The guys flanking him are no slouches, either. The blond one has the kind of chiseled jaw and calculating eyes that scream “hitman heartthrob.” But even he can’t hold a candle to the raw sexual power of the man in the middle.
I watch as a gaggle of silicone bimbos descend on them, their hands roaming freely over hard muscle and designer labels. But Tall, Dark, and Fuckable barely spares them a glance. He shrugs off their groping fingers like they’re nothing more than minor irritants.
Because his eyes are locked on me.
Behind the mask, I can feel the intensity of his gaze, hot and heavy against my skin. It’s like he’s undressing me with his eyes, peeling away the layers of satin and lace until I’m laid bare before him.
He cocks his head to the side, a silent challenge, and raises his glass in a mock toast. The corner of his mouth ticks up in a smile that’s equal parts sin and danger.
Excitement ripples down my spine. This one’s not like the others. He’s not some trust fund fuckboy or coked-out club rat. No, this is a man who takes what he wants, everyone else be damned.
Just like me.
I can feel the wicked curve of my own smile beneath the mask, an answering invitation. Our gazes stay locked for a moment longer, the air between us practically crackling with tension.
Oh, yeah. He’s the one.
My prize for the night.
five
Leonid
A moment ago
"Let me suck your cock, Big Boy,” a girl purrs as she slinks up to me. Her plump lips part in a seductive smile, her tongue darting out to lightly wet them.
Her big boobs are barely contained by the skimpy pink lace bra she’s wearing. Fluffy white bunny ears sit atop her head, and a glittery pink mask obscures her face. A delicate chain connects her nipple rings, swaying with her every movement.
“Nyet,” I growl, pushing past the girl roughly. “I don’t want your mouth anywhere near my dick.”
I’ve been in this fucking club for all of five minutes, and already the propositions are rolling in left and right. Guess that’s what happens when you’re built like a goddamn tank. At 6’5”with a broad, muscular frame, I tower over most of the other fuckers in the club.
I’m not here to mess around with these wannabe hedonists. I’m here to find out who the hell had the balls to open up a damn sex dungeon on my territory without my say-so.
Blyat! We are the fucking Ravens, masks shaped like a raven’s beak shielding our faces when we wage war under the Kuznetsov Bratva banner. No one dares to cross us.
She pouts, but I’m already moving on, scanning the room with a critical eye. The Viper’s Nest is a den of sin and debauchery, no doubt about that.
Everywhere I look, people are fucking, drinking, snorting whatever drug they can get their hands on. The air reeks of sweat and sex.
There’s one thing that sets this place apart from every other seedy club I’ve been to.
The masks.
They’re top-notch, with all kinds of kinky shit, like feathers and jewels. You can’t take that shit off. It’s a goddamn rule, and those musclebound gorillas at each exit make sure you don’t break it.
Smart fuck.
No one’s spotting who’s who with these masks on. That guy over there? Could damn well be the chief of police.
“Whiskey, neat,” I bark at the bartender; she’s dressed as some sort of seductive sex slave. She wears nothing but sultry leather panties that cling to her every curve. With a smooth and sinuous grace, she pours a generous amount of whiskey into a glass.
“Here you go,” she says, leaning forward. Her cleavage spills out, tempting me with its sinful promise.
I pull a freshly ironed hundred-dollar bill from my wallet and slide it across the polished surface of the bar.
“Thanks.” Her lips glisten with a seductive lick. Her long fingers reach out to grasp the bill, pulling it toward her and tucking it down into the deep crevice of her cleavage.
