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ChapterNineteen
“How?”I whisper under my breath, staring at my stomach in horror. “When? Why?”
“Why are you shouting?” Art asks with a groan, opening one eye.
“Shouting?” I inhale a lungful of air and channel Leonidas, the King of Sparta. “This. Is. Shouting!”
Art slaps his palms over his ears and sits up, muttering something in Russian—most likely obscenities.
I hear something soft hit the floor. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot the chinchilla dropping its oatmeal cookie and leaping to hide somewhere—which makes me feel guilty for my outburst.
Art looks around the room, the confusion on his face matching my own.
“So,” I say pointedly. “Do you knowwhat the fuck happened?”
Brows furrowing, he looks at me, then around the room again. Then at his naked body. Then at mine.
To his credit, he doesn’t laugh at the sight of my tattoo. He’s either a better person than I am, or he’s in too much shock to find this dedication to his cock hilarious.
“So… Mr. Big?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow.
Oh. Right. He doesn’t know.
Reddening to the levels of the nearby cherry pie, I mumble, “A nickname I’ve given that.” I point at his covered-by-sweetness manhood.
I probably should’ve lied, but my brain is not exactly firing on all cylinders.
He manages a faint smirk, but it disappears as he rubs the back of his whipped-cream-covered head. “So… I remember having drinks with you on the plane.”
My jaw nearly hits the bed. “I was awake on the plane?”
He nods and winces in pain.
I swallow a gulp of forty-proof saliva. “Just to be clear, I had more drinks? After all that vodka?”
He scans the room again, as if answers might jump out of one of the cakes. “I’m afraid we both drank more. Drinks are free in first class, and as a line from a famous Russian movie says, ‘Even people with ulcers and teetotalers will drink on someone else’s tab.’”
I rub my throbbing temples. “I think I’m developing an ulcer as we speak.”
He wipes some white stuff off his forehead and tastes it. “Me too.”
I sigh heavily. “So what happened next?”
“We got off the plane, then took a cab… and then had more drinks when we got to the first casino.” He winces. “Again, they were free.” His gorgeous features take on a look of concentration. “You won at craps, I believe, and then… I’m kind of blank.”
I gambled and won? Why can’t I remember any of this?
I narrow my eyes at him. “So you don’t remember if we…?” I look pointedly at his whipped-cream-covered crotch.
He shrugs. “It sure looks like we did something.”
Should I tell him about my soreness? It’s a piece of evidence that leaves no doubt about what we did.
Before I can do so, he wipes at his abs, clearing off some of the gunk—and revealing that he too has a tattoo.
We both gape at it.
It’s a picture of a cartoon lemon holding two eclairs like guns, both pointed at his cock. There’s writing here too: “PROPERTY OF KISLIK.”
