Page 8 of Surrender: XXX Maxim
Chapter Three
My memory goes hazy after that, devolving into snippets. More sex. Restless sleeping. Waking. More sleeping. When I fully regain my senses, I’m lying on a substance so soft that I swear I’m floating. Falling. My fingers fan out, scrambling for purchase against something solid. And I find it.
Warm, flexing, heavy…
Confused, I open my eyes, enthralled by the vision before me. Maxim Koslov, in stark naked glory, save the black binder around his waist. Golden hair fans over his forehead, obscuring his eyes. But they’re closed and his chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. He’s asleep. And that fact alone transforms him into another fucking person.
My breath catches as I find myself inching closer, riveted by his face when devoid of a glare or scowl. Someone like him can never be at peace—not fully. But this may be the closest I’ve seen him come to it.
And the sight leaves me stunned. My fingers fan out without my brain telling them to, smoothing over his cheek. I barely touch him before the moment shatters. He springs into awareness, grabbing my wrist, but when his eyes finally open, his fingers relax, releasing me.
We’re on the bed, I realize.
Ourbed. Sweat and musk flood the air—me and him combined into one indiscernible aroma. Gone is the distinct, invisible barrier that always divided his old suite, separating him from me.
This place is different.
And he’s still here, lingering beside me in a way he rarely has. Nostrils flared, he inhales my scent as his other hand grazes my waist, dragging me closer to him. Like a dog on a leash. I arch into the touch, savoring the satisfied grunt resonating in his chest.
“So much like a kitten,” he murmurs thickly. “Mykotyonok. Snuggling close to me when she should turn tail and run. Now more than ever.”
For once, he doesn’t sound angry, and he doesn’t roll me beneath him in a sexual frenzy either.Thisis somehow more unsettling. Him lying here with me. Breathing me in. Feeling me. Torturing me.
“I scared you tonight,” he says, his cold eyes blinking once. “I saw how you looked at me. Like I lost my goddamn mind. But, you were not the catalyst for this… I used to dreamof killing him.” I marvel at the raspy cadence of his voice, devoid of hostility. I think he’s half-asleep still, but for whatever reason, he feels compelled to share. Something. Anything.
So I hoard every scrap he’s willing to give.
“I planned it down to the last fucking detail,” he continues, absently stroking the side of my hip. “How I would make him suffer. Make him scream. For over twenty years, I’ve dreamt about it. But there are rules when it comes to revenge. I alone was never worth the risk…”
He settles the palm of his free hand against my cheek. Though he may have cleaned them of blood, violence resonates in his fingertips, impossible to erase. I can feel the power weighing down every inch of flesh and nail and bone. It’s intoxicating in its potency.
But intimacy shouldn’t feel like this—like a drug—I know that. Going off depictions in movies, I should crave heartfelt embraces and passionate cuddling.
I should crave normal, wholesome affection.
Not the caress a murderer can impart just as easily as ruthless brutality. He frowns, seemingly just as confused as I am by my reaction. My chin tilts, seeking out the contact, extending it.
“So greedy,” he admonishes. “You take only what you can in the moment. Maybe it’s for the best,” he adds. “Dwelling on the past is for the weak. Don’t make the mistake of assuming that’s why I did it. I didn’t kill him because of what he’s done—but because of what he was. A wolf too much of a fucking coward to hunt in the light, so he thrived in the shadow, picking off weak prey.Youappealed to him. He hurt you, and yet you look atmewith pity.”
His voice catches on a dangerous, unstable note I know too well.
“I don’t crave your pity.” I flinch as his fingers brush over my cheekbones, but I don’t pull away. Nails drawn, he probes me mercilessly. Whatever he seeks must lurk in the corner of my mouth. He slides his thumb along the seam, blinks…and he’s back again.
“And yet you offer it, anyway.” His nostrils flare, his voice hollow. “It’s the one thing you give me freely, other than submission. Your pity.” I can’t tell if that angers him or not.
In the end, he merely sighs and eases the hair from my face with the tip of his finger.
“That motherfucker didn’t make me. I madehim. I ended him. He didn’t fucking win. They won’t win. And whether I seek out Dima or not, nothing changes.”
“Dima?” I risk asking. He’s mentioned that name before to Milton. “Who is—”
“No one,” he snaps, but the viciousness in his voice warns of the opposite. “The past cannot be undone. So there is no point in regret. I never owed him a damn thing. I still don’t.”
My lips twitch. I need to say something else. Comfort him, I think.
Before I can get a word out, he rolls onto his side with his back to me. I barely mourn the loss of his touch when he hooks his arm around my waist, dragging me to him.
Tethering me to him.
