5. Brooklyn
brOOKLYN
T he next week's poker game runs later than usual—a high-stakes tournament that has the players more competitive and crude than normal.
By midnight, I've endured increasingly inappropriate comments with professional grace, but I can see Maxim's tension ratcheting higher with each disrespectful remark.
His knuckles are white where he grips his cards, and there's a dangerous glitter in his dark eyes that makes my pulse race with more than just anger.
"Maybe our lovely waitress should stick around after we're done," Viktor suggests with a lewd grin, his eyes raking over my body in a way that makes my skin crawl. "Provide some additional entertainment for the winners."
The crude suggestion hangs in the air like poison, and I feel every man at the table shift their attention to me. Some look uncomfortable, others intrigued, but all of them are watching to see how I'll respond.
Before I can form a professional deflection, Maxim's chair scrapes back so violently I think he might actually start a fight right here at the poker table.
"That's enough," he says quietly, but his voice carries deadly warning that makes even Viktor pause mid-leer.
The room goes silent, tension crackling like electricity before a storm.
For a moment, I see past the charming businessman facade to the dangerous man underneath—someone capable of violence when pushed too far, and the glimpse of that barely leashed power sends unexpected heat shooting through my core.
"Easy there, Maxim," Viktor backpedals, raising his hands in mock surrender, but there's unmistakable malicious satisfaction glittering in his eyes at having successfully provoked such a visceral reaction.
His thin lips curl into a smirk that doesn't reach his cold gaze. "Just making conversation, that's all."
"Find a different topic," Maxim replies, his voice still carrying that lethal edge that seems to drop the temperature in the room by several degrees. His jaw clenches visibly beneath his perfectly trimmed stubble. "Now. Before I decide this game is over for you permanently."
The game continues with strained civility after that, but I can feel the undercurrent of violence humming through the room. When I serve Maxim his next drink, his fingers brush mine deliberately, and the contact sends reassurance flooding through me along with the familiar electric awareness.
After the players finally leave—Viktor grumbling about Maxim's "sensitivity" while the others exchange knowing looks—I find myself alone with him in the charged aftermath. The air between us feels combustible, months of suppressed desire finally reaching the breaking point.
His jacket is gone, shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms, hair slightly mussed from running his hands through it in frustration. He looks like sin personified, and I can barely think straight with the way he's looking at me.
"You didn't have to defend me," I say, though warmth spreads through my chest at the memory of how quickly he shut down Viktor's disgusting suggestion. No one has ever stood up for me like that, treated my dignity as something worth protecting.
"Yes, I did." He moves closer, backing me against the bar until I'm trapped between the polished wood and his powerful body.
The heat from him makes me dizzy with want, and I have to grip the edge of the bar to keep my knees from buckling.
"I can't stand watching them look at you like you're something they can buy.
You're worth so much more than their crude fantasies. "
"And what am I worth to you?" The question slips out before I can stop it, raw and honest and probably revealing too much.
His hands come up to frame my face, thumbs tracing my cheekbones with devastating tenderness. "Everything," he says simply, and the word hits me like a physical blow. "You're worth everything, Brooke."
When he finally kisses me, it's with months of pent-up frustration and need.
His mouth claims mine hungrily, desperately, like he's been starving and I'm sustenance.
The heat of his lips sears through me, sending molten desire coursing down my spine.
I melt against him with a soft moan that he swallows greedily, my hands fisting in his perfect shirt to pull him closer until there's not a whisper of space between our bodies.
The hard planes of his chest press against my softness, and I arch into him instinctively, craving more contact, more friction, more of everything he's offering.
His kiss deepens, turning slower but no less intense, his tongue teasing along the seam of my lips in a sensual demand I'm helpless to resist.
His tongue sweeps against mine with devastating skill, and I lose myself completely in the sensual symphony of our connection.
This is what I've been dreaming about for months—the intoxicating taste of him, like whiskey and sin, the exquisite feel of his hands claiming my body with possessive heat, the erotic sound of his breathing growing ragged against my lips as I respond to his kiss with equal hunger.
My body thrums with electric desire, every nerve ending awakening under his touch, my skin flushing with a delicious warmth that pools low in my belly and spreads outward like wildfire.
I arch against him shamelessly, drinking in the masculine scent of his cologne mixed with the heady musk of arousal that clings to his heated skin.
