Page 54 of Sexting the Pakhan

“You tell me to stop,” I say, “and I stop.”

She nods once.

“No.” I hold her gaze. “Say it.”

“If I tell you to stop, you stop.”

“Yes.”

Her eyes close for half a second. When they open, they’re darker. “Then kiss me.”

I do.

Carefully at first. That lasts perhaps three seconds.

She makes a sound into my mouth, small and shaken, and her hand grips the front of my shirt. Whatever restraint I have prepared for disappears under the feel of her. She’s soft against me, warm and alive and trembling in a way that has nothing to do with fear now.

I stand and pull her up with me without breaking the kiss.

She comes willingly, one hand still twisted in my shirt, the other sliding under my jacket as if she needs to know I’m real. Her mouth is inexperienced at first, then hungry, learning quickly, answering me with a need that goes straight to my blood.

I back her against the balcony door.

Her breath catches. My hand goes to her waist, and for one second all I can think is that she fits there too well. Soft under my fingers. Curves filling my palm. She gasps when my thumb brushes the side of her breast through the cardigan, and the sound almost finishes me.

“Ruslan,” she whispers.

I stop. It costs me more than it should.

She looks dazed, lips parted, cheeks flushed, eyes wide like she didn’t expect me to actually stop. “What?” she asks.

“You’ve been drinking.”

Her expression shifts into frustration so fast I almost smile.

“Two glasses.”

“Still.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you stopping?”

“Because I need you to be certain tomorrow too.”

For a second, she just stares at me. Then her face changes. Not soft exactly. Not grateful. Something more complicated. “I’ll be certain tomorrow,” she says.

“Good.”

She swallows. “But I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

That’s a different request. One I can answer.

I brush my thumb over her cheek. “You won’t be.”

She searches my face, suspicious again. “That doesn’t mean?—”