Prologue
PROLOGUE
The Pacific stretching before me is an endless azure canvas painted with the dying sun's crimson brushstrokes. There's a man in me, buried somewhere deep down, who understands that it's beautiful, a man who can appreciate the peace this view brings. But this man is a ghost. This man disappeared into the void a long time ago, when he was nineteen and when he heard his own father order the murder of his own mother.
The father is dead now. The only person to punish left is his henchman, who is currently on the run. But not for long. Not if Vlad Solovey has a say in it.
I turn from the panoramic window, my attention drawn back to the thin man seated across from me in this hotel lounge somewhere off the Southern California coast. It's safe to meet here, away from the prying eyes of the Vegas syndicates. It's safe and it's what Esteban Arellano requested.
Fly out to LA. Let's meet there.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Solovey. The trail's gone cold," he says, swirling his red wine in a crystal glass. His sharp features remain passive, but his usually calculating eyes are tinged with something akin to regret.
But not the regret most people would feel if they failed to deliver. I wonder if he has misgivings about allowing me to ask for this favor. My jaw clenches, a familiar tension tightening my gut. "A man like that doesn't just disappear," I comment carefully.
Shtyk has made quite a lot of mess trying to cross the Mexican border a few months ago, right after he kidnapped my brother. I had to act quickly while the trace was hot. I had to get help.
"You'd be surprised," Esteban says, leaning forward. "If your huevón is in bed with La Alianza, they can get him a whole new life."
"He doesn't get to live a new life. He still needs to answer for the sins he committed in this one." The anger in me has my fingers tapping impatiently over the wooden handrest of my chair.
"Don't worry, Mr. Solovey. The Arellanos keep their promises. As long you keep yours."
"I reassure you, Esteban, I am a man of my word." Even when I don't know what will be asked of me in the future. Mixing business with personal favors is bad, especially when the cartel is involved, but I can't keep this up. Can't remain calm at the mere thought of Shtyk still alive, still breathing. "He's out there, plotting," I speak into the space around me, fingers continuing to drum. "I can feel it in my bones."
"Paranoia doesn't suit you, my friend," Esteban remarks.
"It is not paranoia," I retort, the words tasting like a drop of vinegar on my tongue. "It is a fact. Shtyk is not the kind of man to back down. He will retreat and come back when you least expect it."
Esteban sighs as if tired of being here. "Look, we've got eyes and ears everywhere. If this Shtyk so much as sneezes, we will know."
I drain my glass and exchange a loaded look with Esteban. He is a man of slight build, around five-foot-nine, unexceptional but expensively dressed, with neatly combed hair as dark as charcoal and a trimmed beard. No one would guess he's a cousin of the notorious Marcon Arellano. "I appreciate that."
"And I appreciate your patience, Mr. Solovey." Esteban smiles just a little bit and it's the smile of a fox—sly and dangerous. It's almost telling me that I'm stepping further into the darkness, into the corners of the void you don't come back out. Once you're there, you stay inside. You become it.
Part of me dreads this—losing whatever's left of my humanity because of revenge. But another part of me craves violence. I am my father's son, after all. You can't escape blood.
But at the very least, I'll make it righteous—this vengeance of mine. This carnage I'm planning.
The bastard can't elude me forever. One way or another, I'll find Shtyk and I'll make him pay for what he did to Mama.
In this moment, Esteban's hulking bodyguard melts from the shadows, which means the meeting has come to its logical end.
"Mr. Solovey," Esteban croons my name as if he's trying to see how it would taste. He rises to his feet slowly. "Nice to see you."
I mirror his movements. There is a quick handshake and another exchange of stares.
"Likewise," I reply politely.
"Let's keep in touch."
"Of course."
"And remember, Mr. Solovey, obsession is a dangerous bedfellow."
I laugh, a hollow sound devoid of emotions. "Danger and I are old friends."
"Oh, I don't doubt it for a second."
Esteban moves toward the exit, weaving past the tables through the intimately lit space of the lounge. His bodyguard falls into step behind his boss. The cloying scent of cologne and power swirls in their wake as they disappear through the set of glass doors.
For an instant, I'm left alone next to a set of empty chairs tucked into the corner with the dying light of the day blanketing the Pacific on the horizon. But mostly, it's the weight of unfinished business pressing down on my shoulders, turning my suit jacket into one made of material even I can't bear.
"We should go," Ivan says in Russian, quietly emerging from the backdrop of the lounge. For all his height and muscle, he has this strange ability to move like air itself.
