41. KAVI

41

KAVI

I'm plucked off the floor and carried to the living room. The water dripping off him is freezing. Still, I cling to his shoulders.

Dmitri has a white chaise in the living room. It's long enough that I've slept on it before. After a slow journey—strangely slower than I've ever seen him move—he settles me against the cushions and steps back. My skirt bunches by my knees.

"Can you wait for me?"

He's not dried off, but dripping. An indecent amount of droplets curve slow-motion down the lines of his body. One gathers on his left nipple and is ready to fall over that dusky point. I stare and stare at it until fingers capture my chin. Dmitri stands above me, so I have to look up.

"Can you wait for me here?" he asks again, his tone feather-soft.

I can only nod, because I am in a state of shock.

Because have you ever confessed things that usually live deep down inside you, in the most rambling way, to a person part of you had assumed wasn't there? It was therapeutic and—my throat clogs thinking about it—charged and clumsy, and now I feel like that safe, unknown door I was saying things to has opened, and I've been brought into the light. It's too bright. I'm blinking. Latent embarrassment tries to sink its claws into me, but there's no time. It can't latch on because Dmitri's in the kitchen… I think? I hear a fridge opening and that's all I'm focusing on now.

His movements.

A clink of dishes. Drawers being opened. The fridge is closed.

When I close my eyes, I hear more. He's moving… slower than usual. Much slower. But steadily, as if nothing will stop him.

It's nice to keep my eyes shut, so I keep them that way, even when I hear him finally enter the living room again. My head rests on the pillowed back of the chaise. How long has it been? I don't know why, but I'm not ready to check or open my eyes.

"Kavi."

I shiver.

"Are you going to ignore me?" he wonders.

My eyes squeeze tighter. "I said a lot of things. Personal things."

The area by my feet dips. My toes gingerly slide over and find skin much warmer than before. Nothing yet has happened, but my pulse rolls down a hill.

Suddenly, my foot is held, and then an opposing force is applied. I gasp. He's opening them up. My legs.

"Dmitri—"

"I'm making room. My knee—I'm sorry. I need to rest it on something."

His apology is confusing enough that my eyes snap open.

OH. MY. GOD.

My hand flies up to my mouth.

He's in an apron, standing at the foot of the chaise, towering above me. By pushing my legs apart, he's made room between them for one of his knees to come down and sink into the cushion. That whole thigh is as thick as both my hands combined and dusted with dark hair.

I can see…

He's naked. In an apron.

Angling out from the sides of the fabric is taut buttock.

My mouth dries. Dusted chest hair. Pectorals. Biceps. Wide shoulders. Arms. Hands. Skin. So much skin. Every part of him is naked except for the apron, halter-tied around his neck. It's beige, sitting below his nipples and ending above his knees, covering his abs and his groin. The material is thick. An attempt at a shield, though easily invaded if need be.

"Can this work?" he asks me, gruffly. "For the dare?"

Other parts of me are spasming, so it takes a moment for the question to register. When it does, I remember it like a camera flash. My last words to him.

Him. Naked. Serving me dinner. A maid's costume???

Both hands cover my face, fingers spreading wide enough that I can look between them. Words fail me.

Undeterred, Dmitri picks up a bowl that he had rested on the side table beside us. He tilts the rim. I see low-calorie ice cream infused with protein powder. I've told him repeatedly it's not like real ice cream, but he's done his best to sweeten it for me. Drizzled on top is a decadent amount of honey and—chocolate chips? Where did he find those?

His other hand holds a spoon. "It's past midnight. So that's why—the ice cream."

He's loading up the spoon. "It's what a maid would do," he explains. "Feed you."

This man has clearly never interacted with a maid or watched them do anything.

"I know." His expression tightens. "It's not enough."

The spoon hovers up to my mouth. "We can start with this. Let me know if you want to take pictures. You can show the team. I won't mind. Whatever you decide, I'll take it."

Ice cream brushes my lips. I'm lost in a haze. I don't know what to do, but to open my mouth and taste. With the toppings, it's so delicious that I moan.

Dmitri stiffens, shifting his supported knee deeper into the couch. It registers in my head that he's got it wrapped.

I reach over and trace the edge of the thick athlete's tape. "Why?"

Dmitri loads up another bite for me. "It's a little dinged."

A little? Over the scent of chocolate, I smell ointment. The kind that burns your nose if you breathe it in, it's so potent.

"What were you doing in the bathroom?" I whisper, remembering how cold he was.

"Ice-bath." Ice cream brushes my mouth again.

"Are you hurt?"

He nudges the spoon against my lips until I open. Eat. Swallow. Moan again. Repeat.

The ice cream finishes too quickly.

Dmitri puts the bowl down and picks up two glasses. "Water or milk?"

I'm a double-down-on-the-dairy-woman. "Milk, but wait?—"

"Drink."

I try grabbing the glass as it's offered, but he won't let me. "It's what a maid does."

"It really isn't." And yet, I still drink from his hands.

