I guess he’s proven that over the years, but seeing is believing. It’s hard to trulyknowwhen he purposely kept distance from me. As a teen, I used to brood over that. But looking back, I’m glad that he did because I’m not his prey.
I can’t say he’s not my personal predator because he hunts on my command?—
The little clutch, deep inside, a tiny firework display that no one but me can feel, tells me how much I like that…
Upon returning to my bedroom, I find that he’s shifted. The sheetsare less tangled around him, providing me with the perfect opportunity to study him.
I am so willing to get a PhD in Maxim Lyanov.
He’s wearing boxer briefs—that’s the first surprising detail I notice, and no, not because I’m obsessed with his dick.
In my defense, itisthe first one I’ve wanted inside me.
It’s just that the white fabric against his bronzed skin is such a sharp contrast that it catches my eye.
Liar, liar, pants on fire? Mebbe.
His brow is puckered. Like he still stresses out while he’s asleep. One hand props up his head, and the other rests on his abdomen. I didn’t know six packs could be delineated while sleeping, but I guess that tracks with how tense he looks.
Humming, I take in the fact that every part of him, including his feet, is handsome.
His parents must have been beautiful. And he seemed genuinely sorrowful about their passing so he misses them.
I don’t miss my dad. I wish Camille had killed him earlier, in fact. But that’s me.
As I kneel on the side of the bed, being careful not to disturb his slumber, I glance over him again and that’s when I see it.
Well, I see a lot.
A bunch of scars. Even on his thighs and calves. Gunshot and knife wounds. A part of his thigh bears burn marks.
Don’t ask me why I’m noticing this now when I’ve seen him nude in the shower twice. But this is passive recall. And when Maxim is showering, the scars on his body are the last thing I pick up on.
What draws most of my attention, however, is that his dick has popped under his waistband.
Morning wood.
In the flesh.
Intrigued, I scamper down the bed and study the mushroom tip and the two or so inches that are revealed to me from above the band.
Erections have to hurt.
It looks tight.
I’m not sure if he’s cut or not. I’d have to google to know the difference when he’s hard. I’ve seen the little external “socks” in porn and can’t deny that they look more attractive cut, but isn’t that genital mutilation? On a nonconsenting baby boy?
My brain churns through the facts, which is when Maxim blusters, “Should I expect an essay on my dick by how long you’ve been staring at it?”
“I wanted to taste it, then I realized you were asleep and couldn’t, and then I wondered if you were circumcised, and that led me down the rabbit hole of whether circumcision is genital mutilation and?—”
He groans. “Too early.”
I grin. “Not too early. I’m wide awake.”
“Was my penis revelatory?”
“Definitely. If I were an artist, I could draw it for days.”