"You go first," I reply. "I will be up soon."
"Are you certain?"
I nod.
He heads for the elevators without looking at me and I'm relieved that I can be a regular man for once. A man who doesn't need a bodyguard. I know it's best to leave sooner than later, and a part of me is ready to go. But my gaze wanders across the crowded lounge, drifting from face to face, then snags on a man at the far end, all dark hair and carved features.
He's exactly the type of man I'd fuck.
I shouldn't, of course, indulge. But nothing stops me from striding over to a gleaming bar and sinking onto a barstool. I can watch him for a little while before I retreat to my suite upstairs. Watching has never hurt anyone, right?
The bartender immediately approaches to take my drink order. "Sir? What can I get you?"
"Whiskey. Neat."
He nods once and steps away to prepare it while I glance at the mirrored wall on the other side of the bar lined with several rows of filled-up shelves. In the small space between those shelves, there's a reflection. It's mine and it stares back from the mirror behind the bottles, a blend of sharp angles and storm-gray eyes. The same eyes as my mother's.
And just like that, memories claw at my throat. Her smile, warm as summer sun. The way she'd sing me to sleep, voice soft as dandelion fluff. Then that final glimpse of her that I'd see in my nightmares, eyes wide and mouth open in a silent scream. I don't know if that's what she looked like when she died. It's what my imagination gives me every time I think about her last moments. But I do know she wasn't supposed to be gone so soon.
"Sir?" The bartender's smooth voice jolts me back to the present as he sets my drink in front of me.
"Put it on my tab. Room three-one-six."
"Got it." He's gone again, leaving me alone with my thoughts as they spin around in my head. My palm hugs the tumbler and liquid oblivion slides down my throat, searing and familiar. But it fails to burn away the ache in my chest. The hole that rips wider with every passing year since Mama died.
I drain the glass in three practiced swallows, wanting to forget at least for tonight. My eyes drift back to the lounge and the man on the other side of the room. He is alone by the window, sitting in a chair, an-almost empty drink in his hand.
Our stares tangle, a crackle of electricity arcing between us, even though we are far away. He doesn't look away, a hint of a cocky smirk playing at the corner of his sculpted mouth. Bold. Brazen. Just the way I like them.
Heat licks through my veins, chasing the ice in my heart. It's been too long since I felt the scorching press of skin on skin.
He lifts his glass in a silent salute, an invitation shimmering in eyes the color of a winter lake. Dangerous. Tempting.
Fuck it.
I'm a stranger in this city. Not many here know how Vlad Solovey looks. For one night, I can be someone else. Leave the ghosts behind and burn in the flames of fleeting pleasure I seldom allow myself.
Ignoring the warning twist in my gut, I raise my tumbler slightly in an answering salute.
Time ticks by… slowly and painfully.
Then he stands to his feet and strolls over to the bar, and with every step he's taking in my direction, I feel more exposed. I don't know how old he is, but he looks around my age, give or take a few years. He's around my height too, perhaps an inch shorter, with an athletic build and powerful shoulders. His hair, midnight dark and wavy, is slicked back and the delicate curls at the ends brush against the tanned skin of his neck and the crisp white crease of his shirt in a way that has my stomach churn in the most exquisite way.
He casually leans an elbow against the polished wood of the bar, angling his body toward me. An expensive cuff link winks at me. Up close, he's even more striking—all classic features and smoldering intensity. And that cleft in his chin adds a dangerously charming edge to his appearance.
My heart begins to race and I'm already imagining all the ways I could take him apart behind closed doors.
"Buy you a drink?" the stranger asks. His voice is low like a rumble of distant thunder.
Sparks dance along my spine at the sound.
Saying no is what I would have done just a few years ago or if my father was still alive.
This vice was my most guarded secret from him. Hard to hide and hard to resist too. But Yuri Solovey is six feet under and I've become careless. I've become a man who's tired of pretending to be something he's not. And if my little brother is finally living the life he wants, there's no reason I shouldn't allow myself a night of fun.
So, I incline my head in assent and reply, "Why not?"
He slides a little closer and I can smell his cologne―fresh and woodsy, with a hint of spice. Intoxicating. And so fucking pure male.
It sears my senses, makes me dizzy with need, and I'm more than ready to see where this is going to lead us.
