Chapter 24 She Was Not Weak. She Was Only Asleep
Chapter 24 She Was Not Weak. She Was Only Asleep
Nadja Ironside
My hands rise. It is a trembling movement, guided by a curiosity stronger than any hesitation. They find his chest, the skin wet and marked. The contact is a shock to me and to him as well. He closes his eyes and a guttural groan escapes his lips. The sensation under my hands is one of pure contained strength and living heat. My hands are small and cold compared to the pressure of my fingers on his skin. The texture I feel under my fingertips is the most erotic thing I have ever experienced.
"I need to come, Little One," he says, opening his eyes that are inches from mine.
I see the war in his gaze, a struggle between the control he has always personified and the need consuming him.
"I understand you. I swear I understand you. But I need to come. Now."
They are the final words. They break something in me. The hesitation dissolves, replaced by a fierce determination born from the depths of my own desire. My gaze steadies. My right hand descends, leaving the safety of his chest, tracing a slow and deliberate path down the wet trail of his tense abdomen. The air seems to vanish from my lungs. My fingers finally find his erection.
The contact is an explosion of sensations. The skin is like velvet over steel. He draws a sharp breath, his entire body going rigid. And I touch him. My touch is inexperienced, as I have never done this before, and the memories I have are not the best.
He emits a low sound, almost a growl, and then his large hand envelops mine, his fingers interlacing with my own, guiding the rhythm and showing the pressure.
The courage that split me in half finds a voice. I whisper, but it comes out laden with everything I feel:
"I want to give you what you gave me!"
It is as if my words grant final permission to the storm inside him. A low, wild roar tears from his throat. In one fluid and powerful motion, his arm wraps around my waist and lifts me off the floor. My feet lose contact with the ground as he takes the few steps to the bathroom door and presses me against the damp wood.
Our gazes lock in a duel of fire and surrender. In his eyes, I see the reflection of my own desperation, my newly discovered hunger.
Our joined hands accelerate the rhythm, which becomes frantic, a march toward the abyss. I see the tension build in his face, in the muscles of his neck, in the tremor of his arms. A monstrous wave forms, rising, burning everything in its path.
"Nadja…"
A violent shudder runs through his entire body, a profound gasp that seems to come from his very core. He erupts with a muffled roar against my neck, his body arching, pressing me against the door with a force that is pure surrender. In the exact moment his world shatters, he captures my lips in a kiss.
It is a desperate, wild kiss, marked by the salty taste of his skin and the victory of a shared desire. His free hand finds my breast, the warm palm covering the hardened nipple, and that touch takes me to a limit I did not know existed. For an eternal moment, there is no past or future. There is only his taste, the sound of our chaotic breathing, the sight of his eyes closed in ecstasy.
Slowly, the wave recedes. His weight settles upon me, but he supports himself, not crushing me. His lips release mine and he rests his forehead against mine. There are no words. None could fit into the space we inhabit now. There is only the heat, the steam, the scent of us, and a deep, complete silence that speaks more than a thousand phrases.
He gently releases me, my feet finding the cold floor again. His fingers, surprisingly gentle, brush across my face. He smiles; it is a tired, pacified smile, different from all the others I have ever seen on him.
He lets me decide what to do now. He turns and steps back into the shower to finish his bath. I stand there, watching. My body still vibrates with the sensation of what I did; I feel his semen on my hand and trickling down my abdomen. I watch as he washes himself with efficient movements, and every time our eyes meet through the fogged glass, a calm smile curves his lips and my cheeks burn with a flush that is not of shame, but of an overwhelming intimacy that has just been born.
When he finishes, he steps out of the shower and passes by me, unhurried, kisses my lips again, a soft touch, and goes to the closet. I remain there, in the dissipating mist, processing and feeling. Every cell in my body seems awake, alive in a new way. I take my shower with almost cold water, trying to calm the skin that still burns where he touched.
When I come out, the bedroom is empty. I dress mechanically and go down to the kitchen. I find Lúcia, whose perceptive gaze seems to notice a change in the air around me.
"Good morning, Miss Nadja," she says.
"Good morning, Lúcia," my voice sounds strange to my own ears, softer. "I only want chamomile tea, please."
"Of course," she said with a smile.
"My husband?"
"He has already left and asked to keep you well fed…" she says, laughing, and walks away with a smile.
I sit at the table, wrapped in a silence that today is not empty, but is filled with a new, tranquil clarity inside me. A small fire burns where there were once so many questions. And one that has begun to grow within me:
When will he return to warm my body once more?
The kitchen is enormous, with a solid wood table that seems capable of accommodating an army. And upon it is an abundance that leaves me speechless. There are fruits cut into elaborate shapes, fresh breads of different types, cheeses, jams in crystal jars, fried eggs, juices, a large silver coffee pot steaming.
It is a feast. A contrast so violent with the silent mornings in Belgrade, with Otávio complaining about everything.
She serves me the tea, while I feel the rich, bitter aroma of fresh coffee filling the air.
"You deserve much more than this." Her eyes meet mine.
The words are a balm and a poison at the same time. Why did my parents, who saw so much, never intervene? Why did they accept Otávio's "he is strict" as an excuse for my fear? Was it convenient for them?
I am trapped in this whirlwind of bitter thoughts when Lúcia speaks again, pulling me back from the precipice.
"Mrs. Reed should be arriving soon."
I smile, imagining it is Joana, the wife of Marcus, Dragon's boss.
"I had forgotten she would be com…" I begin to say, when a melodious voice, full of life, interrupts from the kitchen door.
"And I'm already here! Good morning, dear!"
The woman who enters is a ray of sunshine. She must be around thirty, with messy, curly hair of a warm brown, green eyes full of vivacity. Her smile is wide and apparently very easy; it reaches her eyes in a way that seems genuine.
She is wearing jeans and a loose blouse; I see her moving with a contagious energy. Before I can stand up or say anything, she crosses the kitchen and envelops me in a tight, warm hug. I am paralyzed. The touch is not aggressive, nor possessive. But it is adorably welcoming.
She releases me and holds my shoulders, examining my face closely.
"What is it? In Belgrade, don't you hug?" she asks, laughing, without a hint of malice.
The question is so direct and so simple that it disarms me. My defenses, so carefully erected, crack.
"Yes, it's just that…" I search for the words, fighting against the unexpected emotion rising in my throat. "It's just that here you are much more… warm."
"Warm?" She arches an eyebrow, still smiling at my choice of words.
"Affectionate," I correct, feeling embarrassed by the memory of what happened in the bathroom.
"Ah, darling," her face grows serious for a moment, her green eyes soft. "I imagine you lived among people who are terrible, from what Marcus and Dragon have said. They hurt you in ways we will do our best to help you forget."