Page 74 of Ghost Ribbon

“I’m not—” I stopped, because lying that badly in front of him felt pointless.

“You’re not possibly shy about sleeping in my bed,” he continued, “after I finger-fucked you. Are you?” he pressed, taking a step closer.

I took a step back. My shoulder hit the cold stone of the balustrade, and I realized I had nowhere left to go.

“I’m not shy,” I forced the question out in a rush. “Will it only be sleeping?”

He tilted his head slightly, considering me. “Hm.” That single sound made my pulse spike. “This time, yes.”

This time.

My mouth went dry.

I repeated it before I could stop myself. “This time?”

“Why? Are you hoping for something more?”

“No!” The denial came out too quickly, too high-pitched. “I just—I wanted to know what to expect. I’ve never…I don’t usually—”

“You never shared a bed with someone who made you come so hard you cried?”

I made a sound that was half-gasp, half-whimper. “Don’t,” I whispered. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Say things like that. It’s—” I pressed my hands to my burning cheeks. “It’s embarrassing.”

“It’s the truth.”

“That doesn’t make it less embarrassing.”

I tried to change the subject because if I didn’t, I was going to melt straight through the balcony floor.

My face was still burning from what he said. So I did the only thing I could think of.

I looked away.

Up.

The night stretched above us, scattered with stars that looked clearer from his balcony than they ever did from my bedroom window. Maybe it was the height. Maybe it was the open air. Maybe rich people even owned better pieces of sky. That thought was so stupid it almost made me laugh.

My eyes dropped from the stars to him before I could stop them. Bathed in silver, he looked less like a man and more like something the moon had dreamed into existence. Too beautiful to belong to this world, too cruel to belong to heaven.

My gaze moved lower. There was a small moon tattoo crawling up the side of his neck.

I hadn’t noticed it properly before. Or maybe I had and my brain had been too busy screaming to keep track. It curved near the darker ink on his throat, delicate compared to the rest of the tattoos disappearing under his skin.

It looked strangely gentle there.

That made no sense.

Nothing about Alexei Morozov was gentle.

My fingers tightened in the hem of his shirt where it hung almost to my knees.

“Do you…” My voice came out small, so I cleared my throat and tried again. “Do you like stars that much?”

He leaned back a little against the railing and turned his face up toward the sky. “Hm,” he said. “I do.”