He signals the bartender, and before I get to say anything, whiskey splashes into a tumbler before me. Oh, interesting. He wants to take charge by assuming what I drink. Then he has the wrong idea of who I am. Even if his guess is correct.
"So what brings you to the City of Angels?" he asks, sitting on the stool beside me. There's a subtle accent to his words I can't quite place. Not the kind of accent a foreigner like me has, but something a lot more deeper that says he was born here, and his family is from elsewhere and speaking another language is a tradition among them. But I don't let my imagination wander further. It's not an important detail.
"Is it business or pleasure?" the stranger asks a follow-up question. Names are never exchanged. This isn't about forging a connection.
"A bit of both now that I have your company." I take a sip, let the liquor linger on my tongue before swallowing. "You?"
A shrug of broad shoulders beneath an impeccably tailored suit. "I live here at the moment. Contemplating my next move."
"How long have you lived here?"
"Not enough to want to stay for good."
"A man of mystery." I take one more sip. "I can appreciate that."
His eyes sweep over me, dark and assessing. "Something tells me you have your share of secrets... Ones you're not keen to spill to a stranger in a bar."
"Don't we all?"
"Not want to share our secret desires?"
"Have secrets."
He laughs softly. A throaty, hard laugh that has my blood going down to my cock immediately. I shift on my stool, trying to keep calm. But his presence—the smell, the heat, the sounds he's making—is too overwhelming. I drain my glass, the burn chasing the shadows that want to make an appearance from the corners of my mind.
"Fair enough." The stranger signals for another round, his gaze never leaving my face. I like this. I like that he's so daring.
"Then let's talk of other things."
"Let's." I lift my tumbler in mock toast.
He smiles with the corner of his mouth. "I take it you're not going to tell me where you're from."
"I take it my accent isn't that strong anymore for you to guess?"
"Oh, I've guessed a long time ago."
"Have you, now?"
"But we all come from somewhere else to this place for various reasons."
"What are your reasons?"
"Business opportunities… Not mine. My family's. I'm just a nepo baby, so to speak."
"I can relate to that."
There's a moment of charged silence between us. It's a balm. A temporary anchor against the riptide of dark memories threatening to drag me under. The infectiousness of his laugh, the teasing challenge in his eyes... For a second, I can almost forget.
Almost.
"You seem… burdened," the stranger says, his voice dropping to a whisper.
We both know what we want, so instead of tiptoeing around it, I go for a kill. "Are you offering to make it better?"
His lips morph into a seductive smile. "Are you looking to feel better tonight?"
My buzz intensifies. I know there's always the possibility of being watched. Vlad Solovey can't be seen leaving with another man.
With a sigh, I push to my feet, the pleasant hum in my head fading to a distant echo. Snagging a napkin from the holder, I scrawl my room number with a pen I grab from the bartender as he passes. It's an impulse. An invitation to keep the charade going a little longer.
I slide the napkin toward the stranger, my fingertips grazing his knuckles. An electric thrill rushes through me at the contact.
As if sensing this, he licks his lips.
"Thanks for the drink." Then I turn and walk away, feeling the heat of his stare between my shoulder blades and a shiver whispering down my spine that has nothing to do with the California coast chill outside.
* * *
Upstairs, the whiskey from the mini-bar in my room swirls in my glass like a miniature storm of regret and desire. I knock the drink back, savoring the flavor.
The room spins slightly as reality settles in. The voice that sounds a lot like Father's, judgmental and heavily accented, says in my head: What possessed you to give that stranger your room number, Vladimir?
I shake it off and pour another, my hands trembling slightly. The weight of family expectations presses down me. Even now when I'm my own man, living across the ocean. If my father were alive, he'd spit on me for even considering this... dalliance.
But he's not here. I made sure of it. He's where he's supposed to be. In his grave.
My mind drifts to my little brother. He's living openly now, free from the suffocating grip of our family's toxic legacy. A twinge of envy mixes with fierce pride.
I reach for my phone, finger hovering over Sasha's name. To hear his voice, to know he's safe...
A sharp knock shatters the silence.
My heart jumps into my throat. I cross the room, pulse thundering in my ears, and flip the lock. The door swings open.
He stands there, Adonis in the flesh, jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder. Tie undone, hanging around his neck, loose. A wolfish grin plays on his lips.
"Well," he purrs, eyeing me up and down, "seems I've hit the jackpot tonight."
I realize I discarded my own jacket a while ago—when I returned to my suite—and my shirt is halfway unbuttoned. It almost feels as if I'm naked when I'm not put together.
