4. Tara
4
TARA
The Blue Diamond Lounge glitters in dim golds and rich navy velvet, like a velvet jewelry box cracked open to the city’s most polished predators.
The scent of sandalwood, money, and too-sweet cocktails wraps around me as I slide onto one of the bar stools and cross my legs, feeling the sleek brush of my new black dress tug along my thighs.
It cost more than I want to admit—and the heels even more—but after the week I’ve had?
Fuck it.
I needed to feel like someone else tonight.
Like someone bolder.
Braver.
Sexier.
I swirl the wine in my glass, watching the garnet liquid catch the low light as my nerves stretch thinner by the minute.
Steve is late.
Thirty minutes and counting.
I glance toward the double glass doors, then down at my wristwatch, then back to the screen of my phone for the sixth time.
Still nothing.
No missed call.
No apologetic text.
Just silence.
I exhale hard through my nose and down the last of the cabernet in one frustrated swallow.
Then I call him.
Voicemail.
“Hey,” I say, tone clipped.
“I’ve waited thirty minutes. I’m heading out.”
I hang up, not giving him the satisfaction of anything more.
This was supposed to be a distraction.
A palate cleanser after the emotional whirlwind that’s been tearing through my life like a damn hurricane.
Between the surrogacy offer, the discovery in the storage unit, and the flicker of doubt that’s grown into a full-blown firestorm inside me…
I deserved one night of no drama.
Just a drink.
Maybe some sex.
Something uncomplicated.
But no.
Steve fucking bailed.
I signal the bartender and start to settle my tab.
I’m halfway through pulling out my card when I feel it.
A presence behind me.
A shift in the air.
A scent.
Masculine, expensive, with a smoky edge that tickles across the back of my neck.
Then his voice, deep and unmistakably Russian, slices through the low hum of conversation beside my ear.
“I would never let anything get in my way if I knew you were waiting for me.”
My breath stutters in my chest.
I go rigid, slowly lifting my gaze to the mirror behind the bar.
He’s there.
The man from earlier.
The one who nearly turned me into a Vegas hood ornament.
The stranger with the glacier-blue eyes and the kind of face that’s carved into legends and terrible ideas.
I turn to face him.
My pulse is in my throat now.
“You,” I say, more breath than voice.
He’s wearing a dark suit, black shirt open at the collar.
No tie.
His jacket fits like it was stitched over his frame by a sinful tailor.
And when he smiles, it’s lazy, lethal, and laced with hunger.
“I couldn’t believe it when I saw you sitting alone at the bar,” he says, his voice sliding over my skin.
“I think fate has made our worlds collide.”
I give a breathless laugh.
“Literally.”
His eyes flash, amused.
“You look stunning.”
The words hang between us, unashamed.
His gaze moves over me—my neck, my breasts, the hem of my dress where my thigh peeks out beneath the bar’s shadow.
It’s not lewd.
It’s reverent.
Like he’s memorizing the curves of me, planning what he’ll do with them.
My core tightens.
My breath hitches.
I’m heat, and nerves, and wicked curiosity wrapped in a black cocktail dress.
“I’m Damien Romanov,” he says, offering his hand.
I slide mine into his.
His fingers close around mine, firm, warm, slow.
Not a shake.
A claim.
“Tara,” I reply, and my voice sounds far away.
“Tara,” he repeats like he’s tasting it.
And he doesn’t let go.
His fingers still wrap around mine.
My skin tingles.
I don’t pull away.
I should—but I don’t.
“I was heading down for a drink. Maybe something to eat,” he says, the low rumble of his voice curling between us like smoke.
“Now that we’re no longer strangers—and we’ve already shared a harrowing experience—would you make my night and join me?”
I blink, caught off guard.
My instincts wrestle with each other.
There’s the usual voice in my head—the rational one, the good girl voice.
The one that tells me to say ‘No, thank you’.
To smile politely and head home to wine, pajamas, and disappointment.
And then there’s the voice that’s been rising louder since I opened that goddamn puzzle box.
