Looks like you survived a night at the sexy Russian’s house. So…how was it? Was he great in bed or what?
My face turns hot, and I glance at him as though he could see what she wrote, but his eyes remain on the road. Thankfully.
Sloane
I can’t talk right now. He’s right next to me.
Mandy
OK, but did you bang him?
I bite the inside of my cheek and type back quickly, keeping my screen angled away.
Sloane
No.
Mandy
WHAT! Did he kiss you at least? Anything??? How can you still be a virgin after last night?
Sloane
I’m not a virgin. One time is still one time.
Mandy
Stop it. You’re a virgin.
I glimpse at Kirill again, his square jaw, one hand resting casually on the steering wheel. He looks calm—calmer than me, that’s for sure.
Sloane
We didn’t bang, but something did happen. I’ll tell you everything when I get there.
Mandy
I knew it! Hurry the fuck up, and you’d better not leave anything out!
I slip the phone back into my purse as I stare out the window. Every time Kirill changes gears or adjusts his grip on the wheel, I sense it low in my stomach. His hands are just so big and manly; I can’t seem to stop thinking about them all over me.
Shame slides across my face. I’m not that kind of girl. I don’t think about sexual things. But here I am, thinking about every dirty thing he could do to me.
As though hearing my thoughts, he peers at me, a smirk tilting one side of his mouth…and there goes the rest of my pulse. But we’re nothing more than friends, and I have to keep reminding myself of that, no matter how many times it takes to get him out of my system.
Good luck to me.
When we pull onto Mandy’s street, he slows the car and parks in front of her place, the engine idling as silence fills the space between us. I swallow and reach for the door handle, but my fingers hesitate on the metal.
“Thank you,” I say, more aware of his masculinity than I was on the ride here, if that’s even possible. “You know, for everything last night. And this morning.”
Before I can pull the handle, his hand closes around my knee. The reaction is instant: a shudder goes straight through me, heat following right behind it.
“Sloane, wait.”
The way he says my name makes me jump. I turn toward him, and it’s there on his face, all of it. The restraint, the tension, the fight he’s having with himself. He’s holding so still, it makes him look carved out of stone, shoulders tight like he’s swallowing words he doesn’t trust in his own mouth.
His thumb presses into my knee, just enough pressure to remind me he’s there, and that single touch ricochets through me. His other hand lifts, stopping short of my face, hovering likehe wants to cup my cheek, but he retreats and disappointment floods me.
