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“Not a big deal,” he replies, but his smile does fade a bit. “I’ve been through some pretty treacherous events in my life, and all of my appendages are still intact. If you want me to prove it, I can show you my –”
I hold my hand up to stop him. “No. Please, just no. I don’t want to see anything, or know anything, or experience anything, or do anything…”
“Your loss,” he replies, shooting me a smug look before focusing back on the road.
No, it’s not my loss. It’s his loss, because if he was a bit more of a gentleman and a lot less conceited, I might actually consider letting my attraction to him get the better of me. As it stands, however, the chances of him getting anything more than that stupid spanking out of me are slim to none.
And I still can’t believe I even let him do that to begin with. I was looking for a distraction and I found one, but I need to keep my wits about me from now on. Nikolai will take what he can get, and I highly doubt he’s the type to cuddle afterward. He’d probably toss me a twenty and kick me to the curb.
I hate men like him. When I was eighteen and still a clueless freshman in college, I became captivated by an Italian guy who played on the lacrosse team. We’re talking over six feet of lean, suntanned muscle, and the kind of stamina that would have you losing track of how many orgasms you’ve had.
That’s what I imagined him to be like, anyway. I never got to find out because after he was finished fucking every girl in my dorm building, he skipped over me and told me to my face that he didn’t want to sleep with me because I was, in his words, ‘just too ugly.’
In retrospect, he wasn’t nearly as attractive or muscular as the man sitting in the driver’s seat beside me, but I did learn my lesson that day – don’t become infatuated with assholes. And even though Nikolai might not think that I’m ugly, especially since he’s made it very clear that he wants to get in my pants, I know that I can’t trust him.
It’s not about getting my feelings hurt. It’s about having my bleeding heart ripped out of my chest and stomped into the ground. Men like Nikolai and that dumb Italian jock can speed run a bad relationship like it’s a quick game of lacrosse on a Saturday afternoon.
Now I have to ask if Nikolai has ever played lacrosse. If he has, I might just jump out of this car and walk the rest of the way to Mexico.
“Lacrosse? That’s a weird question,” he says once I find the courage to bring it up.
“I mean, you must be playing some kind of sport, right? You’re certainly fit. I thought rich people played lacrosse,” I say, trying not to reveal the real reason for my question. “You seem like a bit of a jock.”
Nikolai flexes his biceps, displaying a bulge bigger than my head. I wish his body wasn’t so fucking perfect. I’m going to lose my mind.
“I’m not into sports,” he says. “Jasha and I have a gym at home that we use every morning, but the last time either of us played sports was on our little street back in Russia. We made up this game where we’d throw rocks at empty beer bottles, and you’d get points dependent how far you scattered the glass. We were probably about twelve years old at the time.”
“Oh,” I say, not quite sure what to make of his story. It’s surprisingly humble. “So, you weren’t raised by rich parents or anything?”
He laughs. “No, our family was so poor that Jasha and I would eat the snow outside in the winter and pretend it was ice cream. It was only later when we moved to the United States that we realized most criminals here were making a lot of money even though they were dumber than cinder blocks. We figured if they could do it, we could do it better, so we did.”
“And now you’re rich.”
“And now,we’rerich. Jasha and I share everything.”
“Even women?” I ask without thinking.
He looks at me, his face drawing down into a serious look that’s almost frightening. “No. I’m a very possessive man. That’s where we draw the line.”
My heart races as his gaze lingers, and I find myself wondering just how jealous of a man he’d be if we were dating. He doesn’t have to know, and it would never happen, but I entertain the thought because it’s something to think about. It’s a long car ride. I can’t be blamed for finding something weird to fill the time.
I sit with my thoughts for a long minute before he speaks again.
“And you? Any sports?”
I’m relieved by the innocence of his question. “I used to play volleyball during my senior year of college, but nothing since then. I should probably do something to keep myself from getting too chubby.”
“You’re not chubby,” he says, looking at me with a confused frown.
“No, but I’m not, like, skinny either,” I say, pinching the fat around my thighs.
“You’re perfect,” he says, looking bothered that I would make a comment about my own appearance. “Everybody is built differently, and I think you’re exactly how you should be.”
I’m taken aback by the intensity of his statement. He’s not wrong, but I’m surprised how adamant he is about something so nice. It betrays his rude nature.
“Well, thank you,” I say softly.
“I’m just being honest,” he says, gripping the steering wheel a little lighter. “I feel like women are so needlessly hard on themselves about their appearances.”
