I swallowed.

His eyes narrowed on me in suspicion. “Let me in, malyshka.”

I did, even though that hadn’t been the initial plan. He headed to my bedroom like he did every night, and I inhaled a breath to find some resolve before following him. He was already slipping off his watch when I reached him.

“We should stop having sex,” I blurted.

He didn’t even look at me while he worked on his cufflinks. “No.”

“No?”

“That’s what I said.”

I flushed. “You can’t just say no, Christian.”

“Give me one good reason why we should stop,” he said, unbuttoning his shirt, growing closer to revealing that stupid happy trail on his lower stomach.

“Because!” I sputtered. “God, would you stop taking off your clothes?”

“Because is not good enough.”

“Fine! I could name off a whole novel-sized list of reasons. My grande Caramel Mocha, for one—”

“I’ve waited all day to fuck you, Gianna. I haven’t been able to think about anything else but you. Are you done talking now?”

The heat in his eyes seeped into my bloodstream and dulled my anger.

I swallowed. “I swear, it’s like talking to a concrete wall with you.”

He ran a thumb across my cheek. “Brick wall.”

He was in nothing but a pair of briefs now, his body heat wrapping around mine and stealing my breath.

“Don’t tell me no, malyshka.” His voice was so deep and almost desperate, like he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if I denied him.

I wished I could say I held my ground.

But as soon as he kissed me, promising to fuck me missionary against my lips, it was all over.

A GROAN ESCAPED ME WHILE I worked my white skinny jeans over my hips. I let out a breath of relief once they were on, only for my mood to deflate like a popped balloon when I realized I couldn’t button them.

“No,” I moaned.

I struggled to take them off while cursing Val for getting me kicked out of yoga yesterday. I’d obviously needed the exercise. And giving up chocolate just wasn’t a realistic option.

It was October now. The leaves fell in drops of orange and red, and summer was losing its sweaty grip on New York.

I took a cab to the club, where I was supposed to be meeting Elena. She was organizing her sister’s baby shower, and I’d volunteered to help. Clearly, I’d do anything to get my mind off a dirty blue-eyed fed these days. He was so intense and consuming, I wondered how many of the women he’d been with were still pining over him. The thought brought a rush of jealous heat to my chest, even though I now knew I was different.

Last night, after the most intense session of missionary sex I’d ever had, with my head resting on his pounding heart, I’d asked, “How many women have you been with more than three times?”

For a moment, I didn’t think he was going to respond.

“Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to, malyshka.”

It was one.

And it was me.

The knowledge wiggled a heavy feeling in my chest. A feeling that felt too close to panic, yet far enough away it eluded me.

Elena sat at a booth with catering and party pamphlets spread across the table, telling her hovering mother, “No, Mamma, she doesn’t like pink.”

Celia threw her hands up. “She’s having a girl, Elena!”

“She wants to do green.”

“Green?”

I chose to let them finish that conversation and poured myself a glass of iced tea from the pitcher on the bar.

“I’ll tell you what, tell me your favorite drink. I’ll take you home and make the best one you’ve ever had right now.”

I smiled. “I like it, very original. However, might go over smoother if you didn’t live with your uncle.”

Benito Abelli had offered a new ridiculous pickup line every time he’d seen me since we first met. It was fun, and harmless, and usually brought a smile to my face.

Elena’s cousin leaned against the bar beside me. “The basement is all mine, baby. Even has its own entrance.”

I laughed. “You really know how to tempt a woman. I’m not really a basement kind of girl, though.”

He pushed a strand of hair behind my ear. “And what kind of girl are you?”

“Flighty.” The voice held the slightest clench of his teeth.

I tensed.

Because that word came from the man I’d been sleeping with for the last week. The one who washed my hair and reverted to Russian when he fucked. I caught his form in the bar mirror as he passed behind me.

He’d just insulted me.

We’d done it all the time. It’d been all we used to do. But now, it felt like . . . betrayal. An unsettling feeling roiled in my stomach.

“Ouch,” Benito murmured.

“He means, perfect,” I said. “He’s obviously gotten the terms confused. Easy to do when there’s so much air in your head.”

If looks were tangible, the one he gave me before disappearing down the hall toward the basement entrance would have been a sharp spank to my ass.

I’d seen him naked and heard him come, but with clothes on, in public, our differences were glaringly obvious. Him, the cold, strait-laced professional. Me, the jobless, flighty girl who was still trying to get her life together.

I stayed at the club for an hour, trying to help Elena and her mamma find common ground between their disputes, but unfortunately, there wasn’t a color between pink and green that would suffice, so that argument remained at a standstill.

As I watched the clock close in on nine that night, anxiety swelled in my chest. I didn’t know what to expect from him when he arrived. Would he act like nothing happened today? I had more respect than to allow him to insult me in public and then screw me in private, right? Though, it did create a boundary that reminded me this was just sex. And over the last few days, the things he’d said to me had blurred the line.

But, as the clock ticked by, a niggling doubt arose that maybe he’d realized how different we were and decided to end this.

Nine turned to ten, and ten turned to eleven.

He never came.

Val: Call me crazy, but I’m still confident on my wager.

The text came attached with an article titled: Meeting the father . . . do I hear wedding bells in the near future?

God, I was so sick of her articles I wanted to chuck my phone out the window. I told myself not to read it, but in the end, curiosity got the best of me.

The picture showed a silver-haired gentleman, Christian, and Aleksandra entering the doors of a five-star restaurant.

He hadn’t come last night because he’d been with her.

My stomach tied into a knot.

My gaze settled on Aleksandra. She was thin as a rail, while I sat here in stretchy pants next to a half-eaten bag of M&M’s.

I got to my feet and stomped through my apartment toward my closet. Clothes flew over my shoulder as I tried to find something to wear. I grabbed a loaf of bread on my way out, but, when I opened my apartment door, it was like a nightmare come to life—all gorgeous, blonde-haired, six feet of her.

Christian stood in front of his opened door, while Aleksandra faced him in a flowy pink dress. She had a hand on his chest.