When he asks if I want more ice cream, I shake my head, squirming in my seat. A very naked hockey player in an apron is serving me as I lay legs spread out on a chaise. It's dizzying. Heat pools lower in my belly.

"Why?" I manage to ask.

"You know why. You won. I'll do anything."

"Maybe I don't care." I glance away. "You're just a hockey player, right? I should expect…" Disappointment.

Except I don't. Not from him.

It killed me when he took back his word about the barbecue and left me alone tonight. I hunch, remembering it.

"You are so mad at me." Dmitri inhales sharply. "And I deserve it all."

"We had an agreement and then you changed your mind. All good. I'll live."

His arms come down, resting on either side of me. He's tall, big, and blocking the light. Tendrils of damp hair fall across his forehead. A flush blooms across his cheeks, neck, and part of his chest I can see.

"I. Fucked. Up."

His voice is raw… hoarse…

I smell honey and medicine. But I taste something even more bitter. My chin lifts. "The ice cream is you fixing it? Do you think that's all it takes?"

I wasn't wrong when I confessed to him earlier. Old Kavi would have nursed a man's bad mood all night so carefully. But today, I went out. Today, I picked myself. And before then, with the photos I took tonight, there was a step forward of believing in my work. I'm learning it. That I deserve more than the little I'd allotted myself for so many years.

"What else do maids do?" A water droplet slides along his clenched jaw and drips onto my cheek. "If this isn't enough, what else can I do? How do you want me, Princess?"

My legs tremble. He notices and a big, warm palm comes down and holds me in place. I softly hiss.

"You're so soft," he accuses. "And tense."

Slowly, his hand moves up and down, applying pressure. "How do I make you feel good? How do I show you I'm so fucking sorry that I couldn't be who you needed me to be tonight? Please, Kavi. Tell me."

His desperation makes my core tighten.

I'm wet—down there. How can I not be? It's worse because I like Dmitri. Help me, but I do. That's why this hurts. He makes my heart go off-rhythm, and I should hate it. I'm not supposed to let another man in again, not after what happened last time. I should block off whatever is swirling between us because he's just another hockey player. He's told me himself—and yet, here he is, telling me I can take whatever I want from him. That he fucked up. That he's sorry.

Dmitri watches me carefully. His big hand is indescribably capable. Squeezing away soreness, but inspiring such emptiness somewhere else.

I shudder.

"That's it, Princess. Relax."

We're both breathing so hard.

"Let me take care of you. Let me give you whatever you want."

"Dmitri," I complain.

"I know, Princess. You can do anything on your own. You're so strong and brilliant." His grip applies pressure to the underside of my knee, and then he dips lower, soothing my calves. "You are capable of anything, I know. It's only a matter of time before you stand and conquer it all. You don't know how fucking proud of you I am. How much you inspire me."

I whimper.

He's petting my entire leg now, alternating between them. Up, down. Up, down. I'm going incoherent under his hands, straining against them.

His mouth finds my ear. "You can rely on me, I swear. I won't let you down—trust me again?—"

My hand shoots out. I cover his mouth.

There's a big, dangerous word. Trust.

I've learned how flimsy it can become.

If I'm being honest, I don't know if I really trust any more. Definitely not Tyler. And… maybe… not even my parents… which hurts.

But—today—I wanted to trust myself.

"I went out," I remind him. "Without you."

Does he get what a big deal it was for me? Even if it sounds so inconsequentially minor.

I made a decision about myself. How sad that I can't remember the last time I've completely put myself first, against the overwhelming pressure inside me to soothe another person's feelings.

He can't speak. My fingers are still over his mouth.

Dark golden eyes wait, not fighting me.

It's my turn to tilt my head and raise myself enough so my mouth goes to his ear.

"I'm…." I whisper. "Trying. To choose me. And I don't know what happened tonight and why you went home, but I was really disappointed, okay? I have no right to be, but I was."

Because I might have lived with a lifetime of people not basing any decisions around me and clawed back promises, but?—

I blink back tears.

I didn't expect it from him. Which is absurd, for we've only been living together for so long, but I've come to expect things… of him.

"I should pretend I don't care or convince myself it doesn't matter," I say, as if speaking to myself. "But that's how I used to be. I don't think I want to do that anymore."

Slowly, I take my fingers off his mouth.

"Trust me," he immediately begs.

Shouldn't today be a reminder? That I must not. "How?"

"I'll give you anything. What do you want, Kavi?"

You.

That's the humongous, highlighted answer hanging in the background.

Since he came back into my life, the man that I think about when I touch myself is Dmitri. I can't lie to myself in this moment. Especially when he surrounds me like this. The smell of him is so clean. There's soap and something else, a bone-deeply addicting essence. Despite the prickling ointment, I could brush my nose against every inch of him. It would be euphoric.

And his hands?—

They hold my legs, warmth enveloping my skin.

It's so good, but it's not enough, is it? The pressure of the rest of his body on mine is a ghost. So faint I could die. My body trembles.

He strokes my dimpled leg. I look down to where his fingers have splayed against my brown skin. "Do you like touching me?"

"It kills me," he confesses.

