3. Brooklyn
brOOKLYN
I stay late to clean up after tonight's poker game, my skin still tingling from every heated glance Maxim sent my way over the past four hours. The restaurant feels different now that the players have gone—quieter, more intimate, charged with possibilities I shouldn't be considering.
But I can't stop thinking about the way he looked at me when I served his drink, like he wanted to pull me into his lap and claim my mouth right there in front of everyone.
Or how his jaw clenched when Viktor made another crude comment about my body, his hands curling into fists on the green felt table.
I tell myself I'm imagining the sexual tension between us, that men like Maxim Volkov don't seriously pursue women who serve drinks for tips.
But then I remember the unmistakable bulge I glimpsed straining against his expensive pants when I'd leaned close to whisper in his ear, and heat pools between my thighs all over again.
I'm loading glasses into the dishwasher when I hear footsteps behind me. I don't need to turn around to know it's him—I can feel his presence like electricity in the air, making every nerve ending come alive with awareness.
"You don't have to help," I say when he starts collecting empty glasses from the poker table, but my voice comes out breathier than intended. The restaurant feels completely different with just the two of us—intimate instead of professional, like we're the only two people in the world.
"I want to," he replies, moving closer until I can smell his cologne mixed with something uniquely masculine that makes me want to press my face to his neck and breathe him in. "Besides, Viktor was out of line tonight. You shouldn't have to tolerate comments like that."
The unexpected consideration touches something deep in my chest, but it's the way he's looking at me—like he wants to devour me slowly and thoroughly—that makes my nipples tighten beneath my dress.
Most of the poker players treat me like part of the furniture, barely acknowledging my existence except to bark orders for fresh drinks.
But Maxim notices everything—how Viktor's crude words affected me, how I always ensure everyone's glasses stay full, how I remember each player's preferences without being asked.
When he reaches past me to grab a wine glass from the high shelf, his chest brushes against my back, and I have to bite back a soft moan at the contact.
The heat from his body seeps through the thin fabric of my dress, and I'm suddenly hyperaware of how close we're standing, how easy it would be to turn around and press myself against him.
"Maxim," I whisper, and his name comes out like a plea. I turn to face him, and suddenly we're standing so close I can feel the warmth radiating from his body, can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes.
His gaze drops to my mouth, and I unconsciously run my tongue across my lower lip, the wet pink flesh glistening in the dim light of the kitchenette.
I watch, transfixed, as his pupils dilate with unmistakable hunger, black pools of desire eclipsing the rich brown of his irises.
The simple action makes his breath hitch audibly, a delicious catch in his throat that sends a tremor of anticipation through my core.
I feel a surge of feminine power knowing I can affect him like this—this powerful man who commands respect with a single glance reduced to shallow breathing and hungry stares by the mere sweep of my tongue.
Heat blooms between my thighs, a responding pulse of want that makes me press them together discreetly, seeking pressure against the growing ache centered there.
"You have no idea what you do to me," he says, his voice rough with desire, the low timbre sending tremors down my spine. The raw honesty in his words makes my core clench with need, a molten heat spreading through my lower belly as his intense gaze holds mine captive.
"Tell me," I challenge, tilting my head back to maintain eye contact, letting him see the want that I'm no longer trying to hide. My pulse quickens beneath his scrutiny, my chest rising and falling with each shallow breath as I deliberately expose the vulnerable line of my throat to him.
His hands come up to frame my face, thumbs tracing my cheekbones with devastating gentleness. "You make me forget everything else exists. When you walk into a room, I can't think about cards or business or anything except how badly I want to touch you."
The confession sends heat spiraling through me, and I lean into his touch like a flower seeking sunlight. "Then why don't you?"
For a moment, I think he's going to close the distance between us, to finally give in to whatever this magnetic pull is that's been drawing us together for months.
The air crackles with sexual tension so thick I can barely breathe, and when his thumb traces across my lower lip, I nearly come undone right there.
My mouth parts involuntarily beneath his touch, a soft gasp escaping as the rough pad of his finger drags across sensitive flesh, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.
