Chapter Ten
In which vodka and business dinners can have unanticipated consequences. That happens a lot with vodka.
Caroline…
"Your beautiful friend must join us for dinner," Volkov says, to an appalled Nikandr. Volkov's face flushed with too much vodka and good humor, and I kind of like him.
However, I instantly reply, "He's not my friend.
I'm here on a business trip." Volkov stares at me.
"For research," I try to clarify, but by then his wife has already linked her arm through mine, and she's dragging me into the restaurant.
Glancing at a deeply amused Nikandr tells me there will be no help coming from that direction.
It's an interesting mix of young and old at the round table in the restaurant, and made up mostly of men.
They are clearly all Bratva, though I'm surprised to find that I have met a couple of them before as VIP guests at the Hotel Lyric.
I knew they were Russian. I just didn't know they were that kind of Russian. My crime lord radar is slipping.
There's a lot of laughter and good stories about travel mishaps.
Nikandr and two of the men are a bit deeper into conversation at the other end of the table.
Polina lifts her glass of wine, tapping it against mine.
"I am not forced to drink vodka tonight, slava bogu, thank god," she whispers, just the two of us.
"I feel ridiculous asking for wine when all the others order vodka. "
"My friend, I will totally jump on the wine train with you anytime," I assure her. "Let them deal with their crushing vodka hangovers the next day. I actually don't mind a glass of vodka but eventually, you can smell it coming out of your pores, you know?"
She laughs, hiding her mouth behind her hand when her husband looks up. "I fear if they knew how much I despised vodka they would take my Russian card," she says. "I would be forced to relocate to some gentle country where only wine is acceptable."
I pour each of us another glass. "That's not a bad idea, Polina. Italy, for instance, is beautiful at any time of the year. You buy yourself a nice vineyard with a big stone house…"
She laughs again, her face turning red. "With a handsome viticulturalist who takes care of the grapes…."
"Yeah," I agree. "A viticulturalist who looks like Henry Cavill, but longer hair, you know, long, flowing locks and he can only wear white shirts that are never buttoned."
Now we're both laughing so hard that I'm afraid wine is going to come shooting out of my nose.
"I like you," she says approvingly. "I wish you lived here in Moscow."
"Well you're always welcome to visit in New York," I say, looking at her beautiful 50's style dress. "You have a gorgeous, funky fashion sense. I could show you a few places that you wouldn't see on the Bergdorf Goodman, House of Bijan, Saks Fifth Avenue tour."
Now, her eyes light up. I'm no psychic, but I am picturing a visit from Polina Volkova to the Lyric in the very future.
It's only later after dessert and many cups of strong, black tea that we all rise from the table. I try to slip away, but Nikandr gets a death grip on my elbow.
"Oh no, you don't," he murmurs, much closer than is necessary. "Volkov thinks you're wonderful and are acting as a social lubricant for his wife."
"Lubricant?" My face crinkles, trying not to envision that.
"You'll have to join us for this next round of discussions," he says, hauling me along. I try digging in my heels, but my Pradas simply slide across the marble floor of the lobby with a sad little screechy sound.
"Stop dragging me around like I'm luggage, I have meetings tomorrow!" I hiss. "I'm not here to lubricate anything for you!"
We're already halfway through the door of the private club next door by the time I finish the sentence. There's a blinding array of chrome, house music roaring from too many speakers and lights flashing and bouncing off every surface until my retinas burn.
Giving in, I allow myself to be dragged up to the VIP section with the rest of them. It's a little quieter here and I won't be required to read lips in order to keep the conversation up. I'm doing pretty well for a while. Polina and I dance, surrounded by her bodyguards.
Then, come the toasts.
As we return to the table, I can tell by Nikandr's relaxed posture that the deal is done and he got what he wanted.
"A toast"! Volkov says, holding his glass high. To my dismay, little glasses of crystal clear, chilled vodka are handed out. "To a magnificent future for our families."
"Za zdorovye!" I repeat dutifully, downing my drink.
"A toast!"
Ah, god.
It's one of Nikandr's captains here in Moscow, and he's already flushed with vodka as he gives a long, meandering toast. Something about a new era of prosperity.
I down another shot.
"A toast!"
It's Nikandr this time, and his speech about mutual enrichment is blessedly short.
There's two more of these and my pronunciation for, "Za zdorovye!" is getting a little sloppy.
By the time they all look at me I've got another full shot glass of vodka in my hand.
Where did that come from?
I realize it's my turn to come up with something. "To new friends and prosperous outcomes," I say, smiling widely and holding my glass high.
"Za novykh druzey i uspeshnyye rezul'taty!" They all chorus and please, let this be the last shot.
An uncountable amount of vodka has been consumed by the men, so I don't know how Nikandr is walking upright.
As everyone leaves, he takes my hand and hauls me gracelessly off the sofa.
"I must take our lovely GM back to the hotel for a good night's rest," he announces unnecessarily to Volkov and Polina.
She's smiling at me in an approving sort of way and I yank my arm loose from Nikandr's grip and unfortunately sway violently.
His arm slides around my waist in time to keep me from face-planting on the chrome table.
Oh shit, that vodka hit faster than I thought. I used to be better at holding my liquor.
Volkov gallantly kisses my hand and I give Polina the traditional three Russian kisses on the cheek.
We're both attempting this at the same and it's a little bit sloppy and there might be some mascara smears, but we get through as the goodbyes and I make my unsteady way back to the hotel, supported by an amused Nikandr.
