Page 48 of Forced to Marry the Russian Pakhan

“True,” I admit, turning slightly toward her. “But you’re not doing so bad for someone who apparently missed the last decade of socializing.”

She gives me a look. “Is this your way of saying I’m awkward?”

“No,” I murmur, letting my gaze drag slowly over her legs, “this is my way of saying I’m impressed. That you could walk into a room like that, in a dress like this, and make half the men stare and the other half reconsider their bank accounts.”

She shifts in her seat. “You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m not.”

There’s a long pause. Her voice is quieter when she says, “I’m not used to people watching me.”

“Maybe they should’ve been.”

She falls silent again. The air turns dense. I can hear her breathing shift. She smooths her skirt, looks out the window.

Then, with zero warning, she blurts, “I don’t date, so I don’t really notice men watching.”

That gets my full attention. “You don’t...?”

“Date. Men. Or anyone, really. I mean—” she fumbles, then groans. “You know what I mean.”

I arch a brow. “You sure? Because that was incredibly vague and incredibly intriguing.”

She glares at me. “You’re enjoying this.”

I grin. “Very much.”

She mutters something under her breath, then says, “I just mean—I’ve been too busy. First, my family, then med school, now residency. I didn’t exactly have time to explore... anything.”

“Anything?” I echo.

She narrows her eyes. “You’re trying to make me say it.”

“You’ve already said it,” I murmur, inching closer. “I’m just helping you unpack.”

She shakes her head, but her cheeks flush again. That perfect blend of sass and innocence. Fuck, I want to ruin it.

“I’ve had sex before,” she says quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid. “It just... wasn’t very good.”

I go still.

Not because she said it—

Because Ifeltit.

The way her voice dipped onwasn’t very good, like she’s said too much by talking about sex. Perhaps I should laugh it off and shift the mood.

But the obsessed part of me—the one that’s been quietly simmering since the second I saw her in that damn emerald dress—wants to hear more.

“Not good, how?”

She groans. “Why are we talking about this?”

“You brought it up.”

“I was nervous! And babbling. Forget it.”

“No chance,” I say, voice low. “What do you mean, not good?”