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“I know. But I’m not letting you down,” he says as he approaches the security guy in the lobby to get a spare key. The poor man looks shocked at seeing Pasha in only his fighting shorts, all bloody, feet bare, and with me clinging to him.
I tighten my hold on Pasha and bury my face in his neck, where I stay until we reach his apartment. He carries me directly to the bathroom in his room and lowers me next to the sink.
“I need to take a shower,” he says.
“Okay.” I nod, slip off my glasses, and proceed to take off my clothes. Pasha removes his shorts and boxer briefs, then starts unwrapping the bandages on his left hand. I step closer and take over, revealing the bloody knuckles underneath.
“Will you keep fighting?” I whisper, brushing the wounded skin. “I don’t think I can bear watching you go into that cage again, Pasha.”
His hand cups my cheek and tilts my head up. “Then I won’t.”
I nod and look down at the splint on his right hand. “Can you get that wet?”
“No,” he says and unstraps it.
When he removes the splint I notice something new inked on the back of his hand, but I don’t have time to look at it in detail because he grabs me around the waist and carries me inside the shower stall.
“Let me see your face.” I motion with my hand for him to bend down. Pasha turns on the overhead shower, but instead of bending, he crouches in front of me. Water is raining down on him, small rivulets rolling down his bruised face. He looks terrible.
“Why did you do it?” I ask, brushing the tips of my fingers over the cuts and bruises scattered all over his face. “Why go back to fighting after so many years?”
“I hoped that if I got my head smashed enough times, I would forget about you. It didn’t work, mishka.”
“Good.” I pick up the soap from the shelf and lather my hands.
Pasha doesn’t move from his crouching position, just watches me with his head tilted up as I clean the blood and dirt off his face. I try to be as gentle as possible, especially around the bruises on his chin and under his eye. When I’m done with his face, I move on to his short hair.
“Now for the rest,” I say.
He stands up and lets me wash his chest and back. There are more bruises there—on his side, stomach, and some on his back—visible even under the ink.
“Jesus, baby.” I brush my palm down a wicked-looking purple mark on his stomach.
His arms are in slightly better shape. I wash the left one and move to the right, starting at his biceps, and continuing down to his wrist which is slightly swollen. I carefully lather the skin, then move his hand under the spray and watch as the water washes away the suds, revealing the new tattoo. The image is of a thorn-covered branch, done in black ink, its sharp spines pointing in all directions. Above it is a red bird in flight, its fluffy wings spread wide. It’s beautiful and sad at the same time. I place the tip of my finger on the design and trace the shape of the bird.
“It’s you,” Pasha says and brushes my cheek with the back of his other hand.
“The bird?”
“Yes.”
I look up from the tattoo and find his eyes watching me. “There’s only one bird,” I say. “Where are you?”
“I’m not there. Just you.”
“Why?”
He dips his head to whisper in my ear. “Because there was nothing left of me after you flew away, mishka.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, but the tears still escape. The water from the shower cascades down on us, reminding me of the day when he rushed into the stall fully clothed. I wrap my arms around his neck and press my cheek to his. “You shouldn’t have pushed me away.”
“I know.” His arm tightens around me, crushing me against him. “I wanted something better for you.”
I move my hand between our bodies and wrap my fingers around his hard length. The moment I start stroking him, he swells even more. “Come with me,” I say, taking his hand. I pull him out of the shower and he follows me to the bedroom. When we reach the bed, I push on his chest lightly until he’s lying down.
“It doesn’t get better than you, Pasha,” I say as I climb onto the bed and straddle his legs. “You’re the only man I want.”
I take his cock in my hand and tilt it to lick the tip. Pasha’s hand shoots up and grabs a handful of my hair.
