"Wait," he says, pulling back slightly, and his voice carries that same mixture of composure and desire that always affects me in a special way. "If we keep going, the ice cream will remain untouched."
I want to scoff, express my dissatisfaction, as I don't like it when he interrupts us in such moments… but then I give in. He is right. The plan is too delicious to delay for long.
"Let's finish this completely, and then we'll continue," he suggests with that mischievous confidence that always makes me feel special. "You first. I'll go later."
Maxim lies down and waits, watching me from below—his gaze full of desire, impatience, and genuine admiration. I kneel on the bed and slowly begin undressing, looking straight into his eyes, savoring every look, every movement of his pupils as they trace my body. I know how I affect him. I feel it with every fiber of my being. His gaze slides over my body, and when I am completely naked, he exhales louder, swallowing, as though trying to hold back the growing desire.
"You're incredibly beautiful," he says, and there isn't a trace of falsehood in those words. Only pure admiration.
I smile. Yes, I know how to affect him. But he does the same to me. Maxim is my obsession, my weakness, and I never grow tired of him. Not for a second.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I wait for him. Silently. With a light, promising smile. Inside, everything pulses with anticipation, with the thought that this is just the beginning. And we both know—the ice cream won't be the only thing to melt tonight.
He suddenly rises from the bed, stands on the floor, and reaches for his phone. A second later, rhythmic, slightly provocative music fills the room. I raise an eyebrow in surprise. He often surprises me, and I am now incredibly curious—what has he planned?
Maxim slowly removes his black T-shirt, moving to the beat, weaving his body movements into the music. It looks like an improvisation, as if he doesn't fully know what he is doing, but that is exactly the charm—his naturalness, how he gives himself to the moment.
I hold my breath as he twists the T-shirt into a bundle and begins running it between his legs, moving closer to me. It isn't perfect, it isn't practiced—but it is alive, real, and incredibly arousing. He isn't just dancing—he is playing, seducing, teasing… and doing it all for me.
It is like a scene from a TV show, yes, maybe even something he has seen before, but that only amplifies the effect. I watch him with wide eyes, unable to look away—every gesture, every movement is electrified and makes me burn with desire.
Maxim slides his hands over his body, runs his fingers across his chest, slowly unzipping his pants. And in that moment, I can't hold back. Spreading my legs, I begin touching myself, still looking at him—not hiding, not ashamed—on the contrary, doing it for him, as an answer to his performance.
The dance stops. Maxim freezes in place, half-undressed, pants unzipped, his eyes fixed on me, on what I am doing. It seems as though his own show has become secondary—now the focus is on my movement, my reaction, my need.
Desire flares in his eyes—wild, almost untamable. He rips his pants off along with his underwear and, not breaking eye contact, comes closer—confidently, hungrily, like a predator moving toward what it craves with its entire body.
"Do you like it?" I ask boldly, not hiding my smug smile. I already know the answer, but I want to hear it from him.
"Yes," he answers without the slightest hesitation, never breaking his gaze from mine.
Maxim reaches for the ice cream bucket, carefully scoops a bit of the slightly warm sweetness with a spoon, and slowly begins spreading it along the inner side of my thigh. The skin immediately tingles with goosebumps from the contrast—his warm body and the cold touch against my skin.
When he is done, he leans in and, without taking his eyes off my face, begins licking the ice cream from my body—slowly, with pleasure, as though it is the most delicious dessert of his life.
"Tasty?" I ask, holding my breath.
"Can't you tell?" he smirks, glancing down at his erect member, and his gaze grows even hungrier.
I sit up, move closer, and we find ourselves face to face, almost touching bodies. I caress his shoulders, running my fingers over the lines of his muscles, feeling his strength and warmth beneath his skin. He is beautiful. Perfect—not outwardly, no. Inwardly. With his true, vulnerable, yet stubborn heart.
I always believe appearance isn't everything. But when I look at Maxim… it's hard to forget about anything else. The only thing that mars the picture is the scrapes and bruises that still haven't faded from his skin. Marks of pain. My guilt.
I lean down and gently kiss one of them, as if I could heal it, erase it along with the memory of the pain.
He doesn't waste any time. While I am in that brief moment of regret, he takes the ice cream spoon again and runs it along my neck—the cold burns, but in his lips, that cold turns to warmth. He kisses, licks, embraces—and every move of his is filled not only with passion but with something more.
"Do you remember the tequila?" his voice becomes velvety, almost a whisper.
"Mmm…" I giggle slightly. "You were so innocent back then… but even then, you surprised me with your desires."
That thought brings a warm smile to my face. Even then, when it all just starts, he is already special. I doubted him, doubted myself, doubted whether I should trust… And yet he is there. Loyal. Real.
"You never betrayed me…" I whisper to myself in my mind.