The voice that whispers, “Maybe nothing in your life is what it seems”.
I glance at my phone.
Still no message.
Still no Steve.
The fucker ghosted me.
I look back at Damien Romanov.
A man I don’t know, standing so close my heart races and my knees feel unsteady.
He smells like danger and silk.
His eyes tell me he could ruin me.
And I want him to.
“I… I’d like that,” I say.
His smile widens, subtle and pleased.
“Good. I was hoping you’d say yes.”
He lifts my hand, still in his, and threads it through the crook of his arm as though it’s the most natural thing in the world.
His body is solid beside mine.
He’s tall—easily six-four—and I can feel the power radiating from him like heat.
He walks with assurance, like a man used to being obeyed, admired, and feared.
The ma?tre d’ in the restaurant recognizes him.
I see it in the way he straightens his posture, the flash of nerves in his smile.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Romanov,” he says after a glance at his chart.
“We’re at full capacity—there might be a wait of twenty, thirty minutes…”
Damien looks at me, then back at the host.
“That’s fine.” But he doesn’t move to take a seat.
He leans toward me, voice lower now.
“Would it be too forward if I suggested dinner in my suite instead? It’s quieter. Private. We can order whatever you want.”
I freeze for a breath.
Every alarm in my head starts going off.
Say no.
You don’t know this man.
You don’t follow strangers into elevators and let them take you upstairs.
I wet my lips.
He catches the movement, his eyes dipping briefly to my mouth.
“That was too forward,” he says softly.
“I’m sorry.”
But I shake my head.
“No,” I whisper.
“I think… I think it’s a great idea.”
I don’t know who this version of me is, this reckless girl in designer heels and a heartbeat pounding out yes, yes, yes, but I don’t stop her.
We head for the elevator.
Inside, the doors close with a hush.
I feel the silence wrap around us.
It’s thick with tension.
Every second that ticks past has my breath catching and my thoughts racing.
“You can still change your mind,” he says without looking at me.
“We’ll go back. Find a different place. One with more people and fewer… risks .”
I study his profile.
His jaw is carved.
The lines of his face are almost too perfect, too sharp, too dangerous.
But I don’t feel afraid.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“I want to be here.”
He turns to look at me.
“Good.”
The elevator dings.
His suite is near the top.
Of course it is.
He unlocks the door, and I step inside a space that looks like the fantasy of someone who’s used to power.
Dark floors, sleek furniture, and a view of the Strip that stretches forever.
There’s wine already open.
Food is ordered within minutes—whatever I want.
We end up with tapas and grilled prawns, truffle fries, and fresh fruit.
We talk.
He’s funny.
Sharp.
His questions are thoughtful.
And to my surprise, he knows more about astrophysics than any man I’ve dated.
He listens.
Challenges.
When I say something smart, he doesn’t blink.
Doesn’t look surprised.
He looks…
hungry.
Not just for my body.
For my mind.
I’m halfway through another glass of wine when he leans closer, eyes on mine.
“I want to kiss you,” he says.
His voice is low and warm and absolutely certain.
“But if I do… it won’t stop there, Tara. I want you. More than I’ve wanted anyone in a long, long time.”
I feel the bottom fall out of my stomach.
My heart flips, then spins.
Everything inside me tightens.
My breath is shallow.
My voice is barely a whisper.
“Kiss me.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
His mouth finds mine, and the world narrows to heat and pressure.
His lips are soft at first, then rougher, hungrier, his hand sliding along the curve of my jaw to the back of my neck, pulling me in.
The kiss deepens until I can’t think, can’t breathe.
I feel it everywhere—between my thighs, in the pit of my stomach, in the wild gallop of my pulse.
His tongue strokes mine, and I moan into his mouth.
It spills out of me like heat.
My hand finds his chest, fingers clutching the expensive fabric of his shirt.
He groans, the sound vibrating between us.
Then his hand drops to my thigh.
He slides it higher.
My dress rides up, the smooth fabric parting easily.