You don't need clothes for what you're about to do , a voice in my head whispers. This time it sounds nothing like Yuri, thank God.
I step aside, wordless. The stranger from the lounge saunters in, whistling low as he takes in the suite. He's pretending to be impressed, but I can see it in his eyes he's used to luxury the same way I am. He's grown up in it. Everything about him, including his diamond Chanel watch, tells me so. Bold choice. But he wears it well. This man is no opportunistic hustler.
"Presidential suite, huh?" the stranger comments, tossing his jacket on the couch as I shut the door closed right after slipping the do-not-disturb sign on the handle outside.
"You're one to talk," I counter, taking a sip of the drink I'm still holding in my hand.
He laughs. That rich sound that makes me forget who I am. "Touché. In that case, shall we dispense with the pretense? We both know why I'm here."
I nod, a primal hunger rising within me as I set my tumbler on the table nearby. "Let's get down to business then," I whisper under my breath, taking a step in his direction.
He moves closer too.
The distance between us shrinks until it disappears entirely. I inhale deeply, eyes half-closed against the dim light of the room. "You smell like fucking," I tell him, grabbing the front of his shirt.
"So do you," he replies, his eyes— intense and impossibly blue—never leave mine, and it feels like he's staring right down into my soul. Up until now, I thought this was only a dumb fairytale you'd find in books. A gaze so profoundly deep a person could read you without saying a word or posing a question. But here he is, a stranger, whose name I won't ask, looking at me like he knows every one of my secrets, even those I myself have forgotten.
"Just to be clear," I supply, yanking at his shirt slightly, "I do the fucking."
He smirks. "Only if I let you, Hot Shot."
A chuckle leaves my mouth. "Seems like we are at an impasse now, Romeo."
"Indeed."
"Do you still want to do this?"
That devious tongue appears again. A quick, teasing brush over his lips. "May the best man win."
In an instant, we collide. His mouth crashes against mine, hungry and demanding. I match his fervor, teeth grazing his seductive lower lip. A growl that escapes him ignites something feral inside me, something I hardly ever allow to come out until I need to kill or… fuck.
My hands roam his body, desperate to claim every inch. His scent fills my senses and I'm drowning in this sensation, months of repressed desire surging to the surface. I can't remember the last time I did this—picked up a stranger at the bar for fun. Between being hunted and doing the hunting, there is never time for myself.
We break apart, panting, mostly because we need air. His eyes, dark with lust, challenge me. "Think you can handle what comes next, Hot Shot?"
I respond by shoving him against the wall, pinning his wrists above his head. "I don't think. I know, Romeo." I like this name for him. It goes along with the traces of accent I finally figured out. Italian. It's the name he'll have tonight because I don't need to know the real one.
The stranger smirks, then twists suddenly, reversing our positions. His thigh presses between my legs, eliciting an involuntary groan. "We'll see about that."
We grapple, a tangle of muscled limbs and half-shed clothing. Buttons fly as shirts are torn open. Slacks hit the floor. Shoes discarded. The air crackles with electricity, each touch a jolt to my system.
I manage to steer us toward the bed, my hands exploring the planes of his muscled back. With a final push, he topples onto the mattress, boxers riding low on his hips revealing that tantalizing V that tells me he favors the gym several times a week. And those hard abs and firm chest dusted by fine dark hair. Delicious.
"Like what you see?" He smirks up at me again from below while I hover above him, drinking in the sight.
"Very much so," I say. There is no need to beat around the bush. It's clear as day what this is.
I fall forward, our legs tangling again, touching, pressing, struggling. Both hands on either side of him, I lean in. For a moment, when our glances connect again, I'm lost in the forbidden thrill of it all. My cock is hard and ready.
He seizes the opportunity, flipping us over in one fluid motion. Now he looms over me, a predatory glint in his eye, and I realize it's my undoing. I'm seriously liking this power struggle. Most of my past encounters were simple. I was the one in charge. Tonight, it's not quite that black and white. The suite is mine, and I was the one who invited him, but he walked in here like he owns everything inside the room, including me.
"My turn, Hot Shot," he breathes into my cheek. And then his hand slips down to my cock. He palms me through the fabric of my briefs and gives it a light squeeze. "Ah, eager. Aren't we?"
I fight against the moan threatening to escape, but it has a mind of its own. It slides past my lips and into the heated air between me and him. A sound barely audible.
"Tell me you like this," the stranger says, rubbing me.