His hands are everywhere—tangling in my hair, spanning my waist, sliding up my thighs to push my skirt higher as he lifts me onto the bar with effortless strength.
The cool wood against my heated skin makes me gasp, and he uses the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue stroking against mine in a rhythm that makes my core clench with desperate need.
My legs part instinctively, welcoming him into the cradle of my thighs, and I shudder when he presses closer, the hard evidence of his desire grinding against my center with delicious pressure.
The friction sends sparks of pleasure radiating through my body, drawing a throaty moan from deep in my chest that he swallows hungrily.
His fingertips trace burning paths along my inner thighs, each touch edging higher with torturous slowness.
I squirm beneath his ministrations, silently begging for more as moisture pools between my legs, dampening the delicate lace of my underwear.
The scent of our arousal mingles in the air around us, creating an intoxicating perfume that only heightens my desperate longing.
His mouth leaves mine to explore the sensitive shell of my ear, his hot breath sending shivers cascading down my spine as he whispers filthy promises that make me whimper with anticipation.
"God, Brooke," he breathes against my lips, his voice rough with desire and cracking with emotion. The warm puff of his exhale caresses my sensitized skin, making my heart race even faster. "I've wanted this—wanted you—for so long. Every moment, every stolen glance between us has been torture."
"Then take it," I whisper back, surprised by my own boldness as liquid courage flows through my veins. My fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer as I arch my body against his. "Take me. I'm yours—I've always been yours."
Something primitive flashes in his eyes at my words, and he captures my mouth again in a kiss that's pure possession.
His hands roam my body with growing confidence, learning every dip and swell of my curves through the thin fabric of my dress, and everywhere he touches burns with electric awareness, leaving trails of liquid fire that pool low in my abdomen.
When his mouth moves to my throat, finding that exquisitely sensitive spot that makes me arch against him like a bow, I'm lost completely to sensation.
His teeth graze my heated skin, the delicious sting followed by the wet velvet of his tongue, and I make sounds I've never made before—desperate, needy whimpers that seem to drive him wild with want.
My fingers dig into his shoulders, nails leaving crescent marks through his shirt as my body melts against his, seeking more pressure, more friction, more of the exquisite torture he's inflicting on my overstimulated nerves.
The throbbing between my thighs intensifies with each sensual caress, my nipples tightening to aching points that brush against his chest with every ragged breath I take.
"You taste incredible," he murmurs against my neck, his voice vibrating against my skin. "Even better than I imagined."
His confession sends heat spiraling through me, molten and thick, pooling between my thighs as I thread my fingers through his dark, silken hair.
I grip tightly, holding him against me as he explores the sensitive column of my throat with exquisite attention.
Every wet, open-mouthed kiss makes me ache with unbearable longing, makes me crave things I've never wanted with such raw, primal desperation before.
My skin burns wherever his lips touch, leaving me trembling and breathless with need.
We come together with desperate intensity right there in the empty restaurant, surrounded by scattered cards and forgotten chips, the remnants of the poker game witnessing our surrender.
It's fast and fierce and absolutely explosive—everything I've been secretly fantasizing about since the first electric moment I saw him.
His hands worship my body like I'm something sacred and profane at once, fingers leaving trails of delicious fire as they discover every curve and hollow.
His mouth claims every gasp and moan I make, swallowing the sounds of my pleasure as if they sustain him.
When I finally shatter in his arms, my body convulsing with wave after wave of blinding ecstasy, I cry his name like a prayer to some forgotten god of pleasure, my voice breaking with the intensity of it.
In that perfect, suspended moment of release, I know with absolute certainty there's no going back from this exquisite madness we've created together.
Afterward, as we hold each other in the aftermath, both breathing hard and trembling with the force of what just happened between us, I know everything has changed. My body burns with satisfaction and the knowledge that I'm finally his, completely and irrevocably.
"Come home with me," he says against my hair, his voice still rough with spent passion. "I'm not ready to let you go yet."
I should probably be cautious, should think about what this means and where it's leading. Instead, I nod against his chest, already addicted to the way he makes me feel—precious, desired, completely consumed by want.
"Yes," I whisper, and feel him smile against my temple.
Whatever consequences this brings, whatever complications arise from crossing this line, I know I'll never regret tonight. For the first time in my life, I understand what it means to be truly wanted by someone who sees all of me and chooses me anyway.