“You have a really lovely face.”
Fedya’s lips quirked as he warmed it between his fingers before applying it, smoothing it gently over the sore, tender spots along her inner thighs and hips.
“That’s one way to put it.”
“I want you to fuck me again,” she said. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say she was drunk.
“I will.”
“There.” She pointed at the shower cubicle. “I want you to fuck me there.”
“I will,” he promised, rubbing soothing circles over the bruises on her hips. “I’ll do whatever you ask me to. Right after you can walk.”
She smacked his chest lightly. “I can walk, silly. It’s just a bit difficult.”
“I wonder why.”
She grabbed his face, leaned forward, and kissed his forehead. “I’m a bit hungry.”
“Come on,” he said, his heart full and content. He took her hand, ignoring his own need for a shower, and led her out of the bathroom.
In the kitchen, he attempted to teach her how to make pancakes the Russian way.
“It’s called blini or blinchiki,” he explained, beating milk and eggs in a large bowl. “They’re thinner than American pancakes.”
“That’s just a crepe,” Maeve said, sitting on the counter, wrapped in one of his shirts that was oversized for her. Her hands were perched on the counter beside her, and her legs were swinging as she watched him blend in flour.
“Similar, but no,” he responded, setting the bowl down. He grabbed a pan, said, “Oladi is different. Thicker than blini and yeast-free. Yoghurt and baking powder make it fluffy.”
Maeve nodded, silently mouthing the word. Fedya bit back a grin and grabbed a small frying pan. He tossed in a teaspoon of melted butter and set the pan on medium-high heat.
“You need to cook it for one minute,” he explained, pouring the batter into the heated pan, forming a perfect circle.
Maeve leaned over, her stomach growling in anticipation. “Who taught you how to cook?”
“No one,” he said. “I discovered I liked it, and I simply took a class.”
“What?” she laughed. He liked it. “Youtook a cooking class?”
Fedya flipped the blini over. “Why is that so funny?”
“Because I find it ironic that you were so dedicated to learning how to cook that you took a class,” she explained, staring at the blini he took out of the pan. “I can’t cook anything. Not even eggs.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Not even pancakes?”
“Definitely not.”
“Well then,” he said, grabbing another mixing bowl, before lining up a set of ingredients. “Here’s your chance to learn.”
“I will absolutely ruin them.”
“I’m sure you will,” he said. She glared at him as he handed her a whisk. “Mix,zhena.”
She started stirring slowly, cautiously, as if she were mixing blood instead of ordinary batter. She bit her lip like she did when she painted, looking far too serious for a blini. Fedya watched her work, sweating as she did so, amused when she spilled flour, dropped a bit of egg yolk on the counter, and nearly sent the bowl flying when she accidentally moved her elbow out of range.
“Okay,” he said, taking the bowl from her. He looked down at the smooth batter, and she gave him a thumbs-up. “Now we flip.”
“Yes, the tricky part.”