"I'll see you up to your suite," he says, escorting me into the elevator. "It's not safe to be walking around in your condition."
"My condition? I'm fine," I draw out the word, leaning away from him and knocking my shoulder against the elevator door. "We're not even on the same floor. I made sure of that." I flush when he laughs.
"Oh, so that means you know which suite I'm in?
" he says with a grin. He's still perfectly put together, his tie even and jacket smooth.
There's a glitter, though, in his eye that tells me even his legendary Slavic constitution isn't stopping the vodka from soaking into his common sense, much like it is into mine.
"I'll just get off here," I say, slamming a button. The elevator stops with a jolt and I fall backward. He catches me again and I'm pressed against his chest, his arms around my back, and his voice is deeper now. rougher. Nikandr's polished edge has worn down to something more feral.
"If you wanted me to fuck you in the elevator, you just had to say so," he says, his voice rasp of arousal.
Horrified, I realize I'd hit the emergency button. I try to eel free from his grasp. "That wasn't what I was attempting to do!" I say, reaching for the panel. "I was just trying to get off at the seventh floor. I'll walk the next two flights of stairs. I need the exercise!"
"Oh no, you don't," he chuckles and then his mouth is on mine and-
I am so fucked.
Even that little cautionary thought drifts away in a haze of lust because oh, sweet baby Jesus, this man can kiss.
Nikandr's lips are firm, slanting over mine with the perfect amount of pressure and the slick slide of his tongue between mine.
It curls with my tongue, tracing my teeth as a low, pleased rumble comes from his chest.
"Sweet. I knew it," he says, almost to himself and then his mouth is on mine again, kissing more harshly, sliding his hand up into my hair and gripping a fistful, turning my head to where he wants me.
I'm pressed against the mirrored wall of the elevator, the handrail is digging into my back, and the weight of him is disconcerting.
A solid wall of muscle, enveloping me, encasing me in a weirdly protective way that makes me feel loose, drifting free from reality and my hands grip his lapels, trying to stay upright, trying to stay focused, but it's too late for that.
"I just want you to know that I'm going to hate myself for this tomorrow," I say, tilting my head back as his mouth moves down my neck. "And I'm definitely going to hate you."
"Same here, I assure you," he says, shoving the strap of my dress over my shoulder and putting his mouth against the curve of my neck, biting me there.
"Ow!" I say, grabbing him by the back of his hair and pulling his head up. "Watch it, Dracula."
"You owe me, Plokhoy kot," he says, with a guttural chuckle that vibrates through my skin. He holds up his hand and sure enough, my bite mark is still visible on the heel of his hand.
Good.
"You deserved that," I say, pulling at his tie. "You were an unknown assailant. I was merely protecting myself."
He kisses me again as I yank his tie loose. It's in my way. I want to see his tattoos. Then, I tear his shirt open, it's expensive so I have to really yank on it and buttons go flying and what do I care? I'm not the one sewing them back on tomorrow.
I pull his shirt loose from his pants and oh yes…
I smile in misty appreciation as I push it off his broad shoulders.
He does have a hairy chest! I love that.
The vivid lines of his tattoos are perfectly clear, so not too much chest hair, not like a sweater or anything just enough to tickle my nipples.
"Oh, that's so pretty," I sigh, drawing my fingernails down to his chest, enjoying how his abs clench when I dig in just a bit too deep. "All those muscles… big muscles sprouting baby muscles."
He laughs, uproariously this time, bracing his forearms on the wall on either side of me and dipping his head into my neck.
"Well, they really are," I insist, my fingers drawing back up again and circling his nipples, tugging on them experimentally. He growls and his knee goes between mine, pushing aggressively against my center. "Okay, that can't be real. I think it's like a flashlight or something."
"What?" he asks.
"Oh. Sorry, I didn't mean to blurt that out," refusing to accept that it's his dick.
"It's not a flashlight," he says, pulling his pants open and I put my hand over the fabric of his boxer briefs, and oh my God, no. It's not a flashlight. I squeeze it experimentally, and he growls my name, his teeth biting down my neck.
Out of spite, I do the same thing, biting him hard on his shoulder, yanking his shirt back so I have a clear shot of that beautifully sculpted muscle. I bite it and I squeeze his dick at the same time.
His fist slams against the elevator wall. "Fuck!" he roars, yanking his jacket and shirt off. His hand comes up and rips my dress down to my waist. His enormous hands grip my ass, squeezing gleefully.
"A perfect handful," he growls in my ear before his hands travel up to my breasts, ripping my bra down and squeezing them roughly.
His eyes are dilated, nearly pitch black, and he's utterly fascinated by the sight of his fingers on my breasts.
He pinches my nipples, and I yelp, squeezing his thigh between mine, mindlessly rubbing myself against him.
"I want to lick you," he growls.
"I want to suck you," I say, knowing I will regret admitting it later.
We look at the elevator floor. It's spotless, but it's still an elevator. "Next time," he says decisively, his hands sliding down to my ass, his long fingers stroking along my wet center. "Beautiful. I knew you'd be wet."
I try to think of a comeback, like there was a hot guy at the club but who am I kidding? He lifts me easily, face-to-face, his gaze direct. "Do you want this?"
I nod fervently.
"Say it out loud," he says, sounding - flatteringly - near the end of his patience. "I need to hear it from you."
"Yes." I see this man crystal clear, suddenly sober and I know there will be no excuses tomorrow. "I want it," I say decisively.