Finally, I peel myself off of Samuil's hard, firm, soaking wet body and rise to my knees.
He blinks water from his eyes and sits up. I hold my breath, waiting for the threats of litigation or bodily harm.
Instead, he says, "I've never met someone so determined to get me out of my clothes."
I doubt that.
I dodge the instinct to say things that'll haunt my dreams later and go directly into crisis management mode. "You have to let me pay for dry cleaning this time. I insist."
Suddenly, Samuil reaches for me. I freeze like Bambi in the path of a Mack truck. Is he gonna throttle me? Wag a scolding finger in my face? Give me a swirly in the lake? Honestly, all fair.
But his fingers brush a wet strand of hair from my face with devastating gentleness.
Now, I can see him clearly, which doesn
