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Memories I’d tried hard to forget resurfaced. Images and sounds of someone I shouldn’t be thinking about swirled in my mind, tantalizing and forbidden.
Recalling past hookups has never been my thing.
The memories of scents, whispers, sights, and moans rarely stick with me. But ever since our plane landed a few days ago, I can't shake the memory of that damn gas station. Sofiya’s lips on mine, her tongue teasing mine—it's been haunting me.
Igor would cut my dick off and make me eat it if he knew how I treated his daughter—how I let her grind on me in that filthy gas station toilet.
That night in the club, I watched her from afar, my eyes never leaving her. It had been a week since I landed in San Francisco and started my hunt.
I followed her everywhere—to the stores, to university, to the cinemas, and that damn club where she looked so good and quite wasted.
I took the chance, praying she wouldn’t remember my face, and my prayers were answered.
I danced with her, her body pressed to mine, her hands on my shoulders, her eyes twinkling.
When she asked me to kiss her, I thought she was joking, but then I saw the insecurity in her eyes, and I knew she was serious.
My attempt to just play with her bit me in the ass.
Her scent still clung to my nostrils, and the taste of her mouth drove me to drink and smoke ten times more than usual just to erase it from my body. Thank God for my high alcohol tolerance; otherwise, I’d have ended up either skinny-dipping in a frozen lake or, worse, banging the girl in Igor’s office.
With a heavy sigh, I brushed my hair out of my face, my frustration increasing by the fucking minute. Even after doing so, the feeling persisted, and I found myself massaging my scalp to soothe my roots.
I still can’t fucking believe that Igor’s got me delivering pictures like a fucking psychopath.
And the girl couldn’t be more unbothered by it.
She just sits there in her night clothes, barely giving me a glance or acknowledging the pictures. Her dismissive attitude makes my blood boil.
Where’s the girl who was begging for freedom?
I should burn them all in front of her, erasing those precious memories from her brain. Or maybe I should tie her up and make her look at them every damn day and night, just to hear her shaky voice again. Damn it, anything for some fucking action.
Igor will fucking pay for this.
With annoyance still gnawing at me, I reached for a nearby cigar and lit it up, hoping it would help me unwind. As I exhaled the first puff, the anticipated storm finally arrived, unleashing a symphony of raindrops that pounded relentlessly against the windows. The sound was oddly soothing, and I closed my eyes, rolling my shoulders to release some tension as I savored the sweet and nutty flavors of my cigar.
As I breathed in the peace, I reflected on my love for the chaos of the city. The honking cars, the bustling crowds, and the extravagant luxuries always left me feeling alive and energized. But in this room, I found a different kind of luxury—the luxury of stillness and serenity that no amount of city life could ever provide.
All I needed was a drink, maybe a cigar too, depending on my mood, and nothing else.
This room was precious to me. It had become my sanctuary, where I could lose myself in thoughts, books, or simply in silence, undisturbed by the outside world.
As I brought the cigar to my lips again and gazed at the magnificent library before me, nostalgia swept over me.
Within those walls were hundreds of books that had helped me dream, learn, and combat loneliness.
This room always reminded me of my dad; he was always on my mind.
He would have been thrilled with this collection, especially the hardcovers, which he would have deemed fancy and almost too precious to touch. I could almost picture him here, reading to me from The Little Prince or reciting his favorite poems by Alexander Pushkin. We would have curled up on the couch, warm blankets draped over us, holding cups of spicy tea. This was the place where I contemplated what my father would have thought of my chosen path.
As I became lost in these melancholic musings, lulled by the soothing rain, I barely noticed the door creaking open and the sudden intrusion into my solitude.
Despite sensing a shift in the room, I feigned ignorance and continued smoking, my eyes still closed. I focused on the slow footsteps moving around the library, attempting to discern the identity of the intruder, though deep down I knew it could only be one foolishly naive girl.
Finally, my little guest had decided to explore and make her presence known in my domain.
I couldn’t help but feel a faint tug at the corner of my lips, which I quickly wiped away with the back of my hand.
