Page 23 of Sexting the Single Pakhan

I glance at our food. He follows my gaze. “It’s getting cold,” he says, almost teasingly. “We should eat.”

The meal is incredible. I’ve never had French cuisine like this: seared duck with a cherry reduction, buttery ratatouille, and delicate escargot that melts in my mouth. Every bite tastes better than the last, and I can’t stop thinking that I’ll never be able to eat ordinary food after this trip.

We eat in companionable quiet for a few minutes before Leonid sets his fork down, eyes on me.

“So,” he says, voice low, “do you always go to parents’ homes to discuss their children’s behavior?”

My cheeks ignite instantly as the memory of our first meeting comes back. I duck my head, pretending to concentrate on cutting another piece of duck.

“Yeah,” I manage, “but not all the time. Mostly, I meet them at school.”

He nods slowly. “That’s better. It’s risky going to a stranger’s home.”

The way he says it, holding my eyes, makes heat crawl up my neck. I nod and look away, suddenly fascinated by the candle flame flickering between us.

The rest of the meal passes in easy conversation: how I spent the day wandering the Tuileries, how the city feels slower and softer than New York. He listens, asks questions, and laughs quietly at my wide-eyed descriptions of the patisseries and the Seine at sunset.

After dessert—crème brûlée with a perfect glassy top that cracks under my spoon—we leave. Louis is waiting outside, opens the car door for us, and drives us back to the hotel in comfortable silence.

The elevator ride up is torture.

It’s just the two of us. The mirrored walls reflect us from every angle, and our eyes meet in the mirror. He doesn’t look away. Neither do I.

“Laurel,” he growls. “I know we agreed to keep things professional.”

My breath catches.

“But right now,” he continues, gaze locked on mine in the reflection, “I would really love to kiss you.”

The words land like a match on dry grass. Before I can think and remember all the reasons I shouldn’t, I blurt, “Please kiss me—”

He’s on me before I finish the sentence. One hand cups my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone, and the other slides to my waist and pulls me flush against him. His mouth crashes down on mine, hot, hungry, claiming. I gasp into the kiss, and he takes advantage, tongue sliding against mine in a slow stroke that makes my knees buckle.

I wrap my arms around his neck, fingers sinking into his hair, tugging him closer. He groans low in his throat, and the sound vibrates through me. He deepens the kiss, tilting my head to the exact angle he wants, licking into my mouth like he’s starving for it.

His teeth graze my lower lip, just enough to sting, and he soothes the spot with another slow sweep of his tongue. One hand slides down my back, palm splaying possessively over the curve of my ass, pulling me tighter against the hard ridge of him.

I moan, and he answers with a rough sound, fingers flexing against my skin.

The elevator dings. We break apart just as the doors slide open. Breathing hard, we stare at each other for one suspended second. Then he takes my hand and pulls me out into the hallway.

We stumble toward the suite, his mouth on my throat, teeth grazing my pulse point. He growls against my skin, fumbles the key card, and gets the door open.

The moment it clicks shut behind us, he’s on me again.

This kiss is hungrier, less controlled. My hands tear at his shirt, buttons popping, fabric ripping a little. I need him naked. Need to feel his skin. He helps me by shrugging out of it. Tattoos cover his arms, chest, and ribs, dark ink curling over muscle, scars faint beneath. I drag my nails down his pecs; he hisses, hands already bunching my dress up around my hips.

We stumble backward, toward his bedroom, mouths fused. When we finally come up for air, chests heaving, foreheads pressed together, I realize I’m trembling.

He pulls back just enough to look at me, chest heaving, eyes dark and molten.

“I want to fuck you so badly,” he rasps, voice wrecked, forehead pressed to mine. “But I also need you to enjoy it. So I need to know how you like being fucked.”

Heat floods between my legs, and my thighs clench involuntarily. He must feel the way my body reacts because his thumb strokes slowly across my lower lip, voice dropping even lower. “I know you’ve fantasized about me splitting you in half with my cock.”

My face ignites. Tomato-red doesn’t begin to cover it. I can feel the flush burning from my chest to my hairline.

He cups my cheek, thumb brushing my lip again, gentler this time. “No need to be embarrassed. I’ve dreamed about what I’m going to do to your body, too.” His gaze drops to my mouth, then lower, then back up. “But we need to be on the same page. What do you like in the bedroom?”