Page 17 of Cognac Villain

Then Ivan comes, too.

He pulses into me, spilling his own pleasure until we’re both panting and limp on the side of his house.

I want to soak up every second of this fantasy. I don’t want to let a moment slip away unenjoyed. But the sounds of the party on the lawn below are starting to break through our little bubble. Someone in the crowd calls out Ivan’s name.

“Where is he?” a woman shouts.

Ivan pushes his jacket off of my shoulder and presses a kiss to the bare skin there. “Incredible. Fucking incredible.”

“Acceptable,” I correct. I try to sound nonchalant, joking, but my voice is trembling. I can feel my thighs shaking still.

He opens his mouth to say something, but then a different loud voice booms out instead. “Ivan Pushkin, you are wanted.”

For a second, I think it might be God Himself breaking in from the heavens to remind me that Ivan Pushkin is this party’s most eligible bachelor and I don’t stand a chance in snaring him.

Then I realize it’s just the DJ making a formal call through the speakers.

He presses his forehead to mine. “Fuck this party. Let’s go to my room and see if you can scream any louder than that.”

I’m tempted. The desire to stretch this fantasy into an entire night—to tangle up with him until morning—is strong. But it would be a mistake.

“You have guests,” I demure.

“I don’t care about my guests, Francia,” he says simply. “I’m more interested in you.”

The wrong name washes over me like a bucket of ice water. It rinses away whatever is left of the fairytale moment we just experienced.

He doesn’t know me. He doesn’t even know my real name.

None of this is real.

More cries of “Ivan!” rise up from the crowd.

“The natives are growing restless,” I say with a small smile. I shove away from his chest on shaky legs. “Go appease them. I’ll meet up with you later.”

His jaw works back and forth. Then he grips my chin with his thumb and forefinger, angling my face up to his. “Don’t you dare run off on me.”

“I won’t,” I lie. I point down to the high heels I’m still wearing. “I’m not wearing the right shoes to flee, remember?”

His eyes trace over my body as he takes a step back. “Later.”

That single word holds a dirty promise. One I desperately wish I could keep.

But I can’t.

With one final nod, Ivan disappears through the door.

As soon as he’s gone, I follow.

I see Jorden quickly. She is lounging against a pillar, a drink in hand, chatting with a handsome young man with way too much product in his hair. As I pass her, I don’t even break stride; I grab her hand and pull her along with me.

“Hey!” she yelps, dropping her glass.

I hear it shatter against the pavement, but I don’t let go.

“Cora,” she complains. “What are you doing? Where are we going?”

I pull her through a side gate and around to the empty front yard. I hold firmly onto her hand. “Back to reality.”

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