CHAPTER 15 #2
Under the table, Nikolai’s hand turned into a vice. His fingers dug into the tender flesh of my inner thigh, hard enough to bruise. Pain shot up my leg, sharp and immediate.
"Look at me," Nikolai said. His voice was like a whip crack.
I turned to him, gasping softly from the pain of his grip.
"Do not speak again unless I command it," he said, his voice low, vibrating with violence. He looked back at Marco. "My apologies. She is still learning her place."
He didn't let go. Instead, he shifted. He pulled his chair closer, the wood scraping against the floor, until our thighs were touching.
"The flow must be seamless," Nikolai said to Hassan, resuming the business talk as if he wasn't currently bruising me. "Any resistance is met with force."
His hand moved. He didn't just touch me now. He invaded.
He slid his hand fully between my legs, cupping me through the lips of my anatomy. I clamped my legs together, a reflex, but his hand was a wedge of iron. He pushed my knees apart with a subtle, powerful nudge of his wrist.
"Open," he whispered, barely audible over the clink of silverware.
I opened. I had no choice.
His fingers found the slick wetness that betrayed me. I hated it. I hated that my body reacted to the fear, to the adrenaline, to him. He didn't hesitate. He slid one long finger inside me, right there at the dinner table.
I bit the inside of my cheek so hard I tasted copper.
"The accounts were layered," Nikolai said, looking at Marco, his rhythm calm and steady. "Designed to fail under scrutiny. Just like the man who created them."
He circled my clitoris with his thumb. A slow, grinding pressure.
My toes curled inside my heels. I gripped the edge of the table, my knuckles turning white. The sensation was electric, a jolt of lightning straight to my core. It wasn't love. It wasn't romance. It was biological warfare.
"The logistics in the south are tricky," Marco said, eyeing me suspiciously. I must have been bright red. "Is she alright? She looks like she's going to pass out."
Nikolai didn't stop. He added a second finger, stretching me, pumping slowly. The wet sound of it seemed impossibly loud to my ears, though the conversation drowned it out.
"She's fine," Nikolai said, taking a sip of his wine with his free hand. "Just overwhelmed by the company. Excellent cut, isn't it? Tender. Responsive."
He was talking about the meat. He was talking about me.
I tried to pick up my fork again. I needed to look normal. I stabbed a piece of potato, but my hand jerked as his thumb pressed down hard on my nerve ending. The potato fell off the fork.
"Eat," Nikolai commanded in my mind.
He increased the pace. It wasn't gentle.
It was aggressive, possessive. He was fucking me with his hand while discussing murder and money.
The duality of it broke my brain. I was split in two—the woman sitting at the table trying not to die of shame, and the animal under the table that was starting to desperate, ragged need.
"I think we need to revisit the distribution percentages," Hassan said, looking at his papers, oblivious.
"Agreed," Nikolai said. He twisted his wrist inside me.
A small, strangled noise escaped my throat. A whimper.
Marco looked up sharply.
I grabbed my water glass and coughed, hacking into the napkin. "Excuse me," I wheezed. "Wrong pipe."
Nikolai smiled. It was a terrifying expression. He leaned in close to me, ostensibly to pat my back, but his mouth grazed my ear.
"Are you enjoying the meal, Scarlett?" he whispered. "Tell me the truth."
"Nikolai, please," I begged, the words barely forming.
"Tell me." He drove his fingers deeper, hitting that spot that made my vision blur.
"Y-yes," I whispered. "Yes."
"Good girl."
He pulled back, his face returning to a mask of indifference. "Espresso, gentlemen," he called out to the staff hovering in the shadows. "And bring the Cohibas."
The coffee. The cigars. He was extending the torture.
As the waiters bustled around, Nikolai didn't stop.
He found a rhythm that was pure cruelty.
Fast, hard, relentless. He was edging me, pushing me right to the precipice and then slowing down just as I was about to fall over.
It was agonizing. My thighs were trembling so hard the tablecloth was shaking.
I crossed my ankles, trying to find some friction, some release, anything to end this.
"Don't fight me," his eyes said as he glanced at me.
The smell of the cigars wafted over—heavy, earthy smoke. It made me dizzy.
"The debt is absolute," Nikolai said to the room. "There is no negotiation on the timeline."
He hit the spot again, harder this time, his thumb moving in a blur.
I couldn't hold it back. The pressure built in my lower belly, a tight, coiling spring that snapped.
My breath caught in a silent scream. My eyes rolled back for a fraction of a second as the climax hit me, washing over me in waves of heat and shame.
I bit my lip until it bled, forcing the pleasure down, suffocating it, keeping it silent.
My body convulsed against his hand. I was drowning in it, right there, while Marco lit his cigar and Hassan stirred sugar into his coffee.
I grabbed my wine glass and downed the rest of the dark red liquid in one gulp, the burn in my throat distracting me from the tremors wrecking my body. A single tear leaked out of my eye. I wiped it away furiously with the silk cuff of my dress.
Nikolai waited until the last tremor faded. Then, he withdrew his hand.
He did it slowly, letting me feel the emptiness. He brought his hand up from under the table. It was glistening, slick with my fluids. He didn't hide it. He looked at his fingers, then at me, his eyes dark with satisfaction.
He picked up his pristine white linen napkin. With agonizing slowness, he wiped his fingers clean, staring me down the entire time. He crumpled the soiled linen and dropped it onto his plate, right on top of the bloody remnants of his steak.
"Now," he said, his voice crisp, as if nothing had happened. "Where were we? The matter of the outstanding delivery."
I stared at the napkin. I wanted to die. I wanted to kill him.
"Sir," Hassan said, looking at me with concern. "Maybe we should wrap up. It's getting late."
Nikolai stood up abruptly. The chair screeched.
"The debt is demanding my attention now, gentlemen," he said flatly. "Dinner is over."
The men scrambled to stand. Hassan looked at my flushed face, my dilated pupils, and looked away quickly, shame coloring his own cheeks. He knew. They all knew.
Nikolai walked around the table and grabbed my upper arm. His grip was bruising.
"Say goodnight, Scarlett," he ordered.
"Goodnight," I whispered to the floor.
"Back to the Red Suite," Nikolai said, pulling me toward the doors. "Now."
We walked out of the dining room, leaving the scent of cigars and the ruin of my dignity behind. The hallway was cool, but I was burning up. I knew this wasn't the end of the evening. That had just been the appetizer.
And I was the main course.