Page 18 of Sexting the Pakhan

Curiosity.

Stepan tilts his head slightly. “That bad?”

“Not yet.”

He says nothing, but I can feel him waiting.

I wipe my thumb clean on the handkerchief, then type back:That depends. How are you with strangers?I send it before I can reconsider.

Stepan’s brows lift. “Am I allowed to ask?”

“No.”

“That usually means I’ll enjoy the answer.”

I slide the phone back into my pocket and look at the man in the chair again. “Take him upstairs. Don’t let him pass out before you get the rest.”

The men move immediately. One unlocks the chair. Another hauls the bastard up by the arms. He groans, feet dragging against the concrete, leaving a thin smear behind him.

I don’t watch them go. I’m already walking toward the sink at the back of the room, stripping off my cuff links one by one and setting them on the metal shelf beside it. I turn on the tap and hold my hands under cold water. Pink swirls down the drain. My knuckles sting. Good. Pain keeps things simple.

My phone vibrates again. I shut off the water and reach for it.

Not usually great. This is me being chaotic under peer pressure.

I laugh. It escapes me before I mean to let it. Short. Low. Real.

Stepan hears it from the doorway and just stares. “You’re joking.”

I ignore him, but my mouth is already curving.

Chaotic under peer pressure.

I can hear her now, or almost hear her. Young, probably. Dry little sense of humor. Mortified even while she does the thing anyway. The kind of woman who explains herself when she’s nervous because silence feels worse.

I shouldn’t be interested.

I am.

I type:Then I’m honored to be your bad decision for the evening.

Stepan actually groans. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

I glance at him. “Leave.”

He doesn’t. He leans one shoulder against the doorframe instead, folding his arms. “I leave you alone for ten minutes and you’re flirting with a stranger covered in someone else’s blood.”

I look back down at the phone. “I’m not flirting.”

“That would be a more convincing lie if I didn’t know how rarely you bother speaking to women at all.”

The phone buzzes before I answer him.

My friend is going to be unbearably smug about this.

There’s something warm in the message now. Less self-conscious. She’s relaxing. That pleases me more than it should.

I type back:She sounds unbearable.