Hearing Maxim's voice, Mary runs out to us from the guest bedroom, followed by her great-grandmother. Mary—small, lively, like a ray of sunshine breaking through the warm coziness of our room—her energy and liveliness fill the space with joy and light. And her great-grandmother—quiet and wise, like the keeper of family stories—her gaze is calm and deep, speaking of years lived with love and understanding.
"My little one, have you eaten cake yet?" Maxim asks, lifting our daughter into his arms with such tenderness that it feels like time itself has stopped. His voice is soft, full of care and love, as if he is holding not just a little girl, but the most precious treasure in the world—her little heart, her joy, her light.
"No, Mom said only after dinner," she complains to me, furrowing her tiny brow as if defending her rights, and I just smile, sensing a playful, childlike innocence that always makes my heart melt.
"Oh, that mom of yours and her rules," her dad agrees quietly, laughing softly, as if even he cannot resist a child's whims, and his smile carries warmth and understanding.
"Good evening, Max. You're just in time for dinner," my grandmother says to him, her voice so warm and joyful that it feels like the very atmosphere fills with coziness and gratitude for this moment. Her words carry genuine care and friendliness, and it's clear how much she values every minute spent together.
Maxim and Grandma have become friends, and it's delightful to watch them get along—their laughter, glances, and light smiles create a sense of homey comfort and gentle family warmth. These moments are like little sparks of happiness that warm my soul.
"I'll take a shower and then eat. You can start without me; I don't mind," he replies wearily. There's fatigue in his voice, but also a desire to be with us without breaking the evening's calm, as if he wants to maintain a delicate balance between caring for himself and loving his family.
Maxim moves toward the bedroom without hurry, beginning to take off his outerwear as he goes. First, he unzips his jacket—slowly, almost lazily, as if each movement has its own weight. Then he slips it off his shoulders, and the fabric slides softly down, revealing his broad back under a gray t-shirt that emphasizes his strong, confident, slightly careless silhouette. Next, he unwraps his scarf, as if undoing an invisible thread between the everyday and the intimate. His fingers move unhurriedly, yet there is something dangerously attractive in it—in how he knows his worth, doesn't make a show of it, but still looks like he stepped out of an ad for something forbidden and desirable.
For a second, his gaze brushes past me—fleeting, but with that warm squint that sends a shiver down the spine. The t-shirt highlights his broad shoulders, chest, strength—all the things I want to press against and never let go.
Rebel Boy walks past, and the air seems to quiver. He leaves behind a faint trail of scent—fresh, with a subtle spicy note that makes you freeze instinctively. This smell is like a reminder—intimate, familiar, as if it carries memories of touches, sleepless nights, his hot breath on my neck.
Maxim doesn't look back, but every step radiates the relaxed confidence of a man who knows he is desired. His walk—confident, slightly expansive—draws the eye, and I catch myself unable to look away. He moves toward the bedroom, and I involuntarily linger on his back, on the fluidity of his movements, on how the fabric hugs his lower back as he bends to set down the jacket. Everything about him feels so real, so familiar… and damn sexy—not showy, but deep, adult, confident. The kind of presence that fills the room completely, leaving no corner empty.
Lately, I feel a constant arousal toward my beloved. This passion lives in me even before we knew I was expecting. Back then, I blamed it on the fact that we hadn't been together for a while, but now, with Maxim close again, this desire is relentless and constant. It turns out hormones—those invisible chemical conductors inside me—make my heart race and my thoughts whirl in a storm of desire that won't settle.
Because of hormones, my body seems awake again—hungry, vulnerable, trembling. My dreams become so vivid that at night it's like a 5D movie plays in my brain: hot touches, sighs, forbidden glances, the rustle of sheets under hands that aren't really there but feel painfully real. I wake up early in the morning, flushed, breath caught, with that strange feeling that I'm still there—in the dream, among caresses and whispers. Warmth spreads through my chest, stomach, thighs—so much that if I close my eyes, I could return there again.
It's embarrassing. And arousing. Sometimes both at once.
In the mornings, I don't want to let my beloved go, especially after such hot dreams. I grip his shirt with my hands, bury my face in his neck, smell the sleep, the coziness, the intimacy of him. He laughs, kisses my temple, and begs me to let go—"I really have to go, darling, I'll be late"—but I stubbornly pull him back into bed, as if only there can I calm this fire inside me.
Evenings aren't easier. As soon as he talks to Mary, a hot wave rises inside me—not jealousy, but the urge to claim him for myself again. I cling to him, wrap my arms around him, kiss his neck, whisper nonsense—anything to drag him back to the bedroom. He looks at me with gentle reproach, but his eyes drown in the same fire as mine: in hunger, in that mad, beautiful obsession neither of us can control.
And it's all because of hormones. Or… perhaps simply because I fall in love with him again and again—body, soul, every cell.
