Page 57 of Sexting the Pakhan

“And your solution is to order me out of them?”

His gaze stays on my face. “My solution is to give you something dry.”

I snatch the shirt from his hand. “Fine.”

“The bathroom is there.”

“I know where bathrooms usually are.”

That earns me another almost-smile.

I go into the bathroom and shut the door harder than necessary. For a few seconds, I just stand there with my back against it, breathing.

My reflection looks wild. Hair loose, cheeks flushed, eyes too bright. His coat hangs off me like it belongs to someone else’s life. I take it off slowly, then peel away my cardigan and dress, both damp around the edges from the sea air.

The shirt smells like him.

It falls to mid-thigh, loose everywhere except across my chest. The fabric is soft from washing, the sleeves hanging past my wrists. I look ridiculous. Small and bare-legged and swallowed by a dangerous man’s clothes.

But I’m warm. And I’m not crying.

That feels like something.

When I step back into the bedroom, Ruslan is near the window with his back to me.

He turns. Then goes still. His face barely changes, but his eyes do. They move from my face to the shirt, to my bare legs, then back up again. Slowly enough that I feel every inch of that look like a touch.

My skin heats. “Stop that,” I say.

His eyes return to mine. “Stop what?”

“Looking at me like that.”

“I’m looking at you.”

“No. You’re doing something else.”

He says nothing.

That silence is worse than any answer.

I fold my arms, which is a mistake because it pulls the shirt tighter over my breasts. His gaze drops for one second.

One second. That’s all.

My nipples tighten.

His jaw flexes.

The room gets very quiet.

I swallow. “You said you were sleeping in the chair.”

“I am.”

“You don’t look like a man thinking about a chair.”

His eyes come back to mine, darker now. “No.”