Page 72 of Sexting the Pakhan
“No.”
“You’re unbearable.”
“Yes.”
I laugh against his shoulder before I can stop myself.
That surprises him.
It surprises me too, because for a few seconds, it feels simple. Just him. Just me. Just his hand under my thigh and my face against his neck and the sea crashing somewhere beyond the windows.
That simplicity never lasts long. But when it comes, I take it.
On the fourth morning, the rain finally stops.
I find him in the kitchen, reading something on his phone while drinking coffee. He’s dressed for work, which in Ruslan terms means dark trousers, white shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, expression unreadable.
“Do you ever wear normal clothes?” I ask.
He glances up. “These are normal clothes.”
“For a funeral director, maybe.”
His mouth moves slightly. “You’re in a mood.”
“I’m unemployed and possibly under house arrest. Moods are all I have left.”
“You’re not under house arrest.”
“Can I leave?”
“Not alone.”
“Then it’s house arrest with ocean views.”
He sets the phone down. “Do you want to go outside?”
I blink. “What?”
“The beach,” he says. “You keep looking at it.”
I feel suddenly, stupidly exposed. “I wasn’t asking.”
“I know.”
“I don’t need you to entertain me.”
“I know that too.”
His calm irritates me, mostly because I don’t know what to do when he offers me something without making it sound like a command.
I look toward the window. The sea is gray-blue today, rough but beautiful, the beach empty except for gulls picking at the wet sand.
“Yes,” I say eventually. “I want to go outside.”
He nods once, like that settles it.
Ten minutes later, we’re walking along the shore with two of his men far enough behind us to pretend they aren’t guards. I hate how much I love it.
