11
Peter
I’m almost certain some neighbors saw what happened in our car in the parking lot—and I know my crew definitely did—but I don’t give a f**k as I lead a shaky Sara to the elevator. She’s as disheveled as I’ve ever seen her, her blouse buttoned crookedly and her hair a hot mess around her flushed face. I’m sure I look similar, and I can’t help grinning as we pass by a preppy couple pushing a stroller in the lobby. They give us a scandalized look, and Sara turns away, her cheeks flaming impossibly brighter.
It’s so cute. My poor ptichka is embarrassed by our little bout of semi-public s*x—though she’s the one who initiated it.
“Don’t worry. We’re moving later this week,” I remind her as we enter the elevator, and she presses her forehead against the mirror, her eyes squeezed tigh
