“I didn’t fuck her or anyone else there.”

I exhaled, relieved once more.

“And no one at that party was using a bed.”

“It sounds like an orgy.” Dios mío. “Do you often attend them?”

“I wouldn’t say often.” He turned my question back on me. “Do you?”

“I’ve never been to one.” I was open-minded about sex, but an orgy would never be in the cards for me. “That’s not my speed.”

“Have you ever slept with more than one man at a time?”

“I’ve never had sex with more than one man.” He’d think I was talking about at one time. And he would still disbelieve me. “I don’t want to.”

“Earlier, you balked hard. That’s unusual in your line of work, no? Still, I can see it.”

“Why?”

“I’ll wager your clients can barely handle you, much less another added to the mix.”

“Thanks. I think.” I drank.

“Have you ever even tried BDSM?”

I shook my head. “I wouldn’t want to be struck.”

“There’s more to it than that,” he said. “Whipping a woman is not a favorite aspect of mine.”

“Then why was a crop part of your script?” Maybe because it limited touch even more?

“If you’ve never tried any of it, then how do you know you won’t like it?” He’d deflected my question.

Because of my ineptitude at lying, I dodged and deflected, bobbing and weaving, and I was attuned to similar tactics in others. “I liked Monday night,” I told him, dodging his own question. “I liked how the weight of your body pressed down on mine, and our skin touched all over, and I could feel your big muscles flexing.” I leaned in, wanting closer to the heat emanating from him. At his ear, I murmured, “When your chest rubbed over my nipples while your cock plunged, I came until my vision blurred.”

He inhaled sharply. “We should return. Now.”

“We’ll ditch—”

“Here we are!” Tiffani said, tray in hand. She was probably puzzled when we both scowled at her.

My scowl faded once she uncovered the dishes. Lobster salad with citrus dressing, and langostinos accompanied by truffle-butter risotto. The bottle of wine sat at my disposal.

I moaned with my first bite. I was indulging in a meal like this—when I’d planned on nothing more than a can of soup. “Está como para chuparse los dedos. This is delectable.”

“I wasn’t hungry before, yet now . . . I think you increase all of my appetites,” he said, his words loaded with innuendo. But when he met my gaze, I got the feeling he was telling me something more. Between bites, he asked, “Aside from jogging, what are your other interests? And that shouldn’t count as a personal question.”

What had I enjoyed doing before my life had changed so drastically? “I like to cook.” My mother had taught me. It seemed we only got along when we prepared dishes together, neither talking, soft Cuban music playing on the radio. Though I looked so much like her, we’d been opposites in every way. She’d rarely smiled or laughed, yearning for the religious life she’d given up for my father. “I love swimming, reading, and hanging out with friends.” Past tense. I missed having friends.

I’d had a great group in Jacksonville—loud and ballsy, each one. I missed swapping dirty jokes. I missed laughing and confiding.

When I’d gotten married, I’d grown apart from them. To bury my head in the sand about my disaster of a marriage, I’d buried myself in school, racking up twenty-one credits a semester, over and over.

“What are you thinking about?”

Edward, Edward, Edward. I shrugged.

“I can’t stop wondering what’s going on behind those beautiful eyes of yours.”

“Nada.” He’d called my eyes stunning last time.

“You truly don’t enjoy shopping?”

“I hate it. This dress is a loaner.” Gracias, Ivanna.

The only fun I had each week was cleaning her condo. As I washed windows, she would paint her long nails and tell me stories about escorting. I got a weekly earful about debauched nights, bizarre clients, and tried-and-true techniques.

But I never told her anything about myself. She had family back in the Ukraine that she was desperate to bring over. If she saw a reward for information about me, she would choose her family over me. I didn’t begrudge her, but I also didn’t share anything unnecessary.

Sevastyan asked, “Would you want to shop if I said we could go pick up a bauble right now? Get a store to open for us?”

Now he was just screwing with me. I wondered if he did that with other people. “Delaying sex for food is one thing. For dinner and shopping? Silly Ruso.”

“You make a valid argument.”

By the time Sevastyan and I had finished eating, I’d had two glasses of wine, commanding myself to take it slow on my third.

“I don’t have to ask if you enjoyed the meal,” he said. “You got a blissful look on your face with each bite.”

“That obvious, am I?” It couldn’t have been helped. Whenever I was with the Russian, everything felt amplified. The taste of wine. The texture of food. The feel of his fingers tracing my back. The pleasure in a kiss—or a climax.

“I like when I can tell what you’re thinking and feeling, dushen’ka.”