I couldn’t get over it. He sang a lullaby to his little sister when she couldn’t sleep. Of all the things about Maxim that I’d learned, that one was my favorite. And he’d looked so miserable as he sang it in my kitchen. His singing voice was almost as terrible as mine.
But it was so fucking sweet. And I hadn’t been lying when I said I found it sexy—I did. There wasn’t much about Maxim I didn’t find sexy. Even in my old jeans—or maybe especially in my old jeans—and his work shirt, he looked amazing. But he was amazing on the inside too. Smart and funny, kind and genuine.
And I trusted him. It was astonishing to me how much I trusted Maxim after such a short period of time. We’d only met four days ago, and yet I felt more at ease with him than I’d felt with anyone in a long time. I could be myself around him in a way I couldn’t around other people. My real self, without hiding anything. There was such relief in that, and I felt incredibly grateful for it. If he never paid me a dime for the clothes or the rent or anything else I did for him, I wouldn’t care. This feeling was worth everything, even if it wouldn’t last forever.
“Okay, here you go.” He set a plate down in front of me, and I moaned in anticipation, my mouth watering. On it was what looked like four thick pancakes, fried to a golden brown, dusted with powdered sugar, and drizzled with honey. A big spoonful of something white—sour cream, maybe?—sat off to one side, and raspberries were scattered on top of it all.
“This looks delicious. What are they again?”
“Syrniki. You say it now.”
I made an attempt, which I thought was pretty good, but Maxim laughed anyway.
“There, your first Russian word. I want you to learn four more by the end of the day.” He put his plate down and took the chair across from me. I noticed how he’d known where everything was to set the table, from the placemats to the napkins to the utensils, and got a ridiculous kick from seeing him so familiar with my kitchen.
“I’ll try,” I promised. Unable to wait a second longer, I picked up my fork and knife and cut a bite, making sure to get a little of everything so I’d taste all the flavors. I put it in my mouth and moaned again.
Maxim grinned. “Good, right?”
I chewed slowly, appreciating the slight crisp on the outside and the soft, doughy inside. A little sweet, a little savory, the perfect balance. “How do you say delicious in Russian?”
“In this case, vkusnyy.”
“Well, this is fucking vkusnyy.”
He laughed. “I’m so glad you like it. You’ll have to let me cook dinner for you sometime too.”
“You can cook for me any time you want,” I mumbled, my mouth full. “This is so good.”
He smiled, his cheeks flushing slightly. “Thank you.”
After breakfast, I helped Maxim clean up the kitchen and we went up to my bedroom so I could give him the clothing I’d bought. He stood near the doorway while I went to my closet and retrieved the bag, pulling out the receipt and tucking it into my pocket. He’d see the price tags, so it was probably a silly gesture, but maybe I could convince him they’d been on sale. I had a feeling he was going to protest they were too expensive.
When I came back in the room, he was still standing by the door, looking around curiously. “Looks different in here in the light,” he said sheepishly.
“Oh. Right.” I glanced at the bed, which I’d made this morning after changing the sheets. The sight of it made my stomach muscles clench. Was it too soon to do it again? Was he sore? Don’t think about it. “So. Here you go.” I handed him the bag. “If you want to try them on in here, you can. I have a full-length mirror on the door.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll give you some privacy,” I said, moving toward the door. I didn’t want him to think I was trying to get him to strip in front of me—not that I’d complain. But he caught my arm.
“You can stay.” He smiled. “I don’t mind.”
Fuck, every time he gave me that look, the one that said I’ll show you mine if you show me yours, I wanted to throw him down and roll around naked.
I cleared my throat and perched on the edge of the bed. “Okay.”
He took off his clothes, and I openly stared at his body. Jesus. No wonder I’d lost my mind last night. In fact, I was kind of sad to see his legs and ass disappear into the new jeans, but glad they fit him. “They look great,” I said, repositioning myself so my swelling erection wasn’t trapped uncomfortably.
“Thanks.” He shrugged into one of the shirts I’d picked out and buttoned it up. “What do you think?”
I think you’re perfect. “Is it a little too big? It might be too baggy around your waist. But I’m not sure the next size down would fit you in the shoulders.”
He frowned. “I don’t know. It feels comfortable.”
“Try the other one.”
He traded the first shirt for the second. “This one feels good too. How does it look?”
Like I want to rip it off you. “Great. You like it?”
“Yes.”
“It’s yours. I think we should take the other one back.”
He looked worried. “Take it back? But you took it home and I wore it. They will do it?”
“Yes. The tags are still on. I promise they’ll do it.”
He smoothed the shirt over his stomach. “I really like this. I’m glad you chose it.”
“Good. Do you want to look in the mirror?”
“No, that’s okay.” He smiled. “If you say it looks good on me, I’ll believe you.”
“It does. Do you want to wear it today?”
He thought for a second. “I better wear my work shirt in case we don’t have time to come back here.” As he was taking off the button-down, he noticed a price tag hanging from the label. “Eighty dollars?” he asked incredulously. “For one shirt?”
“It’s not that much.” I rose to my feet and picked up the one to be returned and placed it in the bag. That one had cost even more.
“To me, it is.” His blue eyes were wide.
“I told you, you don’t have to pay me back right away.”
“I want to,” he said firmly, putting the shirt in the bag. “So we need to return this one, too. Someday I will be able to afford luxury clothes, but not yet.”
It kind of broke my heart that he thought an eighty-dollar shirt was a luxury item. “Maxim, please keep it. As a gift.”
“No.”
“Listen, it makes me happy to do things for people. So it’s not for you, it’s for me. Keep it for me, so I can feel good about myself.”
He shook his head, but he smiled. “You’re crazy.”
“I’m not. I just like you.”
His smile grew wider as he reached down and grabbed his work shirt and pulled it on. “I like you, too. And I’m so—” He looked down at his chest. “Oh, fuck.”
“What?”
“I put my shirt on inside out.” Quickly, he scrambled to get it off.
“So?”
“If you put your shirt on inside out, it means you will get beaten.”
“Beaten! By who?”
“By anyone.” He turned the shirt right side out and put it on again. “That’s why you should punch me.”
I shrank back. “Are you insane?”
“No! It’s symbolic. You have to punch me so that I will get the beating from you, not from someone who really wants to do it.” He said this in all seriousness, then turned to face me. “I’m ready. Go ahead.”