Kirill looks down at me, and the corner of his mouth twitches, just the faintest hint of something warmer beneath that neutral mask. “I said I would.”
I bite my lip, nerves getting the better of me. “So… what did you think? Be honest. I know this isn’t exactly your naturalhabitat. Lots of shouting and bad accents and people falling over furniture.”
Kirill takes a slow sip of his drink before answering, eyes never leaving mine. “This is not my usual environment, no,” Kirill says. “But you were very good, Teddy. Natural timing. You commit fully. I could see why people enjoy watching you.”
Relief floods through me so fast I almost laugh. “Really? You’re not just saying that?”
“I do not say things I do not mean.” His voice is low, steady, that slight Russian accent wrapping around the words and making them feel heavier. Then he adds, “And I did not come alone…”
Before I can ask what he means, Kirill turns slightly and gestures to a man standing a few feet away who I had not noticed. The man is in his late forties, dressed in a casual blazer over a t-shirt, holding a half-empty glass of wine. I recognize him instantly—Marcus Hale, a well-known producer whose name has been attached to several successful sitcoms and comedy pilots over the past few years.
Marcus steps forward with an easy smile and extends his hand. “Teddy, right? Kirill told me a bit about you. I have to say, you have great comedy chops. Sharp instincts, good physicality, and you don’t hold back. That last scene with the alien chef?Gold. I think you could be a strong fit for a new sitcom I’m casting. It’s still in early development. Single-camera, ensemble comedy with a lot of improv-style energy. If you’re interested, I’d love to have you come in for a reading.”
My mouth falls open.
I stare at him, then at Kirill, then back at Marcus. “Wait… seriously?Me?”
Marcus chuckles. “Seriously. Here’s my card. Email my assistant tomorrow and we’ll set something up. Nice work tonight.” He claps Kirill on the shoulder once, gives me a friendly nod, and slips away into the crowd, already waving at someone else he knows.
I stand there frozen for a second, card clutched in my fingers like it might disappear if I blink. Then excitement explodes through me. I let out a squeal that is definitely too loud for the slowly emptying theater and throw my arms around Kirill in a tight hug.
“Oh my God, thank you!” I press my face against his chest, breathing in the clean, expensive scent of him. “I can’t believe you brought him. That was… that was incredible. Thank you, thank you,thankyou!”
Kirill’s body is solid and warm against mine.
For a moment his arms come around me—strong, steady, one large hand resting between my shoulder blades. The hug lingers just a second longer than a casual thank-you should. When I pull back to look up at him, the air between us shifts. His eyes are darker now, focused entirely on me. My gaze drops to his mouth.
Neither of us speaks.
Then I rise onto my toes and kiss him.
Our lips meet softly at first, almost tentative. But the second we connect, sparks fly—hot, electric, undeniable. Kirill makes a low sound in his throat and deepens the kiss, one hand sliding to the back of my neck to hold me exactly where he wants me. His mouth is firm and commanding, tasting faintly of vodka. Imelt into it, my fingers curling into the front of his shirt as heat rushes through my entire body.
For those few perfect seconds, the noisy theater fades away and there is only him—his strength, his control, the way he kisses like he owns every part of the moment.
When we finally break apart, both of us breathing harder, Kirill’s eyes are blazing. He glances around once, then takes my hand.
“Come,” he says quietly.
We sneak out the side exit of the bar attached to the theater, slipping into the dimly lit alley behind the building. The night air is cool against my flushed skin, but it does nothing to calm the fire racing through me. The moment the door clicks shut behind us, Kirill turns and backs me gently against the brick wall.
But I do not want to be backed anywhere right now. The submissive, naughty part of me that has been simmering since the locker room spanking takes over. I drop to my knees right there on the concrete, looking up at him with wide, eager eyes.
Kirill’s breath catches. “Teddy?—”
“Please,” I whisper, already reaching for his belt. “I want to pleasure D-D-Daddy.”
My hands are trembling with excitement as I free him. He is already hard, thick and impressive. Kirill has a real Daddy cock, that’s for sure.
I lean forward and take him into my mouth, swirling my tongue around the head before sliding deeper. The low groan he lets out sends a thrill straight between my legs.
I don’t just suck him. While I work him with my mouth—slow, wet, eager—I reach back with one hand and start spanking myself. Each sharp smack against my own bottom echoes softly in the alley.
The sting mixes with the taste of him, the submissive act making me dizzy with arousal. I moan around his length, the vibrations pulling another deep sound from his chest. My free hand braces on his thigh as I take him deeper, spanking myself harder, imagining it is his hand instead of mine.
Kirill’s fingers thread into my hair, guiding but not forcing. “Good boy,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Look at you… so eager to please.”
The praise makes me whimper.
