Page 66 of Sexting the Single Pakhan

“Have you taken anything?”

“Aspirin,” I whisper. “Earlier.”

He curses under his breath, harsh Russian words I don’t catch. Is he angry at me? More Russian follows, like he’s speaking into a phone. Barking orders. Yeah, he’s definitely pissed.

Then his big, warm hand settles on my forehead. I lean into it instantly, chasing the heat. His palm feels like heaven against my burning skin.

“You’re burning up,” he says, accent thick. “Fuck, Laurel.”

Was he mad at me? What did I even do?

He mutters something else in Russian, low, almost soothing now, and the rich timbre of his voice wraps around me, pulling me deeper under.

Later, minutes? hours? I can’t tell, strong arms slide under me, lifting, propping me up against pillows. My head lolls. Am I still dreaming? Is he really here?

“Open,” that deep voice commands, nudging my lips.

I try. My lips part weakly. Two bitter pills drop onto my tongue. I gag at the taste, but water follows immediately. His hand cups the back of my head.

“Swallow, baby.”

I obey. The water slides down. His thumb brushes my lower lip, wiping away a stray drop.

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

And then the darkness pulls me under again.

But soon the chills hit harder, making my teeth clatter. I curl tighter under the blanket, but it doesn’t help.

Leonid’s voice cuts through the haze again. “You need body heat, solnyshko. Come here.”

The mattress dips with new weight. Warmth floods in as a solid wall of heat presses against me, strong arms pulling me back against a broad chest, legs tangling with mine, skin to skin.

I melt into him with a shaky exhale. “Hmm, this is… better.”

A deep rumble vibrates through his chest and into mine, half laugh, half growl. My eyelids grow impossibly heavy. I drift off wrapped in him, finally warm.

I wake slick with sweat, fever breaking in a rush. My mouth opens on instinct as something warm touches my lips.

“Swallow,” he murmurs.

The liquid slides down my throat, broth, maybe, herbal, and soothing. I smile weakly, voice raspy. “I like it when you say that.”

Another low rumble, this one edged with warning. “Don’t be naughty, solnyshko. You’re not well.”

More liquid follows, and I swallow obediently, then shake my head after a few sips, pushing weakly at his hand. “No more…”

My head drops back to the pillow. Sleep drags me under again, but it’s restless, tangled in fever dreams.

When I surface next, the heat is different. Not feverish fire anymore, but enveloping warmth that seeps into every aching muscle. My cheek rests on something hard. Not my pillow. My pillow isn’t warm muscle.

Strong arms band around me, holding me flush against a hard body. I blink slowly, vision clearing.

Leonid is in my bed, shirtless.

No, scratch that. We’re both naked. Completely. The thin blanket has slipped down to our hips, barely covering anything. His skin is hot against mine, chest rising and falling under my cheek, one thick thigh wedged between my legs, his hand splayed possessively over my lower back.

When did he get here? Why are we naked?