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Svetlana feels like she’s in a horror movie, and not a good one.
Ilya is right outside the pantry door, leaning against the counter, scanning the kitchen like heat-seeking radar. While Shane and Yuna chat, he nods and smiles at the expected moments, but Sveta knows him.
Yuna told her to hide when they heard a car pull up the driveway and the kitchen cupboard seemed like the logical answer. Her panties are still tangled around her ankles, so if she made a run for it, she’d trip and end up facedown on the wood floor, ass out, hair mussed, neck covered in Yuna Hollander’s drying saliva.
So she’s stuck in the pantry with Ilya sniffing out her Baccarat Rouge 540 like a luxury bloodhound. Blyat.
The fallout would be catastrophic. Shane would never speak to her again. And if Shane wasn’t speaking to her, it would put Ilya in a terrible position. And Yuna (Yuna, as stoic and gorgeous and perfect as the Russian models Svetlana used to idolize) would of course choose her son–her sons–over the younger woman who made her come so hard she cried.
Or, at least that’s what Svetlana can only imagine. Optimism seemed futile, especially when Ilya’s eyes meet hers though the crack in the door.
She lifts a desperate finger to her lips, a plea for just a little more time. Ilya’s jaw clenches, and he looks down and away.
Svetlana exhales shakily. It’s my turn to have a secret, Ilyusha.