His fingers trace along my bare skin, teasing, until they graze the edge of my panties.
I gasp.
My legs part without my permission.
His mouth drifts to my jaw, my neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive spot just below my ear.
“It’s good to feel how much you want this,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my throat.
“How wet you are for me.”
His fingers press against the damp fabric of my underwear.
I jerk against his touch.
Then he takes my hand and slides it to his lap.
I suck in a breath as I feel the thick length of him straining against his pants.
“You feel that?” Damien says, his voice rough now.
“That’s how much I want you.”
His eyes hold mine.
“Lie back on the sofa, Tara.”
I do as he asks, not breaking eye contact.
My body clenches at the raw truth of it.
My pulse pounds so loudly it fills my ears.
Before I can reply, Damien's mouth crashes down on mine—urgent, possessive, scorching. His tongue parts my lips and claims me with a force that knocks my breath sideways.
Then his hands are on my dress.
Damien drags the zipper down in one swift, controlled motion, pulling the silky fabric over my head and drops it in a pool of black on the floor. Damien’s gaze drops, and the corner of his mouth curves—not in arrogance, but reverence. I’m in nothing but my lacy black bra, matching panties, and heels, the cool air teasing my skin where the heat of his body just was.
Damien’s fingers trail lightly over the tops of my breasts, and then he cups them through the lace, kneading gently. My back arches, a soft whimper escaping my throat as he brushes his thumbs across my nipples. The friction is maddening. When he slips a finger beneath the lace, tugging until my breast spills free, my breath hitches.
“You’re perfect,” Damien murmurs.
He unclasps the bra with ease and peels it away, baring me fully to his gaze. I’m exposed. And yet, I’ve never felt more desired. Damien’s pupils darken as he drinks me in, his eyes igniting something reckless and hungry inside me.
The cushions cradle me as I stretch out before him. Damien turns towards me, his large hands sliding down my thighs, pushing them apart as he settles between them.
Then, slowly, he hooks his fingers into the sides of my panties and pulls them down. The air hits me and I shiver—not from cold, but from the intensity of his stare. He sucks in a breath, like the sight of me naked steals the air from his lungs.
“Fucking beautiful,” Damien growls.
His hands glide up my thighs again, rough palms and skilled fingers dragging fire in their wake. When he reaches my core, Damien pauses, eyes locked with mine. His touch is soft at first, teasing, exploring the slick heat of me.
My hips jerk. He strokes again—firm, deliberate.
“God, you feel amazing,” he says, voice low and guttural. “Like warm liquid velvet against my fingers.”
His face drops close to my pussy as his fingers part the lips and he runs the tip of his tongue over my sensitive flesh.
“Ahh,” escapes my throat as my body hangs in anticipation, wanting to feel his mouth on me. But instead, he slides a finger inside me. My breath catches. Another joins it, stretching me, filling me, curling just right. My hands grip the sofa cushions, my body arching to meet his rhythm.
Damien moves slow but steady, his thumb circling my clit in time with the thrusts. Pressure builds fast—my whole body alive and trembling, caught in the pull of a storm I can’t stop.
“Oh God,” I whisper, my voice breaking.
“That’s it,” Damien breathes, watching my face. “Come for me, Tara.”
I shatter—everything in me breaks open. Pleasure explodes, racking me in waves. My thighs clamp around his wrist. My hips buck against Damien’s hand. I moan his name as the orgasm rips through me, body trembling, breath stolen.
He doesn’t stop pumping until the tremors subside, until I collapse back against the cushions, dazed and gasping.
And then, before I can catch my breath, Damien lifts me.
Cradles me like I weigh nothing.
I press my forehead to his shoulder, still catching my breath. “That was…”
“Just the beginning,” Damien murmurs, carrying me toward the bedroom. “I hope you didn’t think our night was over.”
He lays me gently on the bed like I’m something precious. Something fragile. But Damien’s eyes say he’s about to ruin me.
And I want him to.
I want to be ruined by this man whose name I barely know.
