And then he walks out of the room.
Soon afterward, the meeting breaks up. People file out in twos and threes, clutching their laptops and coffee cups. I wait until they’re mostly gone, then I rise on shaky legs.
My underwear is ruined. Completely destroyed. I can feel the evidence of what just happened with every movement, a slick reminder that I am a sick, sick individual.
I’m almost to the door when a hand closes around my elbow.
I turn to find Kir squinting at me with concern.
“You look flushed.” His brow creases. “Are you feeling alright? Did that asshole do something to you?”
My knees threaten to buckle. I lock them through sheer force of will.
“Fine,” I say. “It’s just warm in here. I’ll see you later, Kir.”
Then I get the hell out of there before another Lazarev man tries to
