Page 91 of Sexting the Single Pakhan

“I never wanted you to see that side of me,” he says.

“But I did.” Tears burn behind my eyes again. “And now I can't unsee it. I can't un-know it.” I sighed, the sound ragged and defeated, and wrapped my arms tighter around my knees like that would hold me together.

“All my life,” I whisper, “I’ve been surrounded by violent men. My mom always dated the worst ones, guys on the wrong side of the law, guys who hit first and asked questions later. Then she married one. My stepfather. He was… bad, violent, cruel. The second I had enough money saved and I was old enough, I left. I swore I’d never end up like her.”

My throat burned. I forced the words out anyway.

“But I did. I dated Jasper. He was just like my stepfather—quick to anger, quicker with his fists. Always in trouble with the police. When he hit me the last time, I left. I made a promise to myself: no more men like that. Never again. I’d rather be alone forever.” I looked up at him, tears blurring the edges of my vision.

“I’m sorry about that, baby.” His voice drops, low and steady. “Tell me what happened. With your stepfather. With your ex. All of it.”

I stare at him. “Why? You’re going to kill someone again? Leonid, are you even listening to me? How does this make you any different from them?”

“I’m not like them, Laurel,” he says, voice low and fierce. “You know that, baby. Deep down, you know.”

I shook my head, tears spilling over. “You’re on the wrong side of the law. You kill people. And now you’re about to kill my ex and stepfather.”

“I only hurt people who deserve it.” His eyes don’t waver. “I don’t go around murdering innocents. I don’t hurt women. I don’t hurt kids. I protect what’s mine, and I make sure the people who threaten that don’t get a second chance.” He reached out slowly, brushing a strand of hair from my wet cheek with the back of his knuckles. “And I’d cut off my limbs before I ever raised a hand to you,” he says, voice cracking just a little. “You have to believe that. I'd never hurt you.”

I looked into his eyes, and I do believe him. I believe he’d never hurt me. Not on purpose. But the rest…

“I love you,” he says simply. “You know that.”

"I know..." I whispered, avoiding his gaze.

Then he leaned in slowly, giving me every chance to pull away, but I didn't, and he pressed his lips to mine. Tentative. Careful. Like he was afraid I’d move away. I don’t pull away. I let him kiss me. He deepens it gradually, lips parting, tongue brushing mine, one hand cupping my jaw like I’m something fragile and priceless.

He rises, lifting me with him in one smooth motion, and then lays me down gently, never breaking the kiss. Clothes come off slowly. His hands are reverent as he peels away the rest of his own clothes. He settles over me, weight braced on his forearms so he doesn’t crush me. His eyes never leave mine as he nudges my thighs apart, and he notches himself at my entrance.

He slides in slowly, inch by inch, watching my face the whole time. Like he’s trying to pour every unspoken thing into my body. He kisses me again, deep, languid, then pulls back just enough to speak against my lips.

“I love you, solnyshko,” he breathes, hips rolling in that perfect, devastating rhythm. “I love you.”

I cry out, soft, broken, his mouth catching the sound, swallowing it as pleasure coils tight and bright inside me. He keeps moving, slow, deep, murmuring words in Russian against my skin. The words, the feel of him, the way he holds me like I might disappear—it’s too much.

I shatter. Hard. Loud. My nails dig into his back, my legs lock around him, and I come with a sob that he muffles with another kiss, deep and claiming and tender all at once. He follows a heartbeat later, groaning my name into my neck, hips stuttering as he spills inside me.

We stay like that, tangled, breathless, hearts hammering against each other. He doesn’t pull out. Just holds me, forehead pressed to mine, breathing like he’s run a marathon.

“I love you,” he whispers one more time.

I wake slowly, with the urge to use the restroom. My hand reaches out instinctively for Leonid, but the other side of the bed is empty. I blink against the evening sun slanting through the blinds, and my eyes land on a folded piece of paper on his pillow.

I pick it up.

Solnyshko, Out running a few errands. Back soon. Food’s in the microwave. I love you. L.

The words blur as tears pool in my eyes. Errands. What kind of errands? Is he out there right now, cleaning up this morning’s mess? Disposing of the body? My stomach twists violently.

I sit up, clutching the note so hard the paper crinkles. All those “business trips” he used to take—days, sometimes a week—was he out killing someone too?

I can’t do this. I was a teacher... I can't wrap my head around his identity or his world yet. Not this fast. Tears spill over. I swipe them away angrily, swing my legs out of bed, and walk to the closet on autopilot. I just need some time to be alone. I need to clear my head, and I can’t do that if I’m here.

A pair of jeans, some tops, underwear, the small duffel I kept here. I leave everything else—the dresses, the shoes, the jewelry. I love him. God, I love him. But I can’t stay.

I zip the bag, sling it over my shoulder, and head downstairs. I’m three steps from the front door when a voice stops me cold.

“Leaving already?”