“I don’t have a taste for gingers,” I say dryly, taking a sip of my martini. “Apologies Rowan,” I add because of her own flaming red hair.
“No need to apologize,” Rowan smiles. “We’re not for everybody, just a select few.” Her eyes collide with Yulian’s and he looks ready to drag her into the nearest available playroom and maul her.
Turning my attention back to the crowd, I scan the room looking for someone, anyone, that might get my heart rate pumping. Truth be told, before Georgia, I had no preference at all. Blondes, brunettes, redheads, or any shade in between. I just liked a good nameless fuck with a submissive woman, but somehow, my thirst is now focused on one woman with a curtain of raven hair and haunting gray eyes.
I am so fucked.
I gulp down the rest of my martini, hoping a little buzz might loosen me up. The point of tonight is to fuck away the craving for Georgia. I can’t do that unless I choose a partner and go for it, not sit on the sidelines like some wallflower.
“What about her?” With a flick of his head, Yulian gestures to a curvy woman with a waterfall of braids down her back, watching us coyly from across the bar. “She seems interested.”
“Fine,” I relent, feeling like this is more of a business transaction than anything pleasurable. “I’ll take her to the playroom.”
Yulian chuckles and shakes his head. “I’m not trying to force this on you. It’s been a tense couple of weeks. You deserve the release.”
Rowan leans against Yulian’s arm, her voice teasing. “Unless there’s something—or someone—holding you back?”
I roll my eyes. It’s good to know Rowan doesn’t find my pakhan status intimidating.
“Et tu, Brute? Have you two been talking to my brothers?”
“I always talk to your brothers,” Yulian says dryly. “It’s my job. And we all agree that you need to loosen up.”
“Mu’dak,” I curse at him, which only seems to amuse him further, but I’m already rising from the stool, fixing my cufflinks and straightening my tie. As I approach my target, sipping on some horrible blue concoction through a straw, her eyes light up at my attention. I know I’m just going through the motions. My cock should be painfully hard right now. Weeks of no sex, yet here I am completely dead inside.
Standing in front of her, I don’t need to say anything. My intentions are apparent when I lift a brow and cock my head. I am asking her if she wants to play. Her eyes light up and she rises from her stool, sliding her hand in mine. She looks like a goth Playboy bunny and I’d be into it if it wasn’t for the hot little captive burning a hole in my head twenty-four hours a day.
“Private room, or do you prefer to be watched?” Goth girl asks as we head down the stairs to the lower level.
“Private,” I bark, leading her to the room that I rent only for my personal use. Once inside the ornate room, decorated as lavishly as the rest of the club, she sways to the music, performing an impromptu strip tease. I shake my head for her to stop. This feels awkward as fuck.
If she’s annoyed with me she doesn’t say. “Fine, I get it,” she purrs. “Let’s get right down to business.” She lowers herself onto the circular bed in the center of the room. Propped up on her elbows in order to gauge my reaction, she spreads her legs wide so I can see the goods on offer. No panties, naturally.
“How do you want me?” she asks, her voice low and husky.
She crooks her finger, beckoning me forward. I don’t like to be summoned, but tonight will not happen unless I make a move. I walk to the edge of the bed.
“That’s more like it,” she smiles, reaching out and unzipping me, reaching into my pants to cup my still soft cock.
An unpleasant tension thins the air in the room. My collar feels too tight, my suit constricting as if the walls are closing in on me. Nothing feels right about this moment.
Nothing.
And so I take the coward’s way out.
“This isn’t going to work.” Her face drops in disappointment, but I don’t even give her time to argue. Stepping back, I zip myself back up and rush up the stairs and out the front door of Dark Side.
Chapter15
GEORGIA
Drops of sweat trail between my shoulders and down my back as I head towards my bedroom, exhausted after another Krav Maga session. As usual, Natalia is my escort, ensuring I don’t wander on my own. I wonder if I could take down the older lady, especially after these butt-kicking workouts, but I know just behind her is an armed guard. And just around the corner, there are ten more mean-looking Russians.
The truth is, I like Natalia. We’ve spent a good deal of time together now, and while I still know nothing about her personally—like most connected to the bratva, she keeps her cards pretty close to her chest—but she has kind eyes and she feeds me well.
Wow. That’s pretty sad. Talk about Stockholm Syndrome.
She’s my jailer, not my friend.