Page 18 of Sexting the Single Pakhan

My mouth opens, but before I can get any word out, the driver says something in French from the front seat. Leonid answers without breaking eye contact with me. “We’ve arrived,” he translates.

Only then do I realize the car has stopped in front of a large hotel building. Leonid gets out of the car first and then offers me his hand.

My hand looks ridiculously small against his. His palm is warm and slightly calloused in a way that doesn’t quite match the image of a man who spends most of his time behind a screen.

He closes his hand around mine, and a zap of electricity shoots up my arm. My knees threaten to buckle, but somehow I manage to stand without wobbling.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

He doesn’t let go right away. His gaze stays on my face. “Are you alright?”

“Hmm,” I murmur, nodding.

He brings his hand to the small of my back, and we both walk into the hotel. Two doormen in crisp uniforms step forward, one already reaching for our bags, the other holding the heavy glass door open with a murmured “Bonjour, Monsieur, Mademoiselle.”

Inside, the lobby is magnificent: soaring ceilings painted with soft frescoes, crystal chandeliers, marble floors veined in gold and cream, enormous vases of white lilies and roses perfuming the air. It feels like stepping into a different century, one where everything is slower, more beautiful.

Leonid’s hand is still on my back. He glances down at me. “Welcome to Paris, Laurel.”

“Thank you,” I respond, grinning from ear to ear.

After we collect our key cards from the front desk, we head toward the elevator.

I’m oddly grateful we aren’t alone inside it. An elderly couple stands near the control panel, quietly murmuring to each other in French, and a middle-aged man in a tailored suit scrolls through his phone near the corner.

Leonid positions himself behind me as the doors slide shut. He isn’t brushing against me, but he is close enough that I’m hyperaware of his presence. The faint heat of his body, the clean, masculine scent of his cologne lingering in the narrow space. Every tiny shift of air feels amplified.

When the doors finally open on our floor, I release a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. He leads the way to our suite.

As we walk into our suite, my mouth falls open. “Oh.”

Spectacular doesn’t even begin to cover it. The suite is massive, easily two times the size of my apartment back home. A spacious living area opens first, anchored by a plush sectional sofa, a glass coffee table, and soft neutral rugs that look like they cost more than my monthly rent.

Floor-to-ceiling windows flood the room with pale morning light, revealing the Paris skyline beyond. There’s a small dining nook and artwork lining the walls.

Our bags arrive almost immediately. Leonid tips the bellboy, who thanks us and disappears down the hall.

Leonid gestures down the corridor. “That room is yours,” he says, pointing to the door at the far end. Then he motions to the opposite door. “That one is mine.”

“Thanks. I need to unpack and freshen up.”

His phone starts to ring, and he gives me a nod before walking away to answer it.

I drag my suitcase toward my room and push the door open.

My jaw actually drops. The bedroom is stunning. A king-sized bed dressed in crisp white linens sits centered beneath a padded headboard. Soft lamps glow warmly against cream-colored walls. A sitting chair rests near the window, and when I walk closer, my breath catches all over again.

The Eiffel Tower rises in the distance, unmistakable and luminous against the morning sky.

“No way,” I whisper. My room has a view of the Eiffel Tower! I drop my bags and immediately pull out my phone, FaceTiming Tasha.

It’s past midnight in New York, but she answers almost instantly, hair messy, already curled under her blankets.

“Hello from Paris,” I announce.

She squeals so loudly I have to pull the phone slightly away from my ear. “Shut up! You’re really there?!”

“Look at this,” I laugh, flipping the camera toward the window so she can see the Eiffel Tower.