2. Arkadiy
2
ARKADIY
T he department service head for this building watches the brunette sprint down a hidden internal corridor with as much bewilderment as me. She appears confused, like she too can’t understand my ability to look a gift horse in the mouth and turn it down.
For the first time in a long time, my cock roared to life, inspired by the visual in front of it. It was turned on enough to plump out the bathmat I used to shelter myself when I detected a presence in the bathroom with me mere minutes after I had entered it.
It should have been disgusted that I’d allowed someone to sneak up on me unawares. I don’t care about the ripeness of her bosom or the tenderness of the usually untouched flesh between her legs. Catching me during a moment of vulnerability usually ends one way—with fierce hostility.
My first thought wasn’t sabotage when I spotted the brunette on her knees. Something far more perverse than a wish for vengeance coursed through my veins, which is comical considering the stipulations such thoughts could attract.
Men my age aren’t gifted young, fresh women without numerous provisos. My visit to Myasnikov proclaims this without prejudice.
I am here for the wife that I’ve failed to secure myself.
According to my campaign manager, thirty-nine is too old to be touted as the bachelor of Moscow, so he put steps in place to ensure a “wife-to-be” is by my side during my fortieth birthday celebration, which is a little over three weeks away.
I thought the idea was preposterous until a recent fabricated article in a gossip magazine surged my approval rating by two percent. It wouldn’t have been heard of only months ago, but the shine is slowly fading on the Dokovics realm since the patriarch died almost six months ago.
A new cabinet is forming, and I plan to helm it.
I shift my eyes from the now empty corridor when a voice, still timid even without a stutter, trickles into my ears. “Mr. Orlov…” Val waits for our eyes to connect before she asks, “Is there anything I can get you?” Her eyes fall to the bathmat maintaining my modesty, slower than the brunette’s did. She takes her time drinking in assets that are the result of early-morning workouts and a vigorous business schedule. “A towel, perhaps?”
She sounds hopeful for a denial, and it agitates my last nerve. I don’t liaise with staff, and although I am confident my time in Myasnikov will be short, once on my employment ledger, you’re never removed from it.
“Good evening, Ms.…”
“Val,” she stumbles out, her hand thrusting forward. “Val Maskerta.”
I glance at her hand before returning my eyes to her face. Germs aren’t a phobia of mine, more touch as a whole, but since mysophobia attracts less fanfare than haphephobia, I farewell Val with a nod before closing the door with her on the other side.
I’m frozen for several seconds, trying to center myself. The brunette’s perfume tickles my nose, yet I flare my nostrils instead of opening the door and demanding Val to have my room meticulously cleaned for the umpteenth time this week.
My body trembles as I recall how the brunette’s eyes floated up my body and the stutter of her words when she responded to my degrading remarks, how she feared me as much as she revered me. I think about how my first thought was to patch up her wounds instead of doubling them and how Rafael couldn’t have chosen more wisely.
Then I consider how I scared her away instead of accepting that not every woman I cross paths with must sign an NDA before associating with me.
My secrets are mine to hide. It just seems impossible when a pair of guarded eyes strips you of all your psychoses in under a nanosecond.
I’m saved from further deliberation on my peculiar behavior this evening when a knock sounds through my apartment.
When I enter the main living area, Rafael’s brutish tone rumbles through the entrance door. “Ark, are you decent?”
He snickers like he expects otherwise before he lowers the door handle. He can’t enter. Unlike the servant entrance door, I locked the main entrance door to ensure no incidents like the one that just occurred could happen.
I now have another doorway to triple-check before bathing.
Rafael won’t be granted permission to enter until I pull on a pair of slacks and dry my hair with a towel I forgot to take to the bathroom. I take my time getting dressed, handing back some of the annoyance he shunted my way only minutes ago.
Raf is a late-thirties political bigwig who has seen too much of the underside of humanity to kiss my ass like the other employees helming my campaign for the presidency do. He’s been with me since day one, and despite being a thorn in my backside, he will remain at my side until I take my final breath.
You can’t save a man’s life and expect anything less.
As Rafael enters the four-bedroom apartment I purchased years ago but haven’t stepped foot in before tonight, his eyes widen. He whistles when he takes in the decor that cost more than his first apartment, doubling the heat on the cheeks of the women crushing his designer suit.
Their burn doubles when he offers an introduction, like being offered a low-end appetizer after consuming a five-star entrée is the norm. “Ark, I have the pleasure of introducing you to Ainissa.” He purrs out the name of the blonde cozied at his side in a long, wanton moan as his eyes rake her body.
Ainissa is dressed similarly to the brunette. Her skirt is short, her shirt is fitted, and her heels scream the desperation of a woman wanting to be fucked. She just fails to ignite a single throb from my cock.
Rafael is unaware of that since I’m no longer naked. “Ainissa, дорогой , this is my good friend Ark. The man I was telling you about.”
I block their entrance when he attempts to guide Ainissa toward one of the spare suites.
Rafael raises a brow, silently questioning my denial. I don’t understand his confusion. I turned the brunette down, so why would I be interested in Ainissa? The brunette was far more attractive, and she had a shy demeanor rarely found in the prostitution conglomerate.
When I hint at an early night, Rafael’s face can’t decide which emotion to display first. “It is barely seven, and our flight was long. You need to de-stress.”
“I am. I have.”
He huffs like he knows every word I speak is a lie. “You look more worked up now than when Fyodor announced the reason for our visit to Myasnikov.” I glower when he laughs, and he backs down. “All right. If you’re sure.”
I nod before turning on my heel.
It is almost comical when a side of my head I haven’t used in a long time surfaces before I can stop it. “Keep the brunette away from the rest of the men.”
I don’t get jealous. Never have. There’s just something about the brunette that has me altering my usually unbreakable stance on no permanent attachments. I want to say that this is the purpose of my trip to Myasnikov, but it feels beyond that.
There’s a silence before Rafael says, “The brunette?”
I turn to face him, my jaw working side to side when the faintest flash of her unblemished face curtained by dark, molten hair spikes my pulse. “The woman you sent earlier. Five two. One hundred and twenty pounds. Long, glossy locks.” And far too young for me to even look at, although most likely three to four years older than Ainissa, who is still hopeful of an invitation to my bed.
The lust in her eyes announces this, much less the greed.
Old money has a scent not many women can ignore. It makes them as rampant as a rat with rabies and has them pulling out every trick in the book to be beneath you.
With Rafael still confused, I thrust my hand to the bathroom. “She brought me my cologne.”
This will make me sound fucked in the head, but so be it. I am. Certain smells trigger me. They’re usually feminine, so to save any incidents from being reported to the media, I cake my skin with pricy cologne before inviting members of the opposite sex into my domain.
“This cologne?”
This reply doesn’t come from Rafael.
It comes from Ainissa, who is thrusting a boxed bottle of cologne my way.
I take in the familiar label before lifting my eyes to Rafael.
Fury burns through my veins.
It is closely followed by intense interest.