Page 76 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

I come fast, but he keeps going. Our bodies slap together and he grips my hips, guiding me. In and out, more and more, one orgasm after the other, until I’m thrashing with him, sinking to my knees, and he’s spilling in me again.

On the floor, he pulls me into his chest as we breathe heavily.

“Are you going to leave me again?” I can’t stop myself from asking.

His hand strokes along my hand. “Not this time.”

“Is sex a part of our deal?”

This time, there’s no answer.

We lie there, breathing, until something goes off on Gavril’s phone.

He rises. “It’s time.”

* * *

I get ready in the tight yoga pants and oversized gym shirt Gavril lays out for me and we leave. We drive wherever we’re headed in silence. I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to think.

Instead, I try focusing on what’s going past the window—nice houses, some of which I recognize from my walk here. God, only a few days ago, my life was completely different.

I’m better off not thinking about that.

We pass city buildings, lots of patios loaded with families and couples all beaming with happiness as they enjoy brunch. I can’t stop from sneaking the odd look at Gavril. His brow has a pinched look of frustration, though it may just be the traffic.

Parking is a breeze, though—Gavril just rolls into one of those overpriced lots with signs that used to make me laugh out loud. Who hastwenty dollarsjust for parking? Gavril Vaknin, duh.

Then, a quick walk down a city block crammed with health-food stores and froufrou pet boutiques, and we’re there.

It takes me walking into the mirrored space for theahabell to chime in my head: it’s a dance studio.

Although, after that, all thought stops again.

There’s simply no room for thinking, not with what I’m seeing before me.

The dancer is breathtaking—spiraling from one pirouette to the next, into more moves with names I don’t know. Her face is alert, focused, yet gentle. Every movement is so graceful it almost doesn’t seem human. It seems to belong to the Tchaikovsky notes she’s following, almost like her slight curves are the ones conducting the music.

This dancer, whoever she is, is the first person I could actually say “when she moves, time stops,” and not feel like a complete and total tool in doing so.

After she’s finished, she turns off the music and aims a significant look at me. Another bell of realization chimes in my head.

Dear God, no.Dancing and me are not friends. Not friends at all.

“Welcome,” she says in a low, resonant voice with the slightest hint of an accent.

“We were held up,” Gavril says. Which I guess is as close to an apology as anyone is likely to get out of him.

For my part, I can’t help but blush. Clearly, our hot window romp wasn’t penciled in in advance.

“This is Joy.” Gavril puts his hand on my shoulder. I get a weird flashback of Mom trying to foist me on the other kids at the playground, trying to get me to make friends.

“I am Havanna.” Jesus, even the way she extends her hand is graceful. She’s got an alert, elfin face, close-cropped hair, and a no-bullshit expression. I’m terrified of her.

“You were amazing,” I gush like an idiot.

“Thanks.” Havanna smiles with slightly crooked teeth which are still perfection because they’re hers.

Whoa there, Joy. Easy with the girl crush.

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