The heat of his body radiates toward mine, making my skin prickle with awareness, each inch of me aching to be pressed against him.
His eyes darken as they drop to my mouth, pupils dilating until only a thin ring of color remains, and I feel myself swaying toward him, helplessly drawn into his orbit like a planet unable to resist its sun.
My nipples tighten beneath my clothes, the fabric suddenly an unbearable barrier between his hands and my skin.
"I've imagined this moment," he confesses, his voice a ragged whisper that makes my inner muscles clench with anticipation. "Dreamed of how you'd taste, how you'd feel trembling beneath me."
Instead, we both reach for the same wine glass at the exact same moment, our hands colliding in a contact that sends shockwaves racing up my arm.
His fingers intertwine with mine, and neither of us pulls away.
His thumb traces circles on my palm that send electricity straight to my core, and I have to grip the edge of the counter to keep from swaying toward him.
"This is dangerous territory," he murmurs, but he doesn't let go of my hand. His fingers remain firmly intertwined with mine, his warm skin sending delicious shivers up my arm with each subtle movement of his thumb against my wrist.
"I know," I whisper back, my heart hammering against my ribs so violently I'm certain he must hear it in the quiet space between us. Shallow breaths escape my parted lips as I struggle to maintain composure. "Are you afraid of danger?"
Something dark and promising flickers in his eyes, a primal hunger that makes my stomach tighten with anticipation.
His jaw clenches momentarily before he answers.
"Never. But I'm afraid of wanting something I can't have.
" The confession hangs in the air between us, heavy with unspoken possibilities and forbidden desires.
"Who says you can't have it?" The words slip out before I can stop them, loaded with invitation and challenge in equal measure. My voice carries a husky quality I barely recognize as my own, emboldened by the heat building between us and the way his pupils dilate at my question.
His sharp intake of breath tells me he heard every implication in my question.
For a heart-stopping moment, I think he's going to push me against the bar and claim my mouth, and God help me, I want him to.
My body is practically vibrating with need, every nerve ending on fire from nothing more than his proximity and the promise in his eyes.
But then the sound of a car door slamming in the parking lot breaks the spell, reminding us both that we're standing in his brother's restaurant where anyone could walk in and find us. He steps back, putting necessary distance between us, though his eyes never leave mine.
"I should let you finish up," he says, his voice still rough with desire, the rasp of it sending shivers down my spine. "It's getting late." His eyes linger on my lips for a moment longer, reluctance evident in every tense line of his body as he forces himself to step away.
"Right. Late." I can barely form coherent thoughts, let alone words. My body hums with unfulfilled desire, and I have to resist the urge to grab his shirt and pull him back to me.
"Brooke." My name on his lips sounds like a prayer and a promise, his voice caressing each syllable with an intensity that makes my heart race against my ribcage. "This isn't over. Not by a long shot."
"I hope not," I reply, surprised by my own boldness, the words escaping before I can censor them, hanging in the charged air between us like an invitation I'm not quite ready to take back.
After he leaves, I stand alone in the empty restaurant, my body still tingling with awareness and my core aching with need. I finish loading the dishwasher with hands that aren't quite steady, trying to process what just happened between us.
The sexual tension that's been building just reached a breaking point, and I can feel everything shifting between us. Whatever game we've been playing just got a lot more serious, a lot more dangerous, and infinitely more thrilling.
As I lock up and walk to my car, I can't stop thinking about the promise in his voice when he said this isn't over. My body is still humming with awareness, still craving his touch, still imagining what it would feel like to have those elegant hands exploring every inch of my skin.
I drive home through the quiet Brooklyn streets, windows down to cool my overheated skin, but nothing can ease the ache he's left me with. Tonight was a preview of something bigger, something that could change everything between us.
And despite all the very rational reasons I should be cautious—the dangerous world he moves in, the professional boundaries we'd be crossing, the certainty that men like him don't do forever with women like me—I can't bring myself to care about any of it.
I want him. Desperately, completely, with a hunger that's been building for months and threatens to consume me entirely.
The question is: what am I willing to risk to have him?