Chapter 3
CHAPTER
THREE
DINARA
Oh. My. God.
I’m ninety-nine percent sure Kirill Baronov came in his pants while I used him like my own personal toy.
I lost control as much as he did, but that’s no excuse. He probably thinks I’ll do this with all the clients. That I’m unprofessional to say the least.
I pull back, an apology forming on my lips, but before I speak, his fingers curl around my jaw and he tilts my face toward his. His pale blue eyes, dark with lust, lock onto mine.
“Shhh.” A slow, devastating smile curves his mouth. Wait. He’s not mad?
I’m unsure what to do next, but he makes the decision for me.
“Look at you, so needy. Desperate to come.” His gaze drops, taking in my flushed skin and heaving chest. “So on edge.”
Liquid heat pools low in my belly and my pulse hammers between my legs where I straddle him. I should put distance between us and regain some semblance of composure. But his hand on my jaw is an anchor, and I’m not sure I want him to let go.
“I want to watch you fall apart and know I’m the one who made you lose control.” He presses his face into my neck and inhales deeply. “Are you going to let me touch you?”
He pulls back and searches my face. This is my chance to say no, to be strong, but instead, I give him a small nod.
“Good girl. Now grind that pretty pussy on my cock until you come all over me.”
His hand grips my ass hard while the other wraps around my hair, tugging until my head tips back. He holds me in place and rocks his hips up with enough force to make me gasp.
Holy shit. He’s rock-hard, and when he grinds against my clit, stars burst behind my eyes.
It would be easier to resist him if he wasn’t so damn sexy, if he wasn’t demanding my body surrender to his control. But this close, he’s overwhelming. Gorgeous in a dangerous way.
I’ve always been drawn to bad boys, but Kirill isn’t playing at danger. He was born into darkness. Lives in it. That makes him a different beast entirely.
He doesn’t give me time to steady myself before he thrusts again, grinding against my core while his mouth closes over my breast. His tongue circles my nipple before he sucks hard, drawing the peak deep into his warm mouth.
My back arches, hands flying to his shoulders for balance. He rolls the hardened bud between his teeth, and every coherent thought evaporates.
The pressure building low in my belly intensifies with every grind of his hips and every pull of his mouth. His fingers tangle in my hair and tug. The sharp sting sends electricity straight through me, and I rock against him harder, chasing the release that’s building.
His hand comes down on my ass. The sharp slap pushes me over the edge. A scream rips from my throat as the orgasm tears through me, white-hot and all-consuming.
His mouth crashes against mine, swallowing the sound. The kiss is rough and claiming, his tongue pushing past my lips like he owns me. And for this moment, he does. I open for him, gasping against his mouth as my body convulses.
He tastes like whiskey and sin, and when his tongue strokes against mine, it sends another shockwave through me. His teeth catch my bottom lip, tugging hard enough to sting, and I moan into his mouth.
I’m dripping wet, probably soaking through the thin fabric of my panties and onto his pants. Our releases mix together between us in a mess that should mortify me, but makes everything hotter. Filthier.
When the last tremor fades, reality crashes back in.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. I was supposed to keep this professional. The point of a lap dance is to tease, to tempt, to leave them wanting more. Not to hump them to orgasm.
Shame coats my skin as I slide off his lap. With my back to Kirill, I grab my corset. I can’t look at him. Can’t face whatever he’s thinking right now.
My hands shake from the aftershocks rippling through me, and the laces keep slipping through my fingers as I try to fasten it back up.
Behind me, his gaze burns into my back. I’m hyperaware of his presence. Of how the air crackles when he’s close. How the room smells like sex and him and me all tangled together.
“Let me help you.” His voice cuts through my thoughts, and I freeze.
“I can do it myself,” I protest, but my hands are useless.
“I don’t think you can. Let me.”
Jesus, Dinara, pull it together.
My body obeys because apparently he has that effect on me. I present my back to him, holding the corset against my achy breasts. A reminder that he had his mouth on me minutes ago. That I let him touch me. That I desperately wanted him to.
He finishes the lacing, fingers trailing down my spine in a whispered contact more intimate than everything that came before.
“Turn around,” he rumbles in my ear.
With a steadying breath, I turn to face him. He’s watching me with an intensity I can’t decipher. Is he thinking I’m unprofessional? That I’m a liability? That I’d do this with all the customers here?
