Her soft gasp is music to my ears. “Mine?”
“Of course.”
Her lips part as she untucks the embroidered silk slippers from the paper shrouds that protect them. “They’re lovely.” The box tumbles to the tiles as she clutches them to her chest. “Thank you, Maxim.”
Amused when she grabs my arm and uses me for support, giddy now where she was spitting and hissing moments before, I watch as she kicks off one heel then the other and drops down a good four inches. Sliding her feet into the ballet flats, she coos and tips them this way then that and beams at me.
Literally beams.
I feel that smile all the way to my soul.
“The box?”
“The staff will take care of it.”
She tuts, picks up her shoes and the box, and has me nursing a semi. Not at the sight of her bending over, but when she retreats to the closet I just dipped into and stores her things in there.
Like it’s her fucking home.
Wordlessly, I slide my palm over hers upon her approach.
She follows, without question, as I guide her down the hall to the gym.
One glimpse and she sputters, “What?—”
Only when I draw her into the bathroom does she tug on my hold.I release her, though I’m not happy about it, and after untying my belt, I drag it off.
“Maxim?”
Her husky voice hits me in the solar plexus. I use the need for fresh underwear to hide my expression in the connecting closet. After tossing them onto the vanity, I shrug off my uniform and pause under the rainfall showerhead.
“You want to talk to me, Victoria, so talk.”
I hear the sharp intake of breath when I drop my pants and kick them aside as I turn on the water.
From the corner of my eye, I can see her hover by the doorway. I half-expect her to back off, to run out of the bathroom at my impromptu test, but she doesn’t.
She stays there.
Even as my dick reacts to her presence, to what it signifies, she takes a hesitant seat on the toilet.
She remains silent.
When I rub soap over my chest and pivot so she can see what that dress, whatVictoriain that dress, does to me, she rewards me with a gasp.
But I’m destined for disappointment.
Gasp or not, her phone has made an appearance in her left hand.
Where the hell she put it in that dress she poured herself into is a mystery to me.
Hiding behind the screen, she cloaks her reactions well, but my experience was earned over a lifetime on the streets—I can read her like a book.
As she watches someone’s story on her socials, her phone a shield, I note every minute flicker of her eyes at me as I shower. She’s better than most at hiding her microexpressions, but then I suppose she learned at a young age after growing up in that monster of a father’s house.
Turning off the water, I face her again.
While I wanted a reaction and I’m peeved she didn’t give it to me, I find myself proud of her—she’s grown up.Thank God.
