Page 63 of Convenient Vows

He drops the bouquet in his hand onto the dresser without looking where it lands, like the flowers are a thought he can no longer hold onto.

His attention is all on me.

And he’s not hiding it.

There’s something in the way he moves—measured, powerful, quiet. Not aggressive, but deliberate and predatory.

Like he’s done waiting.

I grip the towel tighter, heart hammering so hard I swear he must hear it. But I don’t move.

I can’t.

Because this—this right here—is the moment. I’ve felt it building for weeks, simmering beneath every look, every pause, every breath we shared in silence.

He’s always handled me with care. Spoke carefully. Stepped carefully. Touched me like he was afraid I might break.

But not now.

Now, his restraint is gone. He reaches me, eyes still holding mine, and lifts a hand to the edge of my towel and pulls. The towel slips from my fingers, pooling silently at my feet. Cool air skims over my skin, and still, I don’t move.

Zasha steps back just slightly—not out of hesitation, but to see.

To take me in.

His chest rises slowly, and for the first time, I see it in full. The hunger. The reverence. The quiet storm in him that has nothing to do with control and everything to do with how deeply he wants me.

He bends and lifts me like I weigh nothing at all. His arms wrap around me with startling care, like I’m made of something precious and dangerous at the same time. I gasp, and his grip tightens just enough to ground me.

Zasha’s hands are like iron bands around my waist, lifting me effortlessly as if I weigh nothing. His grip is firm but gentle, his touch reverent, as if he’s cradling something fragile, something precious. I feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek as he carries me, his steps steady and deliberate. My heart pounds in my chest, not from fear, but from the weight of the moment. He’s holding me like I’m his answer, like I’m the missing piece he’s been searching for. I can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling, as he lays me down on the bed with such care.

The mattress dips beneath me, soft and inviting, but I’m too aware of his presence to relax fully. Zasha stands above me, his shadow looming large, his gaze intense. He doesn’t rush. He takes his time, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he’s savoring every second. His eyes never leave mine, and I feel like he’s seeing through me, into parts of myself I’ve kept hidden even from myself.

“Mara,” he murmurs, his voice deep and rough, like gravel underfoot. There’s a hunger in it, but it’s not just physical. It’s something deeper, something raw and unspoken. He leans down, his lips brushing mine in a kiss that’s tender, almosthesitant. It’s not the kind of kiss that demands; it’s the kind that asks, that seeks permission. I close my eyes, letting the sensation wash over me, and I feel his hand cup my cheek, his thumb brushing my jawline.

He’s touching me like he’s learning me all over again, I think, my breath catching in my throat. It’s not just his hands, it’s his eyes, his presence, the way he holds himself as if he’s afraid to break me. But there’s strength in his touch, too, a quiet power that reassures me. Zasha isn’t a man who shows weakness, but in this moment, he’s laying something bare, something vulnerable.

He pulls back slightly, his gaze searching mine, and I see it—the rawness, the need. It’s not just desire, though that’s there, burning like a flame between us. It’s something more, something unspoken, something that hangs in the air like a question waiting to be answered.

“Zasha,” I whisper, my voice barely audible, but he hears it. His eyes darken, and he leans in again, his lips pressing against mine with more urgency this time. His hands move down my body, slow and deliberate, as if he’s mapping every curve, every contour. I feel his fingers trace the line of my collarbone, the swell of my breasts, and I shiver, not from the touch itself, but from the intent behind it.

He doesn’t look—he worships. The thought flashes through my mind as he undresses me, his eyes never leaving mine. There’s something almost sacred in the way he removes my clothes, as if he’s unveiling something precious, something he’s been longing to see. His touch is reverent, his movements careful, and I feel myself surrendering to him, piece by piece.

When he finally steps back, his own clothes discarded, I drink him in. Zasha is a man carved from stone and shadow, his body a testament to years of discipline and strength. But in this moment, he’s not the enforcer, not the man who commands fear and respect. He’s something else entirely, something raw and exposed.

He climbs onto the bed, his weight settling beside me, and I feel the mattress dip beneath him. His hand finds mine, his fingers lacing through mine, and I squeeze, needing the connection, needing the anchor. His other hand moves to my waist, pulling me closer, and I feel the heat of his body against mine, the hardness of his chest against my breasts.

Our bodies come together slowly, not in a frenzy, but with a deliberate, aching slowness. It’s not about urgency; it’s about connection, about the way our skin meets, the way our breaths sync. Zasha kisses me again, deeper this time, his tongue tangling with mine, and I moan softly, the sound swallowed by his mouth.

His hand moves down, sliding between us, and I feel his fingers brush against my core, wet and eager. He groans into the kiss, the sound vibrating against my lips, and I arch into his touch, needing more. But he takes his time, his fingers teasing, circling, never quite giving me what I want.

“Zasha,” I whisper, my voice thick with need, but he just smiles against my skin, a small, private smile that sends a shiver down my spine.

He shifts above me, his weight pressing me into the mattress, and I feel him, hard and insistent, against my thigh. His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, we just breathe, our chests rising and falling in sync. There’s so much in that look, so much he’s not saying, and I feel overwhelmed, not just by the sensation, but by the rawness in his eyes.

He enters me slowly, his hips moving with deliberate control, and I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders. He’s big, filling me completely, and I feel stretched, full, in a way that’s both uncomfortable and exhilarating. But he doesn’t rush, giving me time to adjust, his eyes never leaving mine.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice a rough whisper, and I feel my cheeks flush, my heart swelling at the words.

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