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“I know.” I take another sip from my travel mug and offer Pasha’s driver a sweet smile. “But as I’ve shared with you before, I’d rather drive myself.”
Lev sighs and keeps his hand outstretched as if I’m going to give up and finally return him the car keys. “I understand, believe me. But what the boss says, goes.”
“I’ll be sure to tell the boss that it’s not your fault.”
Am I a shit-stirrer? Not usually. I’m more of the type to keep her head down, move in the shadows, don’t draw attention, et cetera. I don’t like causing waves.
What do I like?
Pasha’s reactions to my stubbornness, for one.
We’ve settled into a nice, easy tempo at home that should have me feeling comfortable and relaxed. He comes home for dinner. We slide into small talk and do our best to avoid sharing details about our respective days.
It’s what happens after bedtime that keeps me on edge.
And it’s not his fault, necessarily.
I’m the one having depraved sex dreams about him.
I shouldn’t be. I mean, yes, he’s the father of my child, and yes, that happened in a very steamy moment of passion neither of us can quite bring ourselves to regret.
(At least, I don’t think he regrets it? If he does, he’s never let on.)
But chief among the things he never does is touch me.
I’m literally right here, under the same roof, sleeping in his bed, and he won’t touch me. And the more I dream about us entangled together, his rich voice whispering all sorts of naughty things in my ear… the more I want him. Badly.
I’m just too chickenshit to tell him.
So my next best plan is to antagonize him juuust enough that he’ll get all riled up and manhandle me into doing what he wants. Like, with the post-dinner dishes, he’ll tell me to sit down while he cleans off the table. If I stand up and insist on doing it myself, he’ll wrap his strong hands around my waist, get in real close, and press me back down into my chair.
Usually, I’m able to wait for him to walk away before I allow myself the shiver of delight.
This morning, I really do want to drive myself. I’m not a fan of this chauffeur B.S. where I’m driven around town by someone I don’t even know, all because some man I’m not actually in a relationship with said that’s how it has to be.
I also want to see how Pasha responds. Maybe he won’t even notice. Maybe he won’t care.
But maybe, just maybe, he’ll take matters into his own hands.
It’s me. I’m “matters.”
“Ma’am, please,” Lev pleads again. “You’ll be late for work.”
“I’ll be right on time, if you’ll just move from the door.”
Lev folds his arms across his chest and arches a brow at me. He doesn’t say anything else, but the look on his face is clear: Do you really want to do this?
I do, actually. Bring it.
When he sees I’m not backing down, he sighs and pulls out his phone to text I-don’t-know-who, all while still leaning against the driver’s side door of the SUV.
A few moments pass in this staredown. Lev just smiles at me, no longer begging me to get into the backseat. I smile right back at him, car keys in my hand and weight on my toes, ready to go once he moves.
His gaze flicks over my shoulder. His smile twitches a little wider. “Sir,” he says with a nod.
Sir? Oh n— “Heywhatthehellareyoudoingputmedown!”
Pasha grunts as he lifts me into his arms, plucking me off my feet without so much as a measly hello. I kick my feet through the air in protest, but he just holds me tighter to him and walks around the SUV to the other side, where Lev meets him and opens the back passenger door for him.
