No sweating, no slipping, no accidentally admitting I want to tear his clothes off with my teeth. Just a nice, civil chat.
There’s a pause, then footsteps. The door swings open, and there he is. Dimitri fucking Orlov, looking like sin in a suit.
I’m so fucking regretting this.
Dude is smokin’ hot. Like a damn mountain, he looms over me, broad-shouldered and unapologetic, devouring me with his gaze.
My pussy betrays me, wet and aching like it can’t wait to get filled with his cock again.
I’m practically salivating for this dickhead, but fuck him. I came here to tell him off, not give him a handy under the table. Though the thought’s tempting, I’ll admit.
So, I square my shoulders and lift my chin to lock onto his eyes like a pair of dueling gladiators.
“Ptichka,” he says, his voice low and gravelly.
I quirk an eyebrow. “You gonna invite me in, or are we having this chat in the hallway?”
He steps aside, and I brush past him, catching a whiff of his cologne. Fuck, he smells good.
I hate the way my body reacts to him. It’s like my skin’s on fucking fire.
Once I’m in, my eyes dart around like a rat in a fancy cheese shop. The place screams money, from the polished mahogany desk to the plush carpet that swallows my heels. A king-sized bed dominates one side of the room, its crisp white sheets practically begging to be messed up.
“Fuck me,” I mutter, then catch myself.
Poor choice of words.
D’s gaze burns into my back as I walk, his eyes probably glued to my ass. I come to a stop by the bed, running my fingers over the silky duvet. My traitorous brain conjures images of D throwing me onto it, ripping off my clothes—
“Get a grip, Wren,” I hiss to myself.
I turn, leaning against the bedpost, trying to look casual and not like I’m five seconds away from humping the man. D’s limping slightly as he moves to the bar, his broad shoulders straining against his shirt. He’s lost weight, but somehow, it only makes him look more dangerous. Morefuckable.
“Drink?” he grunts, already pouring amber liquid into two glasses.
I eye the whiskey, remembering my own rule about not drinking on the job. But fuck it, I’m off the clock now.
“Sure, why not? Might as well enjoy the perks of your fancy-ass suite.”
He hands me the glass, our fingers brushing. A jolt of electricity shoots up my arm.
“So,” I start, desperate to break the tension. “Mr. Orlov, huh?” I down the glass of whiskey in one go, the liquid fire burning apath down my throat. I set the glass back on the table with a sharp clink. “How’d they know you, D?”
D takes a sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving mine. “Because,ptichka, we’re the mafia. We happen to be in the hospitality business, too.”
I snort, the sound echoing in the fancy room. “Right, because nothing says ‘hospitality’ like breaking kneecaps and making offers people can’t refuse.”
“How are you?” he asks, his voice gruff, clearly trying to change the subject.
I quirk an eyebrow, my fingers drumming against my thigh.
“Superb, D. Just goddamn superb. You know, living the high life. Slinging drinks, breaking up bar fights. The usual glamorous shit.”
D’s jaw clenches. “The bar treating you well?”
“As you can see,” I gesture to my uniform, two buttons undone to show just enough cleavage to boost tips, “it’s a real step up from pole dancing.”
D takes a sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving mine.
