Page 45 of Dice & Dekes

Still lying on my back, I take his hand and trace two fingers through the mess he made of my chest. Then I lift them to my mouth and suck them clean.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Viktor whispers. “Knova…”

He doesn’t say anything else, just kisses me for all he’s worth, licking his cum from my lips. Like he’s trying to memorize me. Like he’s afraid I’ll vanish in the morning. And for a second, I let myself pretend that I’m his. That he’s mine. That this—whatever this is—could be enough to keep the darkness away.

By the time he gets up a few minutes later, I’m drifting toward sleep. I hear the sound of running water in the bathroom, and then the warm pressure of a damp washcloth against my chest as he cleans me up.

“Are you okay?” he whispers. “Was that… good?”

“It was perfect,” I tell him. I got exactly what I wanted. A stunning orgasm that leaves no room for thoughts.

If he says anything after that, I don’t hear it, because I’m already asleep.

Chapter Ten

Viktor

Knova and I spend the next few days doing what we do best—avoiding emotional landmines like it’s our job. We don’t talk about that night. Not the flight. Not what happened in bed. And definitely not what it meant.

But I think about it constantly.

The way she looked at me when I gripped her throat—not scared, not shocked, but like she wanted more. The way she moaned when I told her exactly how I was going to ruin her. The way she let me finish on her chest, messy and unfiltered, like she wanted all of me, even the unpretty parts. The way she painted her lips with my cum. That night didn’t just blow my mind—it shattered whatever walls I had left.

Because with her? I wasn’t holding back.

And she didn’t just take it—she pulled it out of me. Welcomed it. Matched it.

So yeah. I don’t ask what it meant. Because if it didn’t mean something to her, I don’t think I want to know.

So instead of pushing, I try to stay useful. I make her tea. I change her sheets. I keep my mouth shut.

We fall into something like a routine, one that doesn’t involve a lot of talking about deep shit. We spend a few more nights in the same bed. No touching. Just warmth and silence. I lie awake for hours listening to her breathe and wondering if she regrets it. Wondering if she’d want more.

And every night, I keep my hands to myself. I tell myself it’s the right thing to do. That she needs space. That touching her again would be selfish. But damn, if it doesn’t feel like a lie.

The morning of my next day off, we wake to my alarm. It’s early, but I need time to get ready before my day starts. I have the usual plans for the day, plans that I haven’t shared with my… wife.

I’m still getting used to that status, and I know better than to take her for granted. I love the way my heart swells with that word, and the sight of her curled in bed next to me is delicious. I kiss her temple as I shimmy out of bed without waking her and shower quickly in the hopes of letting her sleep in. I can tell she’s had bad dreams recently, though she doesn’t like to talk about it. This morning, she looks peaceful. I hope she can finally catch up on her rest.

Even half-asleep, Knova’s a knockout. Jet-black hair spilling everywhere like silk and those wild blue eyes—too sharp to be called pretty, too haunting to forget. She’s got this lithe, athletic build that still manages to make oversized t-shirts and combat boots look like lingerie and heels. A hurricane in human form, and I’m always in the path.

I don’t look half bad myself—at least, according to the mirror Knova hasn’t thrown out. Lean muscle from years on the ice, a sleeve of tattoos curling down my right arm and across my chest, and hair that does its own thing no matter what I do to it. Green eyes that hide more than they show. I don’t smile much, but when I do, I know it lands. It used to matter more. Now? I only care what she sees when she looks at me.

By the time I emerge from the bathroom, she’s cocooned in the blankets, watching me. Her smile slips, fast. “Wait. You’re dressed?”

I pause mid-button. “Yeah.”

“That’s a shame.” She drops the blanket—slowly, deliberately. “Because I’m not.”

Her movements are nothing but a slow tease, like she knows damn well she’s about to level me. And God, does she ever. The soft morning light filters through the curtains and kisses every inch of her bare skin—golden and flushed from sleep, nipples tight from the cooler air, one leg bent just enough to expose the silky seam of her perfect pussy. Her hair is a wild mess around her shoulders, lips parted, chest rising and falling like she’s daring me to do something about the ache she just reignited. And I am absolutely fucking feral for her. One look, and my dick punches against my pants like it wants to break free and worship her all damn day.

But she picked the worst possible moment to present herself like this.

She watches me like she’s waiting for something. A reaction. A move. A goddamn pulse.

And I just stand there like an idiot in slacks.

I shake my head with the kind of regret I don’t have to fake. “I’m sorry, babe, I have errands. I’ll be back sometime after lunch, though.”

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