Page 3 of The Pakhans’ Curvy Prize

His light blue eyes study me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle, and there's something almost feral in the way he smiles, like he's a wolf who's just spotted prey.

"I already have one," I manage, lifting my glass.

"Then I'll buy you the next one." He extends his hand. "Russ."

"Marla." I take his hand, and the contact sends electricity up my arm. His palm is warm and calloused, his grip firm without being crushing.

He holds on just a beat longer than necessary, his thumb brushing across my knuckles.

"Marla," he repeats, like he's tasting my name. "You here alone?"

"With a friend." I glance at Sharon, but she's already drifted away, giving me space. Traitor.

"Mind if I keep you company?" Russ asks, but he's already moving closer, his body angled toward mine in a way that feels possessive and territorial.

"I don't mind," I say, and I'm surprised to find it's true. There's something about him that puts me at ease despite the danger radiating from him. Or maybe because of it.

We talk, and it's easier than I expected. Russ is charming and attentive, asking me questions about myself and actually listening to the answers.

He tells me he works in "family business," which I assume means something corporate and boring, though nothing about him seems boring.

He's got a quick wit and a dirty sense of humor that makes me laugh, and the way he looks at me, like his eyes are devouring me, makes heat pool low in my belly.

His gaze keeps dropping to my mouth, my throat, and the curve of my breasts in my dress.

It should feel objectifying, but instead it makes me feel desired in a way I've never experienced.

Zach used to tell me I should lose weight, that I'd be prettier if I were thinner.

Russ looks at my curves like they're exactly what he wants.

"So what do you do, Marla?" he asks, leaning against the bar. The movement makes his shirt pull tight across his chest, and I can see the definition of muscle beneath, the way his body tapers to a narrow waist.

"I'm a writer," I say. "Freelance. I work from home."

"What do you write?"

"Blog posts and articles mostly."

"Smart and beautiful," Russ says, his eyes darkening. "Dangerous combination."

I laugh, emboldened by the vodka and the way he's looking at me. "I'm not dangerous."

"No?" He moves closer, and I can smell his cologne, something woodsy and masculine that makes my head spin. "I think you might be more dangerous than you know."

The air between us feels charged. I know what's happening here. I know what he wants and what I want. The question is whether I'm brave enough to take it.

"Do you want to get out of here?" I ask, the words tumbling out before I can second-guess them.

Russ's smile is slow and predatory. "Fuck yeah."

My hands shake as I unlock the cabin door, hyperaware of Russ behind me, his presence overwhelming in the small space of my porch. I finally get the key to turn and push inside, flicking on the lamp by the door.

"This is me," I say unnecessarily, gesturing around the main room. I put the fire out before I left, but the space still feels warm and cozy. My books line the shelves, blankets are draped over the furniture, and my laptop sits on the coffee table surrounded by notes and empty tea mugs.

"It suits you," Russ says, closing the door behind him. The click of the lock sounds loud in the quiet.

I turn to face him, my heart hammering so hard I'm sure he can hear it.