Page 17 of Sexting the Single Pakhan

His face is close, so dangerously close that I can feel his breath, soft against my ear. My heart hammers. My stomach twists. It’s as if he’s about to kiss me, and for one delicious, terrifying second, I want him to.

Then he pulls back. Most of me breathes a silent sigh of relief, but a small, stubborn part aches with disappointment. I force my eyes toward the window, swallowing hard, pretending the clouds are worth my full attention.

I pull his coat tighter around me, burying my nose in the collar for one guilty second, then force myself to breathe through my mouth.

God. This trip is going to be impossible. How am I supposed to survive the next two days?

Chapter Six

Laurel

Leonid spends most of the seven-hour flight glued to his iPad, working nonstop. I split my time between reading on my e-reader, sampling every snack the flight attendant offers, and curling up for a nap in the sleeping space tucked behind the main cabin. It’s ridiculously comfortable. I had no idea this level of luxury even existed in the air.

By the time the pilot announces our descent, I’m already awake.

I duck into the bathroom, splash cool water over my face, and run the small comb from my purse through my hair, fixing the worst of the sleep tangles. I smooth it back into place and swipe on a fresh layer of lip gloss before heading back.

Leonid is still working, sleeves now rolled to his elbows, revealing thick forearms corded with muscle and covered in dark, intricate tattoos that disappear under the fabric. His hair is mussed, as though he’s been dragging his fingers through it. Does this man ever get tired?

He looks up from his tablet as I approach, his gaze locking onto mine, and suddenly I’m painfully aware of every step I take back to my seat. His expression is unreadable, and it makes me irrationally curious about what’s going on behind those eyes.

I sit down and fasten my seatbelt.

“You good?” he asks.

I nod, realizing I’ve somehow lost the ability to form words under his steady stare.

He studies me another beat, then returns to his tablet, but not before I catch the faint curve at the corner of his mouth.

I stare straight ahead, cheeks burning. God. If I’m going to keep this professional for the next two days, I need him to stop looking at me like he wants to devour me.

By the time we touch down, a black SUV is already waiting near the runway. The driver, a middle-aged man, stands beside it, dressed in a black tailored suit, a brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes.

He approaches us immediately, offering me a polite smile.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle,” he says smoothly.

I blink, caught off guard. “Uh—bonjour,” I manage, hoping my accent isn’t completely tragic.

He turns to Leonid and launches into rapid French.

I don’t understand a single word, but God, the way Leonid answers, low, fluid, that gravelly timbre rolling through the syllables like velvet over stone, makes my stomach tighten in a way I have no business feeling. French on him is lethal. I bite the inside of my cheek and silently order myself to stop.

The driver smiles politely at me and opens the rear door with a gloved hand. “Après vous, mademoiselle.”

“Thank you,” I murmur, sliding inside. The leather is butter-soft, still warm from the heater. Leonid follows, settling beside me, and suddenly the spacious backseat feels smaller.

Our luggage is already in the trunk. The driver closes the door, slips behind the wheel, and we glide away from the airfield.

I can’t believe I’m in Paris. I look out the window, taking it all in: cobblestone streets gleam faintly from last night’s rain. The city is just waking, joggers in bright jackets, café owners rolling up metal shutters, a woman in a scarf setting out baskets of baguettes and croissants on a sidewalk table. No horns blaring. No one is screaming at a cab driver. No frantic tide of commuters shoving toward the subway. Just… quiet. An air of peace that feels almost foreign after New York.

I can’t stop staring. Two weeks ago, if anyone had told me I’d be spending Valentine’s weekend in Paris, I’d have laughed them out of the room. I press my face closer to the window like an overexcited tourist.

I turn my head and find Leonid watching me, elbow braced on the door, chin resting on his knuckles. His expression is unreadable, but the intensity in those blue eyes makes my skin prickle.

“I’ve never been to Paris before,” I blurt, cheeks warming. “So… don’t be surprised if I spend the whole time gawking.”

A slow smirk curves his mouth. “I’m glad your first time is with me.”