It pains me, but I shut my eyes with barely a second to spare.
With one sense down, the sensitivity of its counterparts increases. I hear Mikhail moving around his room. His footsteps are faint but deliberate. The crack of an elastic waistband has me picturing him removing his stained sleeping pants and replacing them with a fresh pair, and then the sound of nails raking over a scalp instigates images of him dragging his fingers through his sweat-damp locks.
I imagine each precise movement he makes with ease, his after-sex routine second nature to him. He always took care of me like this, but it was compulsory back then because I was in an orgasmic coma and incapable of taking care of myself.
Memories flood my head, but I keep my breathing steady, not wanting to break the illusion that I am asleep.
After pressing a washcloth between my legs, mopping up some of the mess clinging my panties to my skin, Mikhail adjusts the blanket we kicked off when our snuggles became too heated to require outside assistance, tucking me in.
My heart thumps when a gentle touch caresses my forehead. He brushes back a stray lock of hair, his gesture tender. It speaks volumes about the man he has become and how pain can alter your perception but not wholly change you.
The gentleness of his embrace and his sigh when I fail to respond to it has me convinced I broke his heart, not the other way around.
I want to open my eyes, to force him to take the blame for our downfall, but I remain still, savoring the peace he offered when he didn’t recoil from me grinding against his thigh.
I’ve learned the hard way in the past ten years that an orgasm is a gift. It is not a given. So, as much as I want to remind Mikhail that we’re practically strangers because of the actions he took, I can’t.
Instead, I roll away from him, stuff a pillow between my legs as if he hasn’t satisfied my urges, and then count backward from a thousand.
Sexually depleted, I fall asleep somewhere in the low two hundreds.
By the time I wake again, the high-hanging sun is streaming through the cracks in the curtains, and the thump of my tired muscles relishes the coolness of an unslept-on pillow when I roll over to check the time. The sheets are cold where Mikhail slept, and the silence of the room feels heavy.
My throat grows scratchy when I learn it is almost noon. I’ve never slept in so late, and the bar was once open until 2 a.m. during its heydays.
After a quick stretch, I throw off the covers and slip out of bed. My stomach grumbles loudly, reminding me of the minuscule meal I consumed before burning off far more calories with a late-night swim.
As I rub my eyes, the events of last night flood back in. The spooning, the touching, the way my ignorance didn’t stop Mikhail from pulling me back onto his half of the mattress when he returned to bed. They all flood back in and cause me to shiver like the heating isn’t at a ghastly setting.
I don’t regret what happened last night, but I need to confront Mikhail about it. Mikhail and I crossed a boundary, and though I’d like to ignore it, I can’t.
As I make my way downstairs, the busy hum of the Zelenolsk estate gobbles up my footsteps. A hive of activity occurs around me, but none of them are occurring by the man I’m seeking.
My eyes don’t land on Mikhail until I enter the kitchen. He is seated at the breakfast nook, scrolling through messages on his phone. He appears well-rested, as if an orgasm solves everything.
He came twice in a matter of hours. I guess his theory could be valid. I feel extremely light on my feet, and I only floated between the clouds once.
Needing caffeine before I wrestle the obvious elephant in the room, I plaster a smile onto my face before making a beeline for the brimming coffee pot.
“Morning,” I greet halfway there to anyone listening.
Several pairs of eyes shift to me, but only one offers a vocal greeting.
“Morning,” Mikhail parrots, his voice strained as he drags his hooded gaze down my body.
I’m still wearing what I went to bed in last night—sticky underwear and all.
Mikhail’s eyes, now narrowed, return to my face when I say, “Before you say anything… these are shorts.” I point to the extremely indecent hem of my pajama shorts before hooking my thumb to my shirt. “This top is cotton. So, technically, I’m not breaking your highly irrational dress code.”
He looks confused. Utterly and wholly confused.
Still desperate for caffeine, I fetch a mug from an overhead cupboard like I’ve lived here for years before helping myself to the coffee in a recently replenished pot, horrifying the staff paid to answer Mikhail’s every whim.
I doubt they’ve ever seen a Dokovic make themselves a cup of coffee. My new surname may only be temporary, but my dislike of being fussed over would be foreign to them.
While nursing a murky black brew with two generous sugar clumps, I twist to face Mikhail. Even with the coffee scorching hot, I take a sip, needing to use the mug to hide my smile about his miffed expression.
Half my booty popped out the bottom of my shorts when I rose to my tippy-toes to gather a mug. The lusty gleam from the gardener trimming the hedges near the kitchen window announces this, not to mention how scalded my skin became when a heated glare projected from Mikhail’s half of the enormous space during my stretch.
