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— CHAPTER 6 —
CLARA
I stir from sleep when gentle fingers touch my face. They trace my hairline, caress my cheeks, and graze my neck. I almost don’t want to wake up. It would be so easy to stay shrouded under the cloak of sleep. But I need to know I’m not just dreaming.
Slowly, I blink my eyes open and let them adjust to the light. Calm eyes beneath a thick set of brows are watching me, and I fall captive as I stare into them.
“You’re back,” I say, voice thick with emotion.
“Of course,” Grigory says, keeping up the featherlight strokes. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed. “I told you I’d be here at noon.”
He did. But even after the reassuring texts, I couldn’t fully trust his promise. It didn’t matter that both Grigory and Markus kept reassuring me that Grigory is committed. I had to see for myself, I realize. And seeing him here now, having returned and being as caring as when he left, makes me finally believe that he’s truly in this.
Grigory’s lips turn up in a humorous smile as he changes the subject. “Did Markus tell you about my weakness?”
“Your weakness?” I repeat, not following.
Grigory points to the table at the end of the bed. “Chocolate cake.”
A tint of red creeps into my cheeks. I woke up at six this morning, restless and unable to fall back asleep. Needing to do something to make me feel close to Grigory, I baked a dark, sumptuous chocolate cake for him before I went back to bed.
“I remembered from the French restaurant,” I say shyly. He’d devoured his own portion as well as mine with surprising enthusiasm, so I hoped this would be the right cake.
His features grow somber, and his eyes fill with some kind of strange emotion as he watches me.
Can he sense that this is much more than a cake—that I’ve poured my submissive heart into it? Anyone else would see this as a simple, nice gesture. But to me, it was a way of saying all those things I’m not ready to say. A way of showing him how badly I want to please him. I thought it would be discreet, but right now it seems the intention is blaring between us.
Suddenly feeling uncertain, I push up on my elbows. “I’m sorry,” I say, starting to sit up to break away from this intimate position.
Grigory stops me with a hand around my chin. “Devochka,” he says with startling urgency. “Don’t ever apologize for your submission. It’s the most beautiful gift a man could receive.”
Now it’s my turn to feel a startling rush of emotion. God, I want nothing more than to give Grigory my submission, and hearing those words—knowing he wants to have it—is the best thing he could ever give me.
“Thank you,” I whisper as he forces me to keep staring into his deep, powerful eyes.
“You’re welcome,” he says with grave sincerity, knowing exactly what I’m thanking him for. “You may demonstrate your submission in whatever way you see fit.” He considers for a moment, then furrows his brow. “But no matter how much I appreciate a warm cake, I’m not happy about you compromising your sleep to serve me.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” I say.
Grigory releases my chin, letting me lie back on the pillow. “Is it because you were worried I wouldn’t return?”
I avert my gaze as vulnerability washes over me. A slight nod is my only answer, and I’m a bit surprised when Grigory gets up without prodding further. I hope he isn’t annoyed about my lack of explanation.
To my relief, Grigory just strips out of his clothes and folds them neatly before climbing into bed with me. The moment he pulls me into him, a weight lifts from my shoulders. I didn’t even realize it was there. It’s only now, feeling his strong body enveloping mine, that the worry lifts and I truly trust that he’ll stay.
“Let’s take a nap together,” he says, pressing a soft kiss to my temple.
I sink into him, relishing the warmth of his skin and the feeling of being small in his arms. Within minutes, I drift off.
***
Grigory eats at least two more pieces of chocolate cake—after already having eaten some when he came—while I prepare a late breakfast. He apparently hasn’t had anything but coffee and my chocolate cake today, and when I ask him about it, he tells me that he usually doesn’t eat before noon.
“You don’t eat and you don’t sleep. How do you get by?” I ask, turning to him with a spatula in hand.
“Coffee, music, and the occasional chocolate cake.” He grins as he cuts off another bite of cake and pops it into his mouth. “This really is delicious.” He licks his fingers, and his eyes shimmer with the same enthusiasm I remember from the French restaurant.
I smile widely as I turn back to the stove. With the cake being quite dark, I don’t care much for it, but seeing Grigory enjoy it is as good as having a huge piece of my favorite apple pie.
