Page 29 of Sexting the Single Pakhan

“You need to eat first.”

He slides out of bed, stands, and stretches a hand toward me. He’s only in black briefs now; I can’t help staring. Every line of him is sculpted, broad shoulders, ridged abs, the deep V disappearing beneath the waistband, cock straining through the briefs even at rest. My mouth goes dry.

I sit up. The sheet falls to my waist, baring my breasts. His gaze darkens instantly, heated, possessive. I feel my nipples tighten under the weight of his stare, a flush spreading across my chest.

He looks like he wants to devour me all over again.

I get out of bed and reach for the shirt he wore last night, discarded on the floor, and pull it on. It swallows me whole, sleeves dangling past my fingertips, hem brushing mid-thigh.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “You look good in my shirt.”

I smile, warmth blooming in my chest. He takes my hand, lacing our fingers, and leads me out of the bedroom into the suite’s living area.

Breakfast is already laid out on the dining table, but that’s not what stops me cold.

On the couch sit two glossy shopping bags, black with gold inscriptions on the ribbon, and beside them, a massive bouquet of red roses. Two small velvet boxes rest next to the flowers.

I turn to him, confused. “Leonid…?”

He reaches for the bouquet, hands it to me with a small, almost shy smile.

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”

I blink. “What? Why?”

“It’s Valentine’s Day,” he says simply, as though it’s obvious. “Every woman deserves flowers. And a little gift.”

My fingers tighten around the stems. The roses smell sweet and heady. A small, stupid part of me deflates. What was I expecting? A declaration? A confession? That he bought them because he’s falling for me? We had sex one night. That’s all.

I inhale the roses deeply. The scent is sweet and heady, and I smile up at him. “Thank you. They’re beautiful.”

He nods once, eyes warm. “Open the boxes.”

I set the bouquet carefully on the coffee table and reach for the first small velvet case. When I flip the lid, my breath catches. Inside lies a delicate necklace: a fine gold chain with a single teardrop pendant of deep emerald, the stone catching the morning light and throwing green fire across the room.

The second box holds a matching bracelet, thin gold links with tiny emerald accents.

I stare, speechless, then move to the shopping bags. Inside the first one is a vintage silk scarf, cream with delicate hand-painted roses in soft pinks and greens, the kind of piece you see in old French films. The second bag holds a bottle of expensive designer perfume.

I turn to him, overwhelmed. “Leonid… this is a lot.”

He steps close, hands settling on my hips, pulling me gently against him. “No,” he murmurs. “It’s not.”

Then he kisses me, one hand sliding up to cup the back of my neck while the other presses me flush to his body. I melt into it, fingers curling into his bare shoulders.

When he pulls back, I’m breathless. “Thank you,” I whisper again.

He kisses me once more, lighter this time. “You’re welcome.”

He nods toward the dining table. “We should eat.”

We walk over together. The breakfast spread is pure Paris perfection: warm buttery croissants, pain au chocolat, a bowl of fresh strawberries and raspberries, yogurt drizzled with golden honey, a basket of miniature pains aux raisins, a pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice, and two steaming pots of coffee.

We sit. I reach for a croissant; he pours coffee into my cup.

As we eat, I glance at him over the rim of my cup. “When did you get the gifts? Was it while you were out yesterday?”

He takes a sip of his own coffee, eyes meeting mine. “The moment you agreed to come on the trip, I made a call. Had everything picked up yesterday while you were out with Louis.”