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“This fixed your craving?” he asks.
I nod. “It’s just what I needed.”
“If there’s anything else you need, at any time of the day or night, just let me know,” he offers.
"Thank you, Boris," I murmur between spoonfuls, not missing how his black hair falls perfectly in place even when we’ve had a long day behind us. "For going to the store and picking up the ice cream when I said I’d love some and…” I pause here, wondering if I should just come out with it. I decide I should, “for earlier, you know... when you…"
Boris sets down his bowl, confusion etched on his tanned face. His broad build looks ridiculously out of place in that delicate mahogany chair. "Robin, there's no need to thank me. I don't understand why you feel you must."
His words are gruff, but his tone is gentle. Almost tender. It makes my cheeks flush and my heart skip.
I swallow a bite of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream, savoring the burst of sweetness on my tongue and buying time to collect my thoughts. "You did what you had to do because I was feeling horny. I know you didn't have to do that."
"You're my wife." He says it like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Like I'm being foolish for not realizing it sooner. "Your happiness is my responsibility now."
“Yes, which is why I need to thank you. You’ve taken responsibility for me and our child. But that’s all this is to you, isn’t it? A large, gigantic responsibility,” I blurt out in frustration.
"Robin..." He says my name slowly, the confusion on his face giving way to concern as he leans across the table. "Explain."
"Explain?" I push my chair back, standing up to pace. "Our marriage, this whole arrangement—it's for our child, isn't it? Just duty and responsibility. No fire, no hunger. Not from you, anyway." I stop and look at him defiantly, arms crossed over my chest in the hopes I can hold in the raw feelings spilling out.
"Is that what you think? That I'm only here for the kid?" His voice is low, and his accent is thick with the emotion he rarely shows.
"Isn't it?" I challenge him, my heart hammering against my ribs. "You're always so controlled, Boris. So damn proper and distant."
He doesn't respond immediately, and I can almost hear the cogs turning in his head as he tries to process what I've said.
Boris then stands so suddenly, his chair screeching against the tile floor. He plants his hands firmly on the table, his eyes drilling into mine with an intensity that steals my breath. "You think I don't want you?" The disbelief in his voice is tangible, wrapping around us like steam.
"Isn't that the truth?" My own voice feels small against the force of his presence. But as I hold his gaze, something shifts behind those steely blue eyes—the ice melts to something tender.
"Robin." He rounds the table, closing the distance between us with a few strides. "I dream of you," he confesses, and the vulnerability in his admission sends shivers down myspine. "Every night since you walked into my life, you've haunted me—in the best way."
My heart skips a beat, or maybe three. "Then why—"
"Because I didn't want to pressure you!" His hands lift, hovering just shy of touching me, as if he's afraid I'll break. "I wanted you to choose this, choose me, not because of some... obligation. Yes, you might be my wife, but I never wanted you to feel like you had to bed me just for the sake of our marriage. I was waiting for you to tell me you want me because I always believed you felt stuck in this marriage due to our circumstances."
The room spins a little. Boris, the man who commands respect with just a look, has been waging a war within himself for my sake.
"God, Robin," he continues, his voice dropping to a huskier timbre, "You're carrying our baby. I thought... I thought you didn’t want... that you feel trapped."
"Trapped?" The word echoes absurdly in the space between us. "Boris, I never felt trapped by you. In fact, I want more from this marriage. I’ve been waiting for you to claim me as your wife in every way possible."
There’s a tense silence as we both ponder over lost time. After a while, I decide to clear the air once and for all. “All this time, I wasn’t aware you desired me as I have you."
"Desire doesn't begin to cover it," he murmurs, and now his fingers touch me, light as moth wings against my jaw, tilting my face back up to his. “But I never wanted to take advantage of your condition or our situation.”
"Advantage?" I scoff, the idea so ludicrous when all I've craved is his touch, his heat. “God damn it, kiss me,” I moan, staring him right in his eyes.
He pulls my face closer to his, eyes still locked to mine. Slowly, he kisses my jaw, leaving a trail as he inches to my lips. I close my eyes, my entire body flowing into a state of oblivion.
After all this time, my husband claims my lips as his own. A shiver runs down my spine, intertwining with the tremble that forms between my legs, wanting to be satiated. I place my arms around his neck, and he puts his arms around my waist, lifting me off the chair.
I can't wait any longer. I've denied myself this pleasure for too long—denied us both. I surge up on my toes, grabbing a fistful of his hair in my hands to bring his mouth tight against mine. Boris groans, the sound vibrating against my lips.
“Your bedroom or mine?” I ask breathlessly, wanting to quench the desire that’s been fuelled by deprivation for far too long now.
To my surprise, he pulls his face away. He still holds me in his arms, though, and swipes away a strand of stray hair from my face. He comes closer and kisses my forehead.