"I do." My hand darts out, grasping his length through the thin fabric of his boxers. He's hard too, just like me. And he's impressively big. "Now lose these," I demand, voice rough with desire.
He hisses, eyes narrowing. "Make me," he taunts, rolling his hips into my grip.
Challenge accepted. Quickly, before he realizes what's going on, I roll us across the bed to be on top again. Then I plunge my hand beneath the waistband, wrapping my fingers around his hot, hard flesh. His stifled groan is music to my ears, a symphony of pleasure I'm desperate to conduct.
As I stroke him, he retaliates, finding his way into my underwear. The sensation of another man's touch after so long is electrifying. I buck involuntarily, losing control.
It's all he needs. In a flash, he's on top again, grinding against me with delicious friction. "Fuck," I groan, head spinning. I just can't with him and his desire to lead this.
"All you have to do is tell me if you want it," he whispers, catching my lower lip with his teeth and pulling on it.
"Like I said. I do the fucking."
"You stole my line, caro ."
My cock jerks in his grasp at the word. He smiles. "You like it, don't you? When I call you darling in Italian? Makes your dick even harder."
"Fuck you." I reach up for a handful of his hair and tangle my fingers in it. It's thick and soft and perfectly styled into an organized set of dark waves that I quickly dishevel.
"There's no need to deny my charm," he whispers as a strand falls across his forehead.
"Conceited much?"
"I'd say confident."
We stare at each other again as I think that I enjoy this little game with him more than I thought I would.
He breaks the silence first by saying, "What would you say to getting fully naked?"
I don't waste time on unnecessary words. I wrestle out of my remaining clothes—boxers and socks while he does the same. It's skin on skin now, a roll of bare sweaty bodies over the bedding.
We kiss again. Kiss like this is the last thing we get to do before we die. Kiss like there's no tomorrow.
Our chests touch as I force him back down. My heart's racing and my pulse is a loud drum in my ears, telling me to possess.
"I win this round," I mutter between the moans he elicits from me with his hand around my cock.
"Because I let you, Hot Shot."
"Fine." I grind my hips against his.
He responds with a mewl of desire, grabbing my ass and arching his back off the bed while he presses into my touch, as if seeking relief from the ache that's been building inside him for far too long.
I know how that feels. I'm not a stranger to keeping emotions in, to suppressing them to the point of boiling over.
I know a perfect way to release all that steam too. It seems he's privy to that secret as well.
Which serves me well. I don't need to explain the nature of this encounter when the daylight comes.
"Come on, caro ," he husks out in that bedroom voice of his. "Make me come already if you're so dead set on showing me what kind of man you are." He squeezes me again.
His other hand releases my buttock and finds its way between my legs and begins to fondle my balls and my perineum, causing me to moan loudly into the warm room. And fuck, my hole clenches uncontrollably at the sensation, wanting more of this, wanting his finger there.
Immediately, my father's voice enters my mind.
Faggot. If you even think about it again, I will cut your dick off.
Harsh words Yuri once threw at my fourteen-year-old brother after finding out about another boy bounce around my head. Just for a fraction of a second, but that's enough to forget about all the possibilities to explore further with this skilled man who's in control of my cock at this very instant.
Instead, I shove down the memories and guilt and regret, and then I direct my attention to what's here and now—a gorgeous stranger spread out beneath me, fisting my dick.
"That's right," I rasp out. "You are about to find out, detka ."
He bites his lips, eyes half-closed in bliss as I stroke him. The tendons in his neck strain from his tilted head as he writhes from the onslaught of sensations. I prop myself up on one elbow, admiring the view as we pleasure each other. Just once he brushes his fingers over my left pectoral where the ink has already begun bleeding from time. A figure of an angel and my mother's name in Cyrillic letters. He senses that this is not just a patch of artwork done on a whim. This is a territory we don't discuss and I'm grateful for it, grateful we are on the same page.
Instead, I let loose. Instead, I forget. Instead, I allow his hand to wander and when I look at him next, I can tell by the knowing look in his eye that he's very much aware he has me right where he wants me.
"You're so responsive," he purrs against a trail of saliva he leaves on my neck as he moves around to lick every inch of me he can reach with his mouth.
My chest heaves with each labored breath, my hand working him faster as I match his rhythm. He's whimpering now, calling out the names he gives me like a prayer while our hips grind together in perfect sync. The tempo becomes more intense, impossible to withstand.
