Then, a sudden, horrible awareness that I’m very, very naked.
My eyes flutter open, lashes sticking together. There’s a duvet draped over me, heavy and expensive—the kind that probably requires a bank loan to pay off. My limbs are tangled in the sheets, muscles loose and useless, like I’ve been wrung out and left to dry.
Which, to be fair, I kind of have.
I blink at the ceiling. Not mine.
It’s too dark, too sleek. Masculine. Minimalist. And oh. Right.
Oh. Right.
I had sex with Konstantin Belov.Again.Except this time? This time, it was apocalyptic.
The kind of sex that ruins other sex. That melts bones. That makes you think,“Maybe I won’t die alone surrounded by expired makeup samples and unopened mail after all.”
And now… I’m awake in his bed. Alone. Of course.
Then I hear it—the low rush of water. Shower.
Great. So he got up. Cleaned off. Probably scrubbed the memory of me from his skin already while I lay here marinating in shame and post-orgasm fog.
A door opens.
Steam pours out like a fog machine at a very sexy funeral, and there he is—stepping into the room like he owns gravity.
Which, honestly, he might. The towel slung low around his hips is an insult to my nervous system. Water clings to his chest and trails down to the ink wrapping his ribs. His hair’s damp. His expression? Not.
He walks to the bar and pours himself a glass of water as if it were just another Tuesday. Like he didn’t rearrange my entire internal anatomy two hours ago.
Then—shock of all shocks—he walks over to me and offers me the glass.
Like I’m aguest. Not someone he folded in half and ruined in his bed yesterday.
“Thanks,” I mumble, voice raw. I take the water because I’m not stupid, and my throat feels like I swallowed a desert. But I narrow my eyes as I sip it, watching him over the rim of the glass.
No smile. No affection. Not even smug satisfaction.
His face is perfectly blank. Like I’m just… here. Temporarily. Like I’ve overstayed my welcome, and the check-out time is now.
Cool. Love that for me.
I set the glass down on the nightstand and start moving, fast. Before he can say it. Before he can kick me out with one of his charming little one-liners that make me feel like lint on his tailored pants.
I fumble for the black silk sleepwear I had on—snatching it from where it’s been artfully draped across the floor like a casualty of war. It’s wrinkled, one strap twisted. It smells like him. Like me. Likeus. Ugh.
I slide it over my head, avoiding his eyes. My fingers are shaking slightly, which is annoying. I can do a bra in the dark with one hand, but somehow,thisfeels like defusing a bomb.
I know he’s watching me.
I can feel it—the heat of it on my back as I smooth the dress down and pretend I don’t feel like a disposable wet wipe with great cheekbones.
Say it. Tell me to go. Tell me to get back to my room. Remind me this was just an obligation with orgasms.
But he doesn’t.
He just stands there, drinking his water like a statue with abs.
So I speak first before the silence swallows me whole.
