Chapter 9
JENNA
His chest rises and falls beneath me, all that solid muscle stretched out under my cheek. My fingers drift absentmindedly across the ink etched over his right pec—sharp black lines, an eagle with a crown, wings flared, claws out. It looks old-world. Regal. Dangerous.
Just like him.
I stare at it for a moment longer, trying to commit every detail to memory before lifting my head.
What the hell just happened?
I had sex. With a stranger. Masked. In a private club room. I didn’t even get his name, just some evasive charm and a body that could’ve been sculpted by the gods.
And it was amazing.
No, amazing isn’t the right word. That man handled me. Like he already knew every inch of me. Like he’d been starving and I was the only thing he’d ever wanted to taste. I should feel… ashamed? Nervous?
Instead, I feel like my bones have been melted into the cushions and I want him again. Right now.
A wicked part of me wants to slide my hand between his legs, take hold of him, and show him exactly what round two is supposed to look like. But then I hear it—his breathing. Slow. Even.
He’s asleep.
Figures. Of course he gets to sleep like the dead after wrecking me into a state of post-orgasmic enlightenment.
I glance at his masked face. God help me, I want to see him. Just a little peek, just enough to know if he’s actually as gorgeous as my brain wants to believe he is under all that leather and mystery.
But I don’t move.
Because if I see him—if I know—then this stops being whatever it is. A wild night. A secret. Something I can hold onto, pull out of the vault when I need a little personal time and a very specific memory.
His voice. It slipped a few times. Not just a deeper timbre but a shift into Russian. One word when he was deep inside me and it made things even hotter. Now it nags at the edges of my brain.
Why does he feel so damn familiar?
Maybe it’s just wishful thinking or maybe my subconscious is trying to justify sleeping with a stranger by pretending he wasn’t one.
But there’s something there, something I can’t quite place.
Like I’ve seen him before. Heard him before.
Like a dream you only half remember upon waking but it leaves fingerprints on your day.
Still, I don’t lift the mask.
Instead, I slide carefully out of bed—sore in the best way, legs still shaky—and start pulling on my dress. It’s wrinkled, and it smells like sex and whiskey. I slip it on, ignoring the ache between my thighs and the absurd smile threatening the corners of my mouth.
I glance at him once more before I leave. Naked. Stretched out. Beautiful.
Burn that into my memory. File it away for another day.
I close the door with a soft click and walk back to the front of the club. My heels click across the tile like a metronome keeping time for the chaos still pounding in my chest.
I don’t know his name. I don’t know his face. But what it felt like to be wanted like that is addictive.
The hallway feels endless. I pass door after door, each one muffling sounds that leave no question as to what’s going on behind them.
Moans, cries, the soft slapping of bodies meeting, gasps of breath tangled with whispered filth.
One room bursts briefly into laughter—a woman’s high giggle layered over a man’s growl—and I can’t help but wonder if I sounded like that only a few minutes ago.
I moaned in there. I gasped. I shook. I came so hard I saw stars.
Claire. Shit. I left her alone for way too long.
I pick up the pace, anxiety starting to nip at the back of my neck. What if she’s pissed? What if she left? What if she’s been cornered by some creep and she’s out there throwing hands in the name of friendship?
I make it back into the main room, scanning for the tall brunette in the white dress.
My eyes find her almost instantly—still at our table, drink in hand, not alone.
There’s a man with her. Tall and broad, dressed sharply in black with a striking silver-and-black domino mask shaped like a wolf’s snarl.
He leans toward her in fascination, but when Claire spots me, her whole face lights up.
She’s up and out of her seat before I can say a word, her drink left behind as she practically sprints toward me.
“Jenna!” she squeals, grabbing both my arms, eyes wide with anticipation. “You little ho!”
My jaw drops. “What?”
“Oh, don’t play innocent with me.” She leans in, speaking loudly enough to make me want to sink into the floor. “You obviously had sex.”
My whole face ignites. “How would you even know that?” I hiss, tugging her toward the side so the entire club doesn’t hear.
She laughs. “Your hair, babe. It’s got that just-been-fucked chaos going on. Like, full blown sex aftermath. Your lipstick’s gone. And your dress, it’s all wrinkled and you’re glowing like you just won the lottery—the prize being twelve orgasms.”
I blink. “It was definitely not twelve.”
Claire arches a brow. “But more than one?”
I look away, trying not to smile. “Shut up.”
She’s cackling now. I catch my reflection in the mirror above the bar. My red curls are in full rebellion, wild and tumbling like I’ve just emerged from a wind tunnel. My eyes are still a little glassy. And sure enough, my lipstick is totally gone.
I remember the moment when his hands fisted in my hair, tugging just hard enough to make me gasp as he took me from behind. No wonder it’s a mess.
“Jesus,” I mutter.
