“Nosh.” I tasted the word. My tongue felt fuzzy and thick, probably from the multiple glasses of wine with each course. Not that any were full pours, but the combination of so many was leaving me feeling light. “That’s a funny word.”
And there I went, opening my big old mouth.
Ivan chuckled. The sound was rich and delicious. If the chocolate cake from the restaurant had a sound, that would be it.
“Noshtuvka is too hard for most people to say, so we shortened it.”
“Noshtuvka,” I tried it and thought the pronunciation was solid. “And what does that mean?”
“Sleepover.” The suggestion behind it sent another stab of heat through me. “It isn’t just the slumber party, but you staying the night and creating memories.”
Fitting. Especially since he was here nearly every night.
“I don’t hide from my sins, Poppy,” Ivan added. “And I created a place where my guests can indulge in theirs.”
A shiver rattled down my spine.
The club loomed before us, all sleek glass and dark stone, with a subtle red glow emanating from within. A line of well-dressed people waited behind velvet ropes, but Ivan led me directly to a side entrance where a mountain of a man in a black suit nodded respectfully.
“Boss,” the bouncer said, stepping aside.
Boss. The word sent another tremor through me. I’d known Ivan was dangerous, but seeing his world firsthand made it real in a way that terrified and thrilled me.
Inside, the music thrummed through my bones—deep bass that seemed to synchronize with my heartbeat. The interior was all rich burgundy leather and polished mahogany, with crystal chandeliers casting prismatic light across the crowd. It screamed money and power and things I had no business being part of. From a cursory glance, it seemed like the clubs I’d scrolled through on social media, but there was a feeling in the place that didn’t come through the digital screen. I felt it now, pulsing like a heartbeat, a hurried, frantic rhythm.
Ivan’s hand found the small of my back, guiding me along the edge to a VIP section. It was a steady, dominant presence. The thin material of my dress did nothing to suppress the heat.
I tried, and failed, to ignore the heavy touch.
We ascended a short flight of stairs to a raised platform cordoned off with more velvet ropes. A burly security guard unhooked one to let us pass, his eyes carefully averted from Ivan's face in a way that spoke volumes.
That’s when I saw it. Centered in the VIP section, positioned to overlook the entire club, sat what could only be described as a throne. Not some tacky nightclub chair, but an actual high-backed seat with ornate carvings along dark wood and plushred upholstery. The thing belonged in a medieval castle, not a modern nightclub.
“Is that—” I started, my voice faltering.
“Where I conduct business,” Ivan supplied.
The nerve of this man! To sit on an honest-to-goodness throne?
It was audacious. Over the top. And somehow…it fit.
Ivan folded back into the embrace of the monstrosity, and with a sharp tug, he pulled me onto his lap.
I yelped, the sound stifled by the volume, but struggled to move away.
Ivan wrapped his arm around my waist and tugged me close. Pressed against his hard, unyielding body, my breaths became short and shallow.
“Just for a moment, Poppy,” he breathed, his words a warm caress against the sensitive shell of my ear. “Let themseeyou.”
I panicked, falling completely still, as my gaze swept over the club. While I couldn’t see their faces well from this vantage point, I felt their stares. The curiosity was intense.
What was he doing? Showing me off like some trophy? The thought should have filled me with indignation, but instead, a treacherous warmth spread through my body. I was hyperaware of every point where our bodies connected—his muscular thigh beneath mine, his arm snaked around my waist, the heat of his chest against my back. If I moved just a few inches to the side, what else would I feel?
I swallowed hard. I did not like that. I shouldn’t be here.
But it was me, fighting to hold my body back so as not to lean over and center myself on him. I wasn’t pushing away.
“Ivan,” I whispered, struggling to form coherent thoughts. “People are staring.”
