The private room is empty except for Adrian. He’s standing near the window with his jacket off, his sleeves rolled, and a glass of whiskey he hasn’t touched sitting on the table. He turns when I close the door.
“There’s no reservation issue.”
He doesn’t pretend. “No, there isn’t.”
“Then why am I here?”
“Because you’ve been avoiding me all night, and I’d rather have this conversation in private than watch you reroute your entire floor coverage to keep fifteen feet between us.”
I cross my arms. “You noticed that?”
“I notice everything about you. That’s the problem.”
The honesty disarms me more than it should. I expected an excuse, an apology, or at minimum some kind of strategic framing that would let both of us pretend the kiss was a miscalculation. Instead, he’s standing in front of me admitting what I’ve been fighting for two days.
I notch up my chin. “If you want something from me, say it clearly. Don’t use work as cover, and don’t engineer a private room meeting because you know I’ll come out of professionalism.”
He nods sharply. “I’ve been trying to focus on business every time I walk into this club, and I’ve been thinking about you instead. I should have told you that before I kissed you, and I should have asked instead of acted.”
I keep my expression neutral. “That would have been the smarter move.”
“I know.” He holds my gaze. “So I’m asking now. What do you want?”
I should leave. Every lesson I’ve taught myself about powerful men and dangerous situations says walk out, close the door, and go back to managing a floor full of clients who pay my rent. Marisol’s voice is in my head, clear and specific. Different from Eric doesn’t make him safe. Am I ready for an upgrade, or should I stick with my spider plant?
“I’ve been thinking about you too.” I embrace my mistake clearly and with full knowledge. “That’s exactly why I should leave this room.”
I don’t leave.
He crosses the space between us, and this time I see it coming. He stops close enough that I can smell his cologne and feel the heat from his body without touching him. He waits again, giving me the same choice he gave me in the corridor, offering space to step back and time to say no.
I close the gap myself. I put my hands on his chest, feel his heartbeat under my palms, and pull him toward me.
The kiss is slower this time. He opens his mouth against mine, and I taste whiskey. I slide my hands up his chest and grip his collar, pulling him closer, and he responds by wrapping one arm around my waist and pressing me against him.
He finds the zipper at the back of my dress with his other hand but doesn’t pull it down. He rests his fingers there and waits. I answer by reaching behind me and pulling the zipper down a few inches myself.
I know exactly what I’m doing. This changes everything between us. I know it and pull the zipper anyway, because I’m tired of making safe choices that keep me small.
The dress loosens around my shoulders, and he pushes it down to my waist while moving his mouth to my neck. I tilt back my head and grip his shoulders while he trails his lips down to my collarbone. Each press of his mouth sends a current of heat directly to my slit. I’m already wet, and he hasn’t touched me below the waist.
I pull at his shirt, yanking it free from his pants, and run my hands over the bare skin of his abdomen. The muscles tense under my fingers as I move lower. When I reach his belt, I undo it and open his pants without hesitating.
His cock is thick and hard when I wrap my hand around it, and the low sound he makes against my throat is the first time I’ve ever heard him slip. I stroke him once, slowly, and feel the pulse against my palm. His small moan of pleasure is almost more intoxicating than his touch.
He backs me toward the couch. I sit on the edge, and he drops to his knees in front of me, pushing up my dress around my hips. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my underwear, and I lift my butt so he can slide them off. Then he presses his lips to my inner thigh, and I grip the cushion beneath me with both hands because the anticipation is almost worse than the contact.
Laughter erupts from somewhere on the main floor, loud enough to cut through the door, and I freeze. He pauses, looks up at me, and waits until I nod.
He returns to his task, and when he finds my clit, I have to press the back of my hand against my lips to stay quiet when he gently swipes me with his tongue. The club is twenty feet away, with music thumping and staff moving through the corridor, while Adrian Bugrov is on his knees with his mouth on my pussy like he has nothing else in the world to do tonight.
He works me with slow, focused pressure, circling my clit with his tongue before dragging it lower and pushing inside me. I move my hips against him instinctively and stop pretending I have any control over what my body is doing.
He lifts his head and looks up at me. “Don’t be quiet.”
I gasp softly. “There are two hundred people on the other side of that wall.”
“Then be quiet enough. Just not silent.” He lowers his mouth again, and I stop arguing.
