I try to focus on the text in front of me. On Jessamine trying and failing to climb atop her horse, so the scandalous rake Duke Andrew has to help her. He grabs her waist and she tenses all over. A man in Victorian England has never touched her like this. She’s aflame.
“Relatable,” I groan, slamming the book shut.
I don’t know why I’m surprised. It’s hard to escape thoughts of Ivan when I’m living in his house. Especially when we can’t talk about what happened the other night.
He found me in the shower and proceeded to raise my standards for all future s****l encounters so impossibly high that I might as well not even bother dating anyone else.
I’ve been ruined on all men who are not Ivan Pushkin.
Yet I have no clue if that was a one-off born out of our undeniable chemistry or if he’d
