Page 42 of Sexting the Single Pakhan

When I’m done, I toss the cloth toward the bathroom, crawl back up the bed, and pull her against my side.

The doorbell rings.

Pizza.

I kiss her temple once, then roll out of bed and tug on my briefs. “Stay there.”

I open the door, take the boxes and two cold Cokes from the delivery guy, tip him generously, and kick the door shut.

When I turn back, she’s now in the living room, standing near the couch, wearing my oversized shirt. The hem skims the tops of her thighs; the sleeves hang past her fingertips. She looks small, soft, and so fucking mine that something possessive twists hard in my gut.

I liked seeing her naked. But this, her wrapped in my shirt, barefoot, hair mussed from my hands, hits different.

She glances over her shoulder and smiles, small, shy, that dimple flashing in her left cheek. “I thought we could watch something while we ate. Unless… you had to leave?”

I set the pizza boxes and Cokes on the coffee table. “Sit.”

She obeys, sinking onto the couch. I drop down beside her, close enough that our thighs press together. She opens the top box, pepperoni and mushroom, and the smell of hot cheese and oregano fills the room.

She flicks through channels on the TV, landing on some reality show. I barely register it. My eyes stay on her on that damn dimple that appears every time she smiles at something on screen.

She’s so fucking beautiful.

I’ve never been this enamored. Never wanted to keep someone this badly. There’s no way I’m letting her go. No fucking way.

As if she can read my thoughts, she turns her head. Our eyes lock.

Her smile falters slightly, turns tentative, and then she inhales deeply.

“Leonid, if we’re going to keep doing this,” she said quietly, “then it has to stay a secret. Because of my job. I can’t risk—”

I cut her off, voice calm but firm. “I already told you I can get you another job with better pay, and even better hours.”

She shakes her head immediately. “And I said no.”

I study her for a long moment. She’s serious.

I hate the idea of keeping her a secret. Every instinct I have, every possessive, territorial part of me recoils at it.

She was mine. I wanted the world to know it. I wanted other men to see her on my arm and understand exactly who she belonged to. I want to claim her in public the way I do in private. But I also know that’s the only way she’ll agree to keep seeing me.

“Fine,” I say at last. “We keep it quiet.”

Relief flickers across her face, followed by a small, grateful smile. That dimple again.

I lean in, kiss her, tasting pizza sauce and her. “Eat,” I murmur. “Then I’m taking you back to bed.”

She laughs, soft, breathless, and reaches for another slice.

Chapter Thirteen

Laurel

Things are great between Leonid and me. So great that sometimes I pinch myself, wondering if this is real or if I dreamed the whole thing up.

He treats me like I’m something precious, like a queen. Even though he’s possessive as hell and domineering in ways that should probably scare me, he listens. Actually listens. When I talk, he stops whatever he’s doing, gives me his full attention, and addresses every concern I raise.

He hates that we have to keep this a secret. I can tell. He doesn’t hide his displeasure, but he backs off when I remind him what’s at stake.