Page 43 of Sexting the Single Pakhan

I’m not even sure what “this” is. Are we dating now? Are we just fucking? It feels deeper than sex, deeper than anything I’ve ever had. But I keep telling myself not to get ahead of myself, guard my heart. Because you can’t build expectations on something that’s never been defined out loud.

But then he does things that make it impossible to stay detached.

Ever since that first night when he opened my fridge and found it practically empty, he’s taken it upon himself to make sure I’m fed. Groceries arrive at my door every week, fresh produce, proteins, snacks, and even little treats like the dark chocolate I mentioned liking once in passing.

He orders meals to the school when he knows I’ve forgotten lunch. No one has ever paid attention to me the way he does.

Growing up, I watched my mom cycle through toxic men, my stepfather worst of all. He used her, hurt her, hurt us. I learned early that love came with fists and shouting and walking on eggshells.

Then Jasper, my ex in Philadelphia, was no better. Controlling, violent. The night he backhanded me across the face was the night I finally left, packed my bag, and moved to New York to start over.

I swore off dating after that. Swore I was like my mom, doomed to pick men who hurt me. So I stayed single. But Leonid is nothing like them.

Leonid’s intense, yes. Possessive, absolutely. But he’s never once raised a hand to hurt me. Never belittled me. Never made me feel small. When I speak, he listens. When I’m tired, he pulls me into his lap and lets me fall asleep against his chest without expecting anything in return.

I hear the knock at almost exactly midnight, right on cue, and a smile curls my lips before I can stop it.

For the last two weeks, Leonid has shown up at my door like clockwork at this hour. It’s become our unspoken ritual: him appearing in the dark, me waiting. Tonight, though, I’m not naked under the robe like usual. I’m wearing the new red lace bra and panties I bought last weekend.

The robe hangs open as I walk to the door. I don’t bother tying it. I want him to see.

I open the door.

He steps inside without a word, eyes immediately darkening as they rake over me, down the open robe, over the red lace, back up to my face.

He’s in a black button-down and black slacks, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie and jacket gone. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, exposing the strong column of his throat and the edge of a tattoo.

“Fuck,” he swears in Russian, low, guttural, the accent thickening the way it always does when he’s turned on. I love that sound. It’s the only time his polished, almost-American cadence cracks, and the real him slips through.

He kicks the door shut behind him and pulls me against his body in one rough motion.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he growls against my ear, voice already rough with want.

I wrap my arms around his neck, fingers sliding into the short hair at his nape.

“Oh, that would be a shame,” I murmur, lips brushing his jaw. “I’d have to find another man who could match the standard you’ve set.”

His whole body goes rigid. The next second, I’m pinned against the door, his hand around my throat, not choking, just firm enough to make my pulse jump under his palm. His other hand braces beside my head, caging me in.

“You think there’s another man who could touch you and live?” he says, voice dangerously rough.

I swallow against his grip, thighs pressing together. “I don’t know,” I whisper, teasing. “Maybe I should test the theory.”

His fingers tighten. “Careful, solnyshko. Keep talking like that, and I’ll have to remind you who you belong to.”

I smile, slow, defiant. “Maybe I want reminding.”

He slams his mouth down on mine, fierce, claiming, tongue thrusting deep like he’s trying to devour me. I kiss him back just as hard, nails digging into his shoulders through his shirt.

But tonight I have other plans. I break the kiss, breathless, and push against his chest.

It’s laughable, my hands against that solid wall of muscle, but he humors me. He steps back half a pace, eyes narrowed, amused and predatory.

“Sit,” I say, pointing at the couch.

His smirk is slow. “You’re forgetting who’s in charge here.”

I bite my lower lip, the way I know drives him insane.