She moves to get out of the booth and nods. “Fine.” She looks at me. “Should we get something drafted so we have this in writing?”
I follow her out of the booth so we’re both standing face to face. I shake my head. “No.”
“No? You’re going to give me a quarter million dollars with just a handshake?”
“We’re going to seal this deal with a kiss,” I say, taking a step closer to her.
“Are you fucking crazy?” she says, her eyes darting around the room before they zero in on my lips and then back to my eyes. “I’m not going to… kiss you.”
“But you are,” I say. “You’re going to do a lot of things I ask and not argue. The days where you play Queen and we all bow down to you are over. I’m entering The Whitney on new terms.”
“Terms where I kiss you?” she asks with a sardonic smile.
“Terms where I’m in charge when you come to me with an ask. You want a favor, then I’ll want you to realize I’m the King now.” I place my hand on the back of her head and pull her to me. “Now kiss me.”
I don’t wait for permission, because it’s not something I will ever do again when it comes to Katja. I’m in charge, and it’s damn time she knows it.
I press her lips against mine hard, darting my tongue past the sliver of an entrance before she can resist the claim. Her breath rushes out as I merge my own exhale with hers. I taste the wine and her inner essence, and the toxic effect has my dick hardening in seconds.
Feeling the need to be closer, I grasp her hip and pull her to me, our bodies merge as one. She places both her palms on my chest, maybe with the hopes of pushing me away, but she doesn’t. Instead, she kisses me back with a passion that surprises me.
I hadn’t intended for the kiss to feel so… real.
But that is exactly what’s happening.
Her lips are soft and warm, and—
I finally pull away and force a nonchalant grin on my face. “I’m looking forward to being business partners with you again.” I’m not sure if I sound as composed and confident as I hope, but my throbbing cock makes it difficult to keep the upper hand in the situation.
She opens her eyes and looks up at me, they’re glassy and—she’s so damn close to me, that I consider kissing her again.
Releasing a deep breath, and taking a single step away from me, she says, “The Whitney is mine. Remember that and we’ll get along just great.” She spins on her heels and heads out of the pub without glancing over her shoulder at me even once, and I watch her ass the entire way.
Chapter Ten
KATJA
“Maybe you should stay for another thirty minutes. Your shoulders are still tight, Miss Katja.”
Malee, the masseuse on staff at The Whitney has spent the last hour trying her best to beat the stress out of me. Little does she know, she’s on an impossible mission.
“Thanks, but I need to get going.” I sit up, grab the fluffy towel she’s holding out, and wrap myself just as the knocking starts on the spa door.
When the pounding continues, she diverts from cleaning up to see who is so impatient. I can hear Peter, the Front Desk Manager, on the other side of the wood panel.
“I’m sorry to disturb Ms. Belov’s session, but we’re having a bit of a problem at the desk that we need her assistance with.”
Malee starts to curse at her coworker in Vietnamese, no doubt blaming Peter for adding to my stress.
“It’s okay, Malee,” I try to reassure her as I push to my feet. Speaking louder so Peter can hear, I add, “I’ll be out in a few minutes and will stop by the desk.”
“Thanks, Ms. Belov. And again, I’m sorry to bother you.”
I don’t need him to tell me what the problem is. This is just the first of what I suspect will be hundreds of headaches coming my way with the return of Dex and his band of hoodlums to The Whitney. Despite the one hour deep-tissue massage, memories of this morning’s disastrous meeting with The Innkeeper to the city’s most successful felons has every cell of my body on high alert.
It galls me that I’ve had to give in to Dex’s demand for a return to our previous arrangement. I’ve spent years, and millions of dollars, eradicating any evidence of him and his criminal element from the building, only to be forced to allow his return within a week of Tristan’s death.
I hope you’re rotting in hell, not-so-dearly departed.