She snorts. “It was my sass that got us here in the first place, Dima,” she mutters sort of forlornly.
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” She gets in the car and crosses her arms over her chest again. Her eyes are distant. Searching.
Frowning, I swing her door shut and walk around to my side. I get in, but I leave the engine off for now.
It’s crazy how quickly her presence seeps into the small space. It smells like her, that delicate, flowery fragrance I could pick out of a crowd. It sounds like her, that soft, subtle breathing. It feels like her, too—in the way my skin prickles when she’s near. The way my c**k hardens at the sight of her lips.
Kontsentrirovat', Dima, I scold myself. Focus.
I can’t help wondering how much of this is just a brave front she’s putting on. And what she’s really f