"Grandma, I'll eat later too. I'll go help Maxim," I tell her, feeling both the desire to be useful and the slight excitement that warms and thrills my soul.
"Help him in the shower? What are you doing there?" she wonders, her voice laced with light mockery and puzzlement, but there's also care and quiet curiosity in her words.
"I'll hold the towel, rub his back," I mumble, trying to sound as confident as possible, and run to the bedroom with a sense of playful mischief and anticipation, as if I'm about to enter this intimate yet familiar world.
"What has love done to you? You've gone completely crazy around this man," I hear her call after me, and I smile. My heart feels warm and joyful—because love really does work the most unexpected and wonderful miracles.
Entering the bathroom, I barely breathe—the air is filled with steam and something almost intimate, as if the room itself knows what is about to happen. The water sings in the shower, flowing in a steady stream, and the sound feels hypnotic, lulling. The world seems to slow, freeze—and it's just us left.
Max stands by the shower, completely naked, his back to me. The light glides softly over his body, tracing his muscles as if a painter is brushing over living marble. His back—broad, strong, with smooth lines of the shoulder blades and the relief of his shoulders—looks like the embodiment of male strength and calm confidence. Drops of moisture already glisten on his skin, sliding down his spine, along his lower back—slowly, languidly, like kisses of rain.
His body seems carved out of my dreams, perfect in its reality: a firm torso, a toned stomach, hips with tense tendons, and all of it—alive, warm, so… mine. My throat dries. Something in my lower abdomen tightens softly—warm, sweet, like a current running through every nerve ending.
I can't resist.
I move quietly, like a cat, and press against him from behind—my cheek against his shoulder blade, my arms wrapping around his waist. My heart beats faster, almost painfully. Under my fingers, I feel his living warmth, the smoothness of his skin, and the strength beneath it. He is exquisitely real, and at the same time—unreal in beauty. I inhale his scent: freshness, steam, and something that smells only like Max—manly, provocative, safe.
Rebel Boy slightly turns his head, and in that moment, I feel the whole world disappear. Only we remain. His breath, my heartbeat, the steam between us.
"You're unbearably beautiful," I whisper, my voice trembling like a taut string.
He smiles—that smile that always weakens my knees—and turns to press me against him, naked, hot, real. And I understand: nothing in the universe compares to this—to touching a body that you don't just want… you love.
"What are you doing here, Rebel Girl?" he asks, surprised, not expecting me. His voice is soft, with notes of tenderness and light irony, as if he's playing with me, yet in every word there is love and care.
"I want to shower with you, my beloved Rebel Boy," I reply, pressing myself even closer, as if afraid to lose this moment, this familiar, intimate contact that warms me and gives me a sense of happiness.
"No joint shower. I don't need you slipping by accident," he says in a tone that makes me understand: it's not worth arguing. In his voice, there's care, worry, protection—all that I value so much, all that makes us stronger.
Letting him go, I prepare to leave the bathroom, but as I almost open the door, my beloved hugs me from behind. His hands are warm, strong, and in that touch, there is so much love and calm that I feel truly protected and needed—as if the whole world freezes, and we remain alone in this tenderness, which warms me to the very depths of my soul.
"Where are you going?" he asks, pressing my back fully against his warm, naked chest.
His voice is soft yet insistent, as if he wants to hold me, not letting me step away, and in every word, there is hidden care that warms and soothes. I feel his breath lightly brushing my skin, and the heat of his body melts away all worries.
"You said no," I reply, feeling a slight upset and doubt in my voice.
My heart beats faster, as if trying to find answers within itself. A shadow of uncertainty drifts quietly through my thoughts, and I can't know what will happen next, yet a quiet hope is kindling inside me.
"I said no to the shower. But we can take a bath together," my man suggests, kissing my cheek with tenderness that melts part of my anxieties. His warm kiss is like a promise of safety and peace, giving a moment of quiet in this whirlwind of feelings. I close my eyes, letting him be near, feeling the tension in my soul slowly dissolve.
"Really?" I rejoice, my eyes lighting up with hope, like sunlight breaking through clouds, scattering the darkness of doubts.
"Yes. Go, grab another towel for yourself and a robe. I'll fill the bathtub for us," his voice is full of care and anticipation for our time together. Every word sounds like a promise that now everything will be different, that we will create our own little comfort and peace.
Feeling very happy, I hug him, sensing his warmth and strength beside me, as if the whole world has become a bit brighter and calmer. In this moment, it seems that no storm is frightening if we are together.
"Thank you so much for not refusing me," I whisper, my heart filling with tenderness and gratitude. In his presence, I feel protected and loved, as if all my fears disappear.
"You're impossible to refuse, though sometimes I try," he replies with a laugh, hinting at the times when, despite my requests, he still goes to his classes. In his voice, there's light humor and sincere love that makes our world brighter, funnier, and warmer.