30. Chapter 30

30

Clara

“ S orry,” I mumble into his shirt, my cheek pressed against the hard plane of his back. The world spins as he moves, fast and precise. My stomach rolls again.

Oh, God.

Another hiccup escapes, and Leonid curses.

The bathroom light flickers as Leonid practically kicks the door open, nearly taking it off its ancient hinges.

The white porcelain swims in my vision, cracked tiles pressing cold against my knees. Another gag wracks my body, but nothing comes up except the ghost of vodka and pelmeni . The mushroom sauce and borscht dance at the back of my throat, threatening but never delivering.

My stomach clenches. Heaves. Empty.

The kholodets was a mistake. Who the fuck eats meat jelly before doing shots?

I do, apparently.

“ Blyat, ” Leonid mutters above me, his callused fingers surprisingly gentle as they gather my hair back. His ruined hoodie shifts against my skin—God, I can feel the damp spot where it clings to my chest. The same spot where his pants probably need to be burned.

The tiny bathroom spins, black-and-white tiles blurring like a checkerboard kaleidoscope. A broken shower head dangles sadly above a rust-stained tub. Water drips.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“M’sorry about your pants,” I groan between heaves. His grunt is the only response as he reaches around me to run the faucet.

“Arms up,” he orders, and I comply without thinking. The hoodie lifts away, leaving me in just— Oh. Right. That scrap of black lace that’s trying to masquerade as lingerie. The cool air hits my skin, and I shiver.

“It wasn’t that… bad,” I manage. Half-digested pelmeni and vodka. Could’ve been worse—at least I made it to the toilet.

“You done?” His hand stays between my shoulder blades, ready to aim me back at the toilet if needed. “Or is there more pelmeni looking for revenge?”

My stomach rolls experimentally. “Maybe?” The matching black lace bra suddenly feels like overkill for someone hugging a Soviet-era toilet. “ Gimme a minit ,” I slur, my tongue tripping over the syllables like it’s drunker than I am.

The nausea rolls again. Nothing comes up, but the taste of vodka lingers, mixing with the sour reminder of everything I tried to prove tonight. His fingers brush my neck as he gathers a few escaped strands of hair.

“Ugh…” I lift my head slowly, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. My hair tumbles free as Leonid’s fingers slip away, strands falling around my face like I’m starring in the world’s most pathetic shampoo commercial.

I turn—carefully, because my head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton and vodka—one hand white-knuckling the toilet bowl rim like it’s my only friend in this spinning room. The porcelain groans as I use it to pivot, my other hand sliding on the wet tile until my ass lands with a graceless thump. And suddenly, I come face-to-face with…

Jesus Christ.

My eyes cross slightly, trying to focus on what’s right at my eye level.

The gray sweatpants do absolutely nothing to hide what’s underneath, and drunk or not, I know exactly what that bulge means.

I lick my lips. Heat floods my cheeks as I force my gaze upward, past where that black Henley stretches across his body like it’s painted on, outlining every ridge of those abs that could grate cheese, past a chest so defined I can see each muscle straining against the fabric, all the way up to his face.

Leonid looks like thunder and sex had a baby. A very angry, very hot Russian baby.

“About your, um…” I can’t help the giggle that escapes. “Your ass.” My head tilts sideways, hair falling across my face like a curtain. The movement throws off what little balance I have, and I slump sideways, sagging into a heap. “Son of a bitch!”

A hiss of steam draws my attention to the shower, where water sprays in three different directions from the ancient showerhead like a drunk sprinkler. When I look back, Leonid’s stepping away, his hands going to the waistband of those ruined sweats.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

He peels them down with the kind of efficiency that should not be this hot.

But it is.

It really, really is.

Every movement reveals another stretch of muscle, another patch of skin that makes my mouth water for reasons that have nothing to do with nausea.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt again because apparently, drunk-me is both horny and polite. “About the… you know.” I wave vaguely at his legs, which is a mistake because it draws my eyes right back to… everything.

The black Henley joins the sweats on the floor. I’m pretty sure I whimper. He’s just… everywhere. All muscle, tattoos, scars, and danger wrapped in skin that I want to lick like a fucking ice cream cone.

“Fuck… me.” The words slip out in a whisper before I can catch them.

His head snaps down, eyes locking with mine. The shower steam curls around him like some kind of pagan god of violence and sex, and the way he’s looking at me…

I swallow hard. Maybe I’m not as done with that toilet as I thought.

His jaw clenches—I can see the muscle jumping there from my spot on the cold tile floor, where my ass is probably going numb. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers, and I forget how to breathe. One smooth motion and they’re gone and—

Holy mother of…

I actually gasp. My drunk brain tries to reconcile what I’m seeing with what I remember from that night, but this, his cock is… Bigger. Harder. My mouth goes dry despite the steam filling the tiny bathroom.

“Up,” he growls, and suddenly, his hands are under my arms, lifting me like I weigh nothing. The room spins—or maybe that’s just me—as my back hits the cool tile wall.

His fingers find the clasp of my bra, and I arch instinctively, pressing against him as he works the delicate hooks. The lace peels away from my skin, and the cooler air makes my nipples harden instantly. When I fall back against his chest, they drag against his hot skin, sending sparks straight between my legs.

“ Blyat, ” he mutters, and his cock is right there, hard and heavy between us. My back’s against the cold tile, but everything in front of me is burning hot—all muscle and scars and that thick length pressing against my stomach. I sway slightly, and his hands grip my hips harder, pinning me in place.

“Stay still,” he orders, but his voice has dropped an octave, dangerous. Even through the steam, I can see how his pupils have blown wide; his eyes are the color of aged rum, dark and potent, like a shot of liquid sin ready to corrupt me.

His fingers hook under the thin lace. One sharp tug and the panties tear like paper.

“You smell like a fucking distillery,” he growls.

I open my mouth to protest the destruction of perfectly good lingerie, but what comes out instead is— “ hic. ”