cap off a blue tube and dab some cream onto my hand.
It’s dark outside, the bedroom’s floor-to-ceiling windows letting in a picturesque view of the lit-up city skyline, when Maxim comes home. He’s not in a suit, but his trousers are black, his shirt a button-down. My stomach tightens at how pretty and soft his black hair is, the strands just slightly curly. It’s the only boyish feature. The rest of him is that same marble, hard and unyielding, from the past few days.
I lift my hand. “Did you give me a disease?”
The first few buttons of his collar are undone, but he’s much too polished. I’m a take my pants off immediately once I’m home type of girl, but I guess the walk from my front door to closet was much shorter in comparison to the grandiose floorplan he’s got.
“Did you give me an STI?”
It’s definitely my sarcasm pissing him off.
His hands remain in his pockets, his jaw clenching. But his eyes dip to the red, angry patch on my hand. “What is that?”
“It won’t stop itching.” It’s an absolute bitch.
“It’s a rash.” He unbuttons his shirt, his lean, tight muscles tensing. That’s his entire being. When he wasn’t fucking my brains out this weekend, he was on the phone discussing business. Not that he talked anywhere near me, but I noticed the tight shoulders and the way his body remained tense when he returned.
Maxim needs to learn how to relax.
“It’ll probably go away.” He folds his shirt—actually folds it—and places it on the dresser drawer. I assume Olga will deal with it tomorrow. “Come shower with me.”
My stomach tightens. “Don’t you want to introvert? It’s been a long day.”
“No,” he simply says, going into the bathroom. The shower runs, steam rising. We shared several showers over the weekend, but I’m not in a sex haze. I don’t doubt it’ll get there, but right now Maxim is mechanical as he washes his hair.
“I should go to a dermatologist.”
He picks up a washcloth, motioning for me to turn around. He’s big on directing me to do stuff without even talking.
“A dermatologist.” I don’t finish the thought, my teeth sinking into my bottom lip when he rubs between my pussy. “I’m still sore.”
His touch gentles, but there’s a whisper of a promise. Or a threat.
The cloth soothes over my skin, down my arm. I’m puffy and red from the steam, but the spot on my hand stands out.
“I’ll get something scheduled,” he says.
“I’ll get something scheduled,” I reply. He lets me take the cloth and I begin washing him. Either I’m a really good actor or absolutely crazy.
“I’m sure my mother knows of a dermatologist.” He must be confusing dermatologist with plastic surgeon.
“I already have one. I can go back there.”