“I’m sorry.” The words rush from my mouth. “I didn’t mean for any of that to happen.”
He holds up a hand. “I’m not complaining.”
My pulse pounds when his tongue drags across his lower lip.
“Okay, so…” I swallow hard. “Did I get the job?”
“You’re good. Very good. But I’m not giving you a job dancing here.”
The words take a second to register. When they do, my stomach drops.
“Why? You said I was good.”
“Exactly.” His eyes darken. “Which is why I don’t want you dancing for anyone else.”
What the fuck does that mean? Dancing for anyone else?
“I’ll give you a job as a server on the main floor.”
A server? My heart sinks. From everything I read, the main floor is for the general public.
Anyone bratva-affiliated hangs out on the second floor in the VIP section.
That’s the access I need. Those are the men who know this world.
Who, after a few drinks, might spill secrets about what happened at Velour eighteen years ago.
“Why?” The word comes out sharper than I intend. “I don’t understand. I came here to dance. That’s what I’m skilled at.”
“It’s not complicated.” His voice is maddeningly calm. “You’ll serve drinks on the main floor, and you’ll make good money. I’m offering you a job. Take it or leave it.”
I can tell he’s serious, but I still make one final plea.
“I’ve never served before; I wouldn’t know what to do. Why not let me do what I’m trained for?”
“Because…” His hand cups the back of my neck, fingers tightening possessively. “What you did for me, I don’t want you doing that for other men.”
I shake my head. “I don’t understand. That’s the job.”
“Exactly. My terms are not negotiable.”
My hands ball into fists at my sides. “But serving doesn’t pay as well as dancing, and I need the money to live … to put myself through school.”
“Servers here make excellent money.” He steps back, putting distance between us. “Like I said, this isn’t a negotiation, Evelina. You wanted a job. I’m giving you one. If you have a problem with my offer, the door is right there.”
It’s not what I hoped for, but walking away without an in to Velour is worse.
“I’ll take it.”
“Good.” He shrugs on his suit jacket. “Check in with Oksana on your way out. She’ll be in charge of your training.”
I give him a polite nod that feels so out of place after what we shared. He came in his pants, for fuck’s sake.
Kirill moves toward the door, then pauses with his hand on the handle, back to me.
Silence stretches for a beat before he looks over his shoulder, and the raw hunger in his eyes steals the air from my lungs.
“You have no idea how fucking beautiful you looked coming apart for me. I’ve never seen anything sexier than watching you use my cock to get off. ”
With that, the door clicks shut behind him.
My legs give out, and I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the floor, knees pulled to my chest. The outcome isn’t what I wanted, but I got a foot in the door.
And more than that, I got Kirill Baronov’s attention. As the heir and the man who runs Velour, he has access to information, people, records. And he wants me. That much is obvious.
Whether that turns out to be useful remains to be seen, but I’d be stupid not to take advantage.
Walking back through the club is like moving through a dream. It’s busier now, the music louder, the lighting darker as the night shifts into full swing. Servers weave through the crowd carrying trays of drinks. They’re all women, and they’re all beautiful.
Velour doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what it is. A place designed for male pleasure, male comfort, and male fantasy.
I find Oksana behind the bar.
“I owe you an apology,” I say, raising my voice so she can hear me. “You stuck your neck out for me, and I threw you under the bus. I’m sorry. I know that wasn’t cool.”
“No, it wasn’t.” She pins me with a steely glare. “What the hell were you thinking, marching up to Kirill Baronov and demanding a job like that?”
“It was impulsive, I know.” I lean against the bar, trying to look appropriately chastened. “I figured he couldn’t say no if I was right in front of him.”
She shakes her head while sliding three martinis across the bar to a waiting server. “Then you clearly don’t know the Baronovs very well. Not only would they say no to your face, they’d have no trouble making you disappear if you piss them off. That was reckless.”
“All’s well that ends well, right?” I give her a weak smile. “Kirill offered me a job … not as a dancer though, as a server.”
“Good for you,” she snaps.
I sigh. “Look, I know what I did was shitty, but I need this job. I promise I won’t be a pain in the ass anymore. I’ll do everything you tell me to.”
“Somehow, I doubt that.” The hard set of her mouth softens. “How did you know they were the Baronov brothers? You’re new to New York.”
“I did my research about the owners of Velour, not to mention the brothers are popular in the society pages.”