Page 91 of Volik

Then I reach up and rub at my temples.

He’s wearing sweatpants.

Just sweatpants.

No shirt.

No socks or shoes or anything except for the sweatpants.

Not even boxer briefs.

And I can tell. Because the sweatpants are so incredibly tight on him, I can see every bulge of muscle in his legs. And every inch of his absurd dick where it’s plastered against the inside of his thigh.

The gray material is so perfectly molded to his body that my eyes can trace the ridge around the head of his dick from across the room.

“What is wrong?” Volik presses his hand against his naked chest, telling me my pulse is increasing.

I keep my fingertips against my temples. “You cannot walk around like that.”

“My shirts do not fit.”

“It’s not—” I drop my hands. “I can see your dick, Volik.”

He looks down.

So do I.

He shifts his weight, turning his hips, like the pants will suddenly grow three sizes.

They don’t.

His dick is still right there.

“I am sorry. I will get the robe.” Volik’s tone is… Gods, it makes my heart hurt.

Tears prick my eyes.

Why am I about to cry?

Volik takes a step back, his eyes widening and his nostrils flaring. “I am sorry, my Nix.” He turns, putting his back to me, and ducks out the door onto the balcony.

He’s leaving?

Panic flares inside me, and I rush to follow him.

Volik puts his hand on the railing, like he’s going to vault over it.

Trusting he’ll find a way to save me if our combined weight collapses the shitty balcony, I step outside.

“I will fix it,” he says without looking back at me.

He starts to shift, and I lunge, grabbing at his waistband.

Volik stills. “No one will see me.”

I curl my fingers into the too-tight fabric. “D-don’t go.”

Panic continues to claw at my throat.