Beta's Runaway Bride: 11 - Maxim

My body feels like it's been put through a fucking meat grinder. Every inch of my skin is like it's on

fire and when I breathe, it feels like I'm gargling vodka. Flashes of memory appear in my peripheral

vision and I vaguely recall getting home, but that's about it.

I open my eyes and groan at the harsh sunlight streaming into the room, and it's only when my eyes

adjust that I realize I'm back in my bedroom. I lift my hand to shield my eyes from the light, but it

feels like my arm is being held down.

Sweet jasmine and lavender.

Turning my head to the left, my eyes widen when I see Xiomara on the floor with her hand on my

arm and her head resting against the mattress. It's like she fell asleep right here, but why would she?

Not only that but her hands are bloodied, almost as if...

I look down at my body only to see the bandages and when I lift the covers; I notice that I am

naked. All the silver shrapnel and bullets have been removed from my flesh and my body cleaned

up.

Xiomara tended to me. This can be the only reason she’s here passed out on the floor.

I turn on my side with every nerve ending flaring up, screaming out in pain at the movement. Those

fuckers got me good, but I can tell I've been healing with the silver removed and wolfsbane burnt

from my bloodstream.

Drawing my hand to her face, I stroke her hair and the ghost of a smile teases my lips. Gods, I've

missed this firecracker of a woman. How did she manage to burrow herself so deeply into my heart?

“Xiomara,” I murmur in a hoarse tone, my throat feeling dry as hell. “Hey, wake up, Bambi.”

She lets out the cutest groan and her eyes flutter open and shut again; but as soon as she peers up

at me, her head whips up and her mouth falls open

“Maxim!” she exclaims, moving away from the bed. Her cheeks redden when our eyes meet, and it

makes her morning face look even lovelier. “How are you feeling? I apologize, I didn't mean to fall

asleep here.”

I shake my head and offer her a smile. “Did you tend to me last night?” She's still covered in my

dried blood, which tells me she must have simply passed out after removing the shrapnel and

bullets, cleaning my wounds, and stitching me up.

But she could also have helped someone else clean me up and somehow, I don't like the sound of

that.

She's careful not to wash over the healing wounds too hard, but she cleans them as if she’s done

this many times before. I'm about to ask her about it when she gets down on her knees in front of

me and proceeds to wash in between my legs.

Now my cock seems to take notice, especially when I can feel her breath inches from my thickening

length. She peers up at me through those thick lashes, then she starts to wash me right there.

She drops the loofah and starts to use her hands to lather me up, her hands running over my thighs

and in between my legs. I'm not sure if she’s just washing me now, because this turned from

intimate to damn near erotic.

Rising up, her hands skim the dips and planes of my abs and I stifle a groan at her gentle touch. She

moves her fingers over my v-line and across the strip of hair that heads to my cock, then I suck in a

breath when she wraps her hand around my swollen shaft.

But as quickly as the thought comes to her, it disappears, and she clears her throat before picking

up the dropped loofah.

“I'm sorry... that wasn't supposed to... I'm sorry,” she stumbles over her words again and shakes her

head before gesturing for me to move down so she can wash my hair.

My dick deflates almost instantly at the rejection, but I know it's not because of me. She promised

to help me wash up and nearly allowed herself to do something she was so ashamed of last time.

I get it, trust me; but it fucking sucks.

When she’s done washing me, she does the same to her own body. However, this time I asked her if

I could wash her hair, too. She seems apprehensive at first, but then she nods and offers me a small

smile as she hands me the shampoo.

If she can't smell like my scent, she'll fucking smell like my shampoo.

She stands in front of me with her head tilted back and I apply the liquid to her hair and work it up

into a lather. The tiny moan that escapes her heads right to my cock and I feel it twitch, but I push it

down.

Sex could never feel more intimate than this. From Xiomara not trusting me at all, running away

from our proposed union to her closing her eyes so I can wash her hair. Something unspoken is

happening between us, but who will be the first to admit it?

After washing the foam from her hair, I turn off the water but can't take it anymore and wrap my

arm around her waist, pulling her against my chest.

She gasps at the sudden motion, but she doesn't fight me off. Instead, she rests her head against

my shoulder and sighs when I lean my head on the nape of her neck.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” I whisper, feeling her shiver in my arms and goosebumps forming

on her skin. Placing a kiss on her neck, I trail kisses to her shoulder and gently nip at her skin. “I'm in

your debt now; anything you want of me, you'll get.”

I don't know why, but my words cause her to stiffen in my arms. Then she slowly turns around and

peers up at me, a distant look clouding her Bambi eyes, then she shakes her head.

“Let's get you dried up and clothed before you catch a cold,” she says, knowingly pushing her

thoughts away and replacing them with whatever this is. As much as I like Xiomara tending to me, I

prefer her honesty more, and now it feels like she’s hiding something from me.

She takes a towel and wraps one around her body before drying my body off with another. I don't

miss the fact that she’s taking care of me before even taking care of herself, and I don't know how

to feel about that.

When her body is dry, she takes my hand and leads me over to my walk-in closet. “Gloves or no

gloves?” she asks with a mischievous look in her eyes and I chuckle.

“No gloves and just a t-shirt and loose joggers, please,” I say and she obliges, helping me get into

my clothing while I feel no shame in having this woman looking after and tending to me.

After I am dressed, she seems satisfied. “I'm going to get dressed and make us something to eat,”

she says, “Wait for me and I'll help you walk down the stairs; someone already cleaned up the

broken coffee tables, so you can wait in the living room while I cook.”

I don't want to tell her that I'd rather watch her cook, so I simply nod and watch her walk away,

wondering how I'm going to tell her that I want her to stay with me.