I feel the familiar tightening, the world narrowing to this moment, this man. "I'm close," I pant. Then I lean down to capture his mouth in a bruising kiss, my free hand finding its way to his smooth cheek. He tastes of lust and whiskey and freedom, and I can't get enough. Our tongues dance like two snakes entwined in a deadly embrace. The fire he ignites inside me burns away any remaining inhibitions or shame.
My brain screams for release when his thumb brushes against the sensitive spot at the tip of my cock, sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through every nerve ending.
My hips jerk forward, craving even more friction, even more connection, almost on a molecular level, as we approach our peak. Colored stars spot my vision, blurring everything, turning it into a heady mix of sensations—muscles straining, skin slapping, screams being discharged, bodies shattering in perfect unison.
The words are exchanged in different languages, forming a new shared secret that neither can fully comprehend.
A rush of heat surges through me as the orgasm takes over. Warmth floods my core, filling every crevice of my body as I let out a primal cry that echoes in the room while I shoot my load all over his sweat-slicked chest.
An answering groan comes from between his lips and I feel it—his cum splashing across my skin—chin, pecs, abs. He's all over me and his hand milks the last few drops from my cock right before I reach the nirvana and black out.
When I come to, I'm on top of him, my breathing is still labored and there is electricity running through every part of me. I realize I only lost a millisecond of time when the climax hit.
"Not bad at all, Hot Shot," a rough whisper reaches my ear and the sound of his voice sends ripples through me.
"I'll give it five out of ten," I reply with a quip of my own, unsure how I even joke at a time like this with another man's body pressed up to mine in a way that's criminal in some countries.
The stranger's teeth nip at my neck as I pull back slightly to look at him. His hair, damp and messy, is spread out across the pillow like a halo. A chuckle resonating in his throat, rumbles through him, vibrating against my chest as he cradles my head with both hands and holds me there. His eyes bore into mine. "Not going to complain though," he husks out.
The room is hazy with the afterglow of our shared orgasm, the air thick with heat and sweat and sex, and it's so potent—this feeling of being wanted, desired; even if it's only for one night.
"You want to stay the night?" I ask cautiously, knowing it's dangerous.
The stranger rolls us over, pinning me down gently but firmly on the bed with a wicked grin. "You sure about that, Hot Shot?" He claims my lips once more in a possessive kiss.
When he draws back, I murmur a reply, "You have a great cock. Would be a pity to let you go so soon, Romeo."
"Fine. You twisted my arm into this."
* * *
Pale light filters through the opening in the curtains when I crack my eyelids open. For a disorienting second, I don't know where I am. Then the warm body beside me shifts and it all comes rushing back. The meeting with Esteban in the lounge downstairs. The piercing blue eyes. The stranger offering to buy me a drink. Hands and mouths and skin on skin.
Fuck.
I realize I haven't slept this deep in ages. Maybe never.
I sit up gingerly and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, head throbbing in time with my pulse. I shouldn't have drunk that much. The stranger—no, not a stranger anymore, not after last night—is waking up too, and when I glance at him over my shoulder, he smirks up at me, stretching seductively on the bed. My first thought is to kiss him, to run my hands over that sculptured body, to feel the hard muscle beneath my palms once more. Sadly, the digital clock on the nightstand tells me I'm already late for my flight. There's no time.
As if reading my mind, the stranger gets up and picks up his boxers from the floor. Lean back muscles ripple under tanned skin as he slips them on. My mouth goes dry as I watch him dress, watch the flex of his arm as he puts on his gleaming cuff links, watch the long line of his throat as he knots a silk tie. He’s polished and put-together, no trace of the wild creature who writhed beneath me in the tangled sheets.
He turns to face me, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips while deft fingers adjust the watch on his wrist. "Morning, Hot Shot."
I grunt something unintelligible, dragging a hand down my face.
"I had fun," he says with a grin, walking across the room to grab his jacket from the couch. "And I wish I could stay a little longer but I have places to be and people to see. You know how it is."
I do know. The ticking clock, the responsibility. The constant vigilance, watching for the next knife in the back.
His eyes meet mine, dark with remembered heat, as he heads for the door. He pauses there, one hand on the knob, and looks back. Winks, a flash of white teeth. "Thanks for the great night."
The door clicks shut behind him and I'm alone.
I flop back on the pillows with a groan, hating the twinge of sudden loss in my chest. This is why I don't do sleepovers, don't let myself want more than a quickie.