My fingers encircle one of his wrists. "So you should stop?"

"That would kill me more."

Would it? Would it really? I want to see. I don't believe him.

"Go… back up a little. And… hands off." It's my first real order. And it… thrills me?

Without a word, he obeys. That has me panting. Dmitri Lokhov doesn't care about or listen to anyone else, and yet he's looking at me as if I'm the start and the end of this night to him. I pull myself up higher on the chaise. My pleated skirt pools around my waist, but it's not enough. I raise the hem, more and more, until it's flipped over.

" Fuck! Kavi?—"

"No talking."

It's on display. How drenched I've become, soaking through cotton. I don't take off my underwear, but I graze the center of it. I don't know what I'm doing, but I also can't seem to care. His words replay in my head. He loves to touch me?

"You… can look. But you can't touch it." Slowly, I move my underwear to the side, watching his expression.

Angles stand out. There's a seizing of his body before it goes intensely rigid. A deep, lumbering noise escapes Dmitri.

I dip in and out of my wetness. I've never been so close before like this.

"Fuck. Fuck. You don't want these?" He turns his palms and holds them out to me. "Let me. Fuck—Let me."

Slowly, I circle my clit. "I've got to learn how to stand on my own," I murmur. "To count on myself. To decide for myself what I want and deserve. I'm the only one who can make myself feel this way. Who knows how to do this job." Pleasure laps every corner of my cunt. It's crying out for something thick, but I ignore it. "You said it, Dmitri. How you're another hockey player. The same as them all, right? Calling me Princess like it's whatever?—"

"You think I don't mean it?" he wheezes.

"How many women do you call Princess? Is that your thing?" I don't want to be blindsided again. "Who else is your Princess?"

"No one. Only you. Always only you."

My touch falters. I blink up at him.

"I haven't had girlfriends," he says, as if it makes complete sense.

"Dmitri," I whisper, my breath hitching. "I don't understand."

"You don't have to," he says, raggedly. "Just keep touching yourself, baby. Make me suffer. Because I am. I'm fucking dying. You're killing me."

I press the heel of my palm against my pussy, moaning. "I've never done anything like this in my life. But I want to. So badly."

"You're doing so well, Kavi. That's it. Keep touching that pretty little pussy." His voice is low, obscene, and somehow still demanding. "Part those gorgeous lips for me. Be a good girl. Let me see that beautiful little clit. It's needy, isn't it? I need to see properly. Come on. Show me what I can't have. Show me your heaven, baby."

I part myself.

His pupils blow out. "I could make it feel so good. Don't you want that? Let me. I'll suck and lick that sweet clit for hours."

"All n-night?"

"Keep me on the foot of your bed tonight. That's where I'll sleep. I'll eat your pussy. Fuck my face with it, Princess. Say the word."

Wetness slides down my thighs. Needy noises start low in my throat. I've never come with Tyler in the room. There was so much pretending there. But with him, with Dmitri, he hasn't even touched me and I'm scorched. Writhing.

"You're so beautiful. So gorgeous. So perfect." His cheeks are flush and his eyes are unfocused as he shows me his hands. His fingers are thick and ready. "Please?"

I'm shaking harder. His words are so eager and filthy and sincere that I can't stop.

"Put me to use."

I'm hurtling up and over?—

"I would fuck you like it means everything, Princess."

I come.

He carries me to my bed, still wearing his apron, telling me how beautiful I am, that I've done so well, and that I ruined him so completely that he doesn't know what to do next.

The journey to the bedroom is slow. Dmitri takes breaks, just standing there and holding me.

When he finally tucks me into my covers, he lingers.

I'm so boneless it takes effort for my eyes to stay open.

But when he turns to leave, I catch him by the hand.

"You weren't turned on," I remember, my grip tightening. My other hand gestures. The front of his apron had stayed flat.

He brings my hand to his mouth and kisses every single knuckle. Then he lets go and steps back, turning to the side and lifting the apron.

Oh… Oh my god.

Underneath is his cock. Big, thick, and perfect.

The top is dripping. So is the front of his body.

He's come all over himself. And he's still hard.

So hard his cock looks angry.

But the reason the apron didn't bulge out with his erection is because he's used athletic tape to strap himself against his stomach.

My mouth parts. I feel barely coherent looking at what he's done.

"You make me so fucking hard, Kavi." He lowers the apron.

"W-why the tape?"

"Because you asked for me to be naked, and I can't not be hard when it comes to you, but it wasn't about me. You didn't need to see it and think—or be pressured?—"

I'm not pressured. I'm empty. It would stuff every part of me it tries to enter. My mouth. Pussy. I would be so full of his cock it would be all I could feel.

"Stop it," Dmitri growls. "Don't look at it like that."

I reach for him.

"You can't." He staggers back. The effort to constrain himself is painfully obvious. "You trusted me not to touch. But I don't—I can't—I don't have control right now. If you touch me—" The shake of his head is miserable. "No, I won't let you down again. You have to trust me."

With that said, he rushes out. As if he can't possibly be in the same room as me right now.