For me, betrayal isn't just infidelity. The way I dragged him into the race, the way I used him in the argument with Ivan… that is all a betrayal toward him. And I still carry that inside.
"After that dance… I couldn't stop thinking about you," his lips whisper as they glide across my skin. "You ignite this fire in me. Back then—it was desire. Now—it's love."
I stay silent, listening to him, absorbing every word.
"Do you remember how we swam in the sea, and then watched the sunrise?" his voice is so warm, as if he has become the very sunrise.
"Are you testing my memory?" I ask with a smile, raising an eyebrow.
"No…" he looks at me with tenderness. "It's just so interesting to remember the past. The time when we aren't together yet, but we are drawn to each other."
"I remember everything," I say, and without letting him continue, I interrupt the flow of words with a long, deep kiss.
A kiss that contains everything—both forgiveness and gratitude, desire and love, that despite everything, continues to grow between us.
"I never want to be apart from you again," he says, looking into my eyes.
"I don't want to either…" I whisper, my voice trembling with the weight of my emotions. "I want to be by your side… every second of my life."
I never can say those three words aloud. But perhaps he already knows. He feels them in my voice, in my gaze, in every touch.
We continue playing—with the ice cream, with our bodies, with our feelings. The lightness of laughter intertwines with the heat of desire, and in these crazy games, we are honest with each other to the last cell. Everything happening between us can't simply be called sex. It is something else, something much more sacred, deeper, finer. It is making love—when you don't just take, but give; when you not only want to feel, but to be felt. We merge with each other, not with our bodies, but with our souls. In every kiss, in every movement, there is music of recognition that we can't put into words.
When it's all over, we lie on the bed, breathing heavily, holding each other. Our skin is sticky, it is hot, but we don't break the embrace—as if we are afraid that if we let go, even for a second, everything will disappear.
"Tomorrow we have to go back to college..." Max mutters, burying his face in the pillow. There is exhaustion in his voice, and something else... as if a shadow of fear lingers there.
I immediately understand what he is remembering. That day, those events. They are carved in my memory too, like wounds that haven't healed yet. Especially the park. I will need a lot of time before I can walk past it calmly.
"Don't worry... I'll be here with you," I whisper, gently stroking his back. He nods, pressing even closer to me, as if checking—I'm here, really here.
Max doesn't reply, but his silence speaks louder than words. We are both scared. As if even now, in this silence, danger could reach out and pull someone away from this moment.
"I want to stop by the dorm..." he says after a pause.
"Do you want me to go with you?" I immediately prop myself up on my elbow, not hiding my concern.
"I don't want you to go farther than a few steps from me," his voice isn't commanding, nor jealous. Just genuinely scared.
We are scared. Not that someone will come again or harm us. But that something will break between us. That life, cruel and chaotic, will decide to play its games again.
But we are together. And if we stay close, if we hold on, maybe we can conquer everything. Even ourselves.
The morning starts with the sharp sound of the alarm clock, as if the world is reminding us that reality awaits outside this soft, warm cocoon. We both jolt awake and reluctantly release our embrace.
I am the first to get out of bed—I don't want to wake Max, but he heads to the bathroom while I go to warm up breakfast. The kitchen smells of coziness and leftover ice cream on the table. I smile—even the mess in the apartment seems cute while he is nearby.
Afterward, we switch places. In the shower, I stand under the warm streams of water, closing my eyes. There is a strange feeling: as if everything that happened yesterday wasn't a dream, but not quite reality either. We really are together. Still here.
When I come out—there is already a plate of food on the table. My favorite boy takes care of me so much that my heart aches sweetly. We eat in silence, but in those looks, there is more than in a hundred words.
The taxi arrives quickly. We hold hands all the way to the college. It is as if we are protecting each other from the outside world, which still seems too loud, too harsh after the storm that passed through our lives.
First—to the rector. We hand in the transcript, listen to the standard formalities, and head to the lecture hall. During the classes, we sit side by side, quiet and focused, not flirting, not talking. But every touch of our hands, every shadow of a smile speaks to everyone: we're together. We won't part.
After classes, we go to the dorm. The sun sets, coloring the sky in a warm peach hue. As we approach the entrance, someone calls us.
"Look who it is! Haven't seen you two lovebirds in a while," Dima says with a smirk, lazily leaning against the railing.
"I was in the hospital, so sorry, wasn't able to see you, buddy," Max replies coldly, with no hint of friendliness. His voice is even, but you can feel that boundary: don't push it.
"What? What happened? Who or what laid our strongman up?"
Max shoots him a sharp look.
"More likely who. You don't know them," his voice turns cold. I know—he doesn't want to stir up the past. We have already decided to leave it all behind. Together.
I just squeeze his hand tighter, and we continue walking, leaving Dima behind. He seems to mumble something after us, but we don't even turn around. It doesn't matter anymore.