Damien strips off his shirt, revealing a body chiseled from stone with a dragon tattoo wrapped around his torso. His muscles flex as he undoes his pants, and I can’t stop staring. He’s big. Everywhere. My pulse skips a beat.
Damien climbs onto the bed and slides over, his skin warm against mine.
His mouth finds my breasts, tongue circling my nipple before sucking it deep. I cry out. My back bows off the bed. Damien’s hands grip my thighs, spreading me, positioning me exactly where he wants me.
He kisses his way down my stomach, takes his time with the inside of my thighs, his breath teasing my sensitive skin.
Then his mouth is on me.
And I come undone all over again.
I grip the sheets, my thighs shaking against Damien’s shoulders as his tongue flicks over my clit. He doesn’t rush. He takes his time, exploring me like he’s memorizing every reaction—every whimper, every hitch of breath, every gasp when his lips suck gently and his tongue presses harder.
“God—Damien…” I pant, hips lifting from the bed.
Damien groans in approval, like hearing his name from my lips, turns him feral.
One of his hands slides up, spreads wide over my stomach, keeping me still as his mouth drives me closer and closer. His other hand slips between my thighs, and when his fingers slide into me again, curling deep while his mouth devours my clit, the orgasm crashes over me like a tidal wave.
I come screaming his name.
My legs lock around him. My back arches so hard it hurts. Stars burst behind my eyelids as my body pulses and writhes beneath his mouth. Damien doesn’t stop—not until I’m limp, shivering, completely wrecked and he’s lapped up every drop of my pussy juice..
When he finally pulls away, his mouth glistening with my juices, I can barely open my eyes.
And then I feel him crawl over me. The hard weight of him, his cock sliding between my thighs, thick and hot, pressing against me.
He kisses me again. Deep. Rough. Possessive.
“You are so beautiful and taste like honey.” His voice is rough, and his lips tease mine.
My hips arch, hungry to feel him inside me.
“Please, Damien,” I whimper, my eyes locking with his.
“What do you want, little one?” His cock teases my entrance.
“You,” I breathe. “I want you deep inside me.”
A groan rips through his throat, and he thrusts into me in one hard, perfect stroke.
I cry out as he fills me. Stretches me. My fingers claw at his back as he starts to move, slow at first, then harder, deeper, until I’m gasping for air.
Each thrust slams into something deep and perfect. He buries his face against my neck, his breath hot against my skin.
“You feel so fucking good wrapped around my cock,” he groans, dragging his mouth to mine again. “It’s like your pussy was made for me.”
I cling to him, my nails digging in as pleasure builds again. My body responds to him like it was made for this. Every thrust hits the right spot. Every grind of his hips lights another fuse.
He growls something in Russian, his hands gripping my hips, anchoring me as he starts thrusting faster. Harder. My moans turn to cries as I spiral again. I can feel myself unraveling, feel the orgasm coiling tight.
And when it hits, it steals everything.
Sound.
Thought.
Breath.
I shatter beneath him. He keeps moving, driving me through the orgasm, making it last until I collapse beneath him, shaking, gasping, completely undone.
Then with one last deep thrust, he groans, his whole body going rigid above mine as he spills inside me. His hands fist the sheets beside my head. His teeth graze my shoulder.
We lie tangled together, breathless and sweat-drenched, and I feel like my entire identity is melting away, leaving something new behind.
As he pulls me closer, pressing a kiss to my forehead, I expect the moment to end. Expect the calm to settle in. With his arms wrapped possessively around me and my body sated and spent, I can’t help the exhaustion that envelops me, and I drift off with my ear pressed against his chest, listening to the beat of his heart.
And while I know I’ll probably never see Damien again, I also know that he won’t be someone I’ll ever forget because tonight, I’m not the girl who follows the rules, and Damien was the one who helped me shed the old Tara. The goody-two-shoes who haughtily shied away from meetings like these. I know that I’m no longer the woman I was before, now I’m the woman who said yes to a stranger, and has no intention of stopping the transformation taking place inside me.