Claire slaps my arm playfully, grinning like a cat who just swallowed the canary. “Girl, that man rearranged your soul. I knew you were gonna have fun tonight.”
I shake my head, trying not to laugh She was absolutely right.
“So,” I say, giving Claire a sly look as we weave through the crowd toward the exit. “What about you? Did you have any fun while I was off being the worst friend ever?”
She shrugs, flicking her hair over her shoulder like it’s no big deal. “Not really. A few tried, but no one caught my eye.” She makes a face.
I blink at her. “Seriously? That wolf mask guy was all over you.”
Claire snorts. “Please. He smelled like vanilla protein powder and asked me if I’ve ever done ayahuasca.”
“What’s that?”
She waves her hand dismissively. “Drugs.”
I laugh. “Damn, I’m sorry. I totally ditched you.”
“Babe,” she says, waving me off. “This night was about you. I was just on escort duty. Mission accomplished, clearly.”
I flush and nudge her with my shoulder. “Hey, don’t say ‘mission accomplished’ like I was that desperate to get laid.”
She smirks. “Weren’t you?”
I roll my eyes, though part of me is grateful for how lightly she’s handling this. Because honestly I’m still a little shaky. I’m sore in places I forgot I had muscles, my heart hasn’t quite figured out how to beat normally again, and everything in me feels like it’s been rewired.
“I’m ready to go,” I admit. “I don’t regret it. At all. But I think I hit my threshold.”
Claire smiles. “Girl, your threshold got body-slammed tonight. Let’s get out of here.”
As we make our way toward the front, I catch myself glancing back over my shoulder, toward the hall of doors. Searching for... I don’t even know. A hint of him. A shadow. A familiar stance in the crowd.
But I don’t see him anywhere. Nothing but lights and strangers.
“Is it weird that I feel kinda bad for leaving him?” I ask. “As far as I know, he’s still sleeping in there.”
Claire arches a brow. “You mean the guy who railed you into a religious experience?”
I give her a look. “He was very… attentive.”
“Oh, I’m sure!” She laughs as we step into the cool, desert night air. “But let’s not pretend this was a romantic weekend getaway. It’s a sex club. If he wakes up all sad and alone, maybe he should’ve remembered where the fuck he was before falling asleep.”
I grin, but there’s something bittersweet blooming in my chest. Like I left behind a piece of myself in that room.
Or maybe he took it.
The Uber ride back is quiet for about ten seconds before Claire turns on me like a lion with a gazelle.
“Okay, spill.”
“Nope,” I say, gazing out the window like I’m suddenly fascinated by streetlights.
“Don’t you dare go all coy on me, Jenna Rose. I want details. Positions. Dialogue. How big was he?”
“Jesus,” I laugh, glancing at the driver. “Claire.”
She leans in. “Fine, just tell me he was hot.”
“He was. He was also older,” I say. “Maybe forties. But definitely unfairly hot. Big. Strong. Confident. Knew exactly what he was doing.”
Claire lets out a dreamy sigh. “God, I love that for you.”
By the time we pull up in front of my apartment building, the nervous buzz is gone, replaced with a warm hum in my chest, thighs, and everywhere else.
I hug her tightly before slipping out. “Thank you. Really. Tonight was more than I expected and just what I needed.”
Claire winks. “You’re not off the hook, by the way. I want a full debrief tomorrow.”
I laugh, flipping her off as I shut the car door.
My building is dark and quiet when I step inside. Boring compared to what I just left—no scent of sex curling through the air.
It’s home.
I kick off my shoes, unzip my dress, and pour myself a small glass of wine while I stand barefoot in my kitchen, trying to process what the hell just happened.
I close my eyes.
His hands flash in my mind. Large, strong, gripping my hips as he pulled me against him. The way he guided my mouth to his, fingers threaded through my hair like he needed the anchor. His voice—low and dark, speaking Russian when he got close, too far gone to pretend anymore.
A single word, whispered into the crook of my neck.
Malyshka.
I take a sip of wine, but it doesn’t help. My brain won’t stop connecting the dots I don’t want to see.
The accent. The size. The hands. The way he moved—controlled, precise, powerful.
Malyshka.
The name he called me in mid-thrust.
I frown, set the glass down, and reach for my phone. I try to sound it out in my head then type a few clumsy phonetic guesses into Google. The last one pings Russian.
I click the translation result and stare at the word.
Baby.
My breath catches.
It means baby.
A tiny smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it. There’s something unexpectedly tender about him calling me that without thinking I’d understand. Like he forgot himself for a second.
I’ve seen those hands before. Felt that same weight when he entered the room. The unspoken demand that makes people sit up straighter. The barely leashed danger beneath every calculated word.
No.
I shake my head, but the thought slams into me like a truck.
Did I just fuck my boss?