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I lower his dance belt and gulp in calming breaths. My heart is still racing, and my shirt clings damply to my back.
The Russian folds his muscular arms over his chest. “You came.” His words are a statement, not a question.
I gulp in another breath. Everyone always talks about faking orgasms and never about the opposite—something I’ve clearly failed at. When I trust myself to speak, I say, “That was a seizure.”
His eyebrows snap together. “You’re epileptic?”
“Sure.” Great. Instead of faking a non-orgasm, I’m faking a serious medical condition.
He presses the “on” button on the remote, and I have to bite back a gasp as the vibrations bring on an aftershock. Looking triumphant, he points at my crotch. “There’s a buzzing.” He presses the “off” button. “And now it’s gone.”
My face flames as the sensations recede. “Fine. You caught me. I’m wearing sex-toy panties. Are you against women surf-channeling if that’s what they want?”
He grins wickedly. “Nope. In fact, feel free to wear your contraption to the dinner. And I’ll bring this.” He pockets the remote.
I have no words.
Zero.
My legs are unsteady as I take a step backward, toward the door.
“I’ll text you,” he says casually, as if we’ve just been on a coffee date.
My words are still nowhere to be found. I take another staggering step toward freedom, and then I turn and sprint as if the evil sorcerer from Swan Lake is chasing me.
Which, for all I know, he might be.
