Page 16 of The Last Dance

I sipped the vodka. The taste was harsher than usual. My cock was already hard, pressing against the zip of my pants, and I made no effort to hide it. Iren noticed. His eyes flicked down, then up again, and his smile widened.

He gripped the pole with one hand and let his body swing out, weightless for a second, then snapped back, feet planted. He rolled his hips, slow, and the shorts rode even higher, almost exposing the curve of his ass. He knew what he was doing. He was trying to push me. See how far he could go.

I didn’t break. I watched. I wanted to see what happened if I let him run the whole length of the leash.

He finished the orbit, then leaned back against the pole, both arms stretched overhead, letting the shirt fall open under its own weight. His chest was hairless, nipples already hard from the air.

He traced a finger down the center line, over the navel, and then slipped his hand inside the waistband of his shorts for half a second. He didn’t jerk off. He didn’t need to. He just let the hand rest there, a question I was supposed to answer.

I didn’t.

Instead, I waited for the next move.

He twisted off the pole, landed on both feet, then let his knees go loose and dropped to the floor in a controlled fall. He crawled toward me, one hand in front, hips moving with an exaggerated sashay, eyes never leaving mine. His hair was a seductive shield for his face.

I tensed, and the pleasure was in how conscious it made me of every cell in my body.

He stopped in front of the chair, just out of arm’s reach. He looked up at me, green eyes wide, face flushed, breathing hard. I looked down at him. My hand gripped the glass so tight it left a wet ring on my palm.

Iren waited. He wanted me to give the next order. To tell him to come closer, or to stop.

I did neither.

I wanted him to make the choice.

He smiled, barely. “Is this what you wanted?” he said, quiet.

I nodded. My throat felt raw.

He edged forward, knees against my shoes. He spread his hands hovering above my knees, then waited again.

I exhaled, long and slow. “You can stop now.”

He laughed. It was the sound of a man at the edge of a rooftop, enjoying the wind before the fall. “I don’t want to.”

I set the glass down. My hands were shaking, and I hated that he could see it. I clenched them tight, then let go. I didn’t touch him. Not yet. I just watched.

I wanted to see what happened next.

Chapter Five

~ Vadim ~

I let the silence go on because I wanted to see if he could break it.

He didn’t.

Not with words, anyway.

Iren held the pose, knees spread on the hardwood, chin tilted just enough to look defiant if you missed the quiver at the corner of his mouth. His hands hovered at the edge of my knees, not touching. He wasn’t sure what would happen if he did. I didn’t move. I let him work out the odds.

He moved first.

I’d expected a show—something sensually artistic, a slow crawl, the bow of a head or a scripted plea.

Instead, Iren went practical. He braced both hands on my knees, hauling himself upright with the efficiency of a gymnast resetting for a second attempt.

He was smaller up close. Not in a fragile way, but in the way a blade is small—concentrated. His mouth was a line, lips plush and a little swollen, the flush at his cheekbones deeper than the club’s lights ever managed.