"You bastard! What the hell did you just do?"
The scream was followed immediately by something dark and soft flying through the air toward my head. I reached out instinctively, catching a decorative throw pillow that still carried a lingering, unmistakable warmth—a physical reminder of the frantic encounter we had just shared.
Before I could even process the weight of the pillow, another one followed, and then... was that a piece of lace? I stared at the delicate scrap of fabric in my hand, realization dawning on me with the force of a thunderclap.
The woman on the sofa wasn't Kristinav Johnson.
I took a split second to survey the wreckage of the situation. This woman had to be a close friend of Kristinav’s; why else would she be passed out, completely unencumbered by clothing, on this
