Chapter 7 Nik
NIK
I never use that old American colloquialism, ‘Thank God it’s Friday.’ But seriously, thank God it’s Friday.
We played two games this week, losing one on the road and winning one at home. Two wins in a row would’ve bought us a day off. Too bad streaks aren’t our thing. So here we are, dragging through a brutal two-hour practice.
All I really want is to head to the club, put on a mask, and let that strange girl dance for me again. I haven’t been able to get her out of my head.
She seemed…innocent somehow, and yet… impossible to ignore.
When I told Vasiliy to bring her back as my exclusive, he hesitated—actually asked if I was sure. He said she’d only danced on a dare, that she wasn’t even a pro.
He apologized for the security breach.
I couldn’t care less about any of that.
All I cared about was the woman who made me forget my own rules, and the way her soft, sugary-peach scent tangled with the dark, musky heat of her arousal.
The way her body relaxed with each passing minute, she swayed to the music. The way her small hands felt on my arms, my back, my chest.
The silkiness of her skin.
The breathy sound of her desire.
The way she came with so minimal coaxing.
It was real. More real than I should want, in a place like this.
I want more.
I’m still caught in a state of intoxication at the thought of her when Dominic’s elbow slams into my ribs, pulling me from my daydreaming.
“Do you hear this fucking guy?” Dom mutters, yanking his practice jersey over his head.
I blink, dragged back to reality just in time to catch Conor’s booming voice from across the locker room.
“—and then she asked if I wanted a happy ending. Swear to God, boys. Best. Deep tissue. Ever.”
“You’re so full of shit.”Dom scoffs. “No fucking way one of our very professional therapists would jeopardize his or her job just to palm your tiny dick.”
Conor says, “His or her? I’m not queer, Belkin.”
Dominic rolls his eyes. “Hey, no judgment. Whatever gets you off in the bedroom is your business.”
Conor laughs. “Yeah, well, it ain’t dudes, if that’s what you’re fishing for.”
I sigh, rubbing my temples. “This seems like a diversion,” I say. “Conor, no one believes you.”
He grins that easy grin of his. “I never said she worked here. There are other places to get a massage.”
Dom laughs, shaking his head. “Other places? Dude, what, like a spa crawl? Did you swipe right for a happy ending?”
“Oh, it was a mission, Belkin. Precision, timing, finesse,” Conor says, clearly proud. “I mean, she knew what she was doing… and I didn’t last long. I’ll give her that.”
“Didn’t last long?” Dom groans. “I knew it. You brag about everything except lasting more than five fucking minutes.”
“Yeah, and she laughed while she—” I add, smirking.
“—finished the job, exactly,” Dom continues. “And you’re calling yourself a gentleman?”
“I tipped!” Conor protests. “I’m a gentleman!”
Dom wipes sweat from his brow. “Gentleman? Please. A tip doesn’t erase the fact that you whined like a kid while she was riding your pathetic ass.”
Conor grins as if he has just won an award. “It’s the experience that matters—technique, form, ambiance, the way she smiled while she dominated me…”
“Dominated?” I snort. “Dude, she owned you.”
Mikey pipes up from across the bench. “I swear, Conor, you’re like a toddler at a strip club. Did she even let you touch her, or just humiliate your sad little hands?”
“Shut up,” Conor growls, laughing despite himself. “It’s a story of skill, courage, and… stamina.”
“Stamina?” Dom laughs so hard he slaps his knee. “Your stamina ended before the massage even warmed up.”
Connor flips him off. “You wouldn’t know pleasure if it hit you in the dick.”
“Pleasure? I’ve seen you choke on it in less than two minutes!” I say, smirking. “Honestly, if she gave a medal for pathetic performance, you’d take gold.”
Conor almost falls over laughing. “Okay, okay, you guys are assholes. But she was really good, okay? Like… Olympic-level hand technique.”
Dom groans. “Olympic-level? Please. She was probably bored out of her mind watching your pathetic little wiener flail.”
“Flail?” Mikey laughs so hard he snorts. “He calls that flailing a five-star performance. I’d pay to see her face right now while listening to all of this.”
Conor leans back, smirking. “She would love hearing you all talking about my performance.”
“You’re an idiot,” I mutter. But I can’t help smirking. Only Conor could turn a hand job into a locker-room legend.
I make a noise of dubious agreement and nod, turning back to my locker. Conor goes back to bragging about his experience, adding a little bit of hair-pulling as an embellishment to the story.
It’s not that I don’t believe he gets women; he definitely does. Tall, blonde, blue-eyed… women fall for him without effort. And sure, in some private massage parlor, someone might happily stroke his cock.
But this story? Nah. Too loud, told with too much verve. It’s too much of a show. He’s just talking to talk, just telling stories because people will listen.
As I gather my practice uniform parts to toss into my laundry bag, I hear Dominic chuckle.
“You think you go hard, Mouth,” he says, voice low, “but really? A teenage kid with a summer lawn-mowing gig could buy everything you brag about. Twice.”
I turn to catch Conor’s offended expression. “Please. And what are you into? Freaky basement rituals? The Dark Arts of Ass Play?”
“This isn’t fucking Harry Potter, you fucking moron,” Dominic replies.
“I’m just saying, what does go hard mean to the great Assassin? You never talk about women. Maybe you’re the gay one.”
“That is not an insult,” Dominic says. “And I just don’t think it’s necessary to broadcast my sexual predilections to the whole team.”
“I’d bet you a hundred bucks he has no idea what predilections means,” another teammate says to Dominic.
This makes me grin.
They go back and forth, Conor getting visibly flustered by Dominic’s prodding. His face is heating up, a bright scarlet that makes him look like a boiled lobster, but he refuses to back down.
“Alright, Mr. Red Rocket,” Dom finally says, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Come to Ahren with us tonight.”
My eyes snap wide. I glare daggers at my friend. “What. The. Fuck?” I growl low, nearly inaudible. “Not my club. No.”
Conor claps his hands together like a little kid at Christmas. “A super top secret asshole club? Fuck yeah, dude. I’m in!”
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath, swiping my hand across my face.
“It’ll be fine,” Dom says, unbothered, because of course he would.
“It better be,” I warn. “You’re responsible for his stupid ass. And if he does something dumb, I swear… headless in a ditch. Both of you.”
“I’ve got you, boss,” Dom says with mock solemnity. “We’ll just show him what a real club can offer a virgin boy like him. He’ll spend plenty of money, and you know he’s a Boy Scout. Won’t hurt anyone.”
He’s not to come back to the east wing,” I snap. “You invited this twat; you’re on babysitting duty.”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll keep him away from you and your…whatever it is you do back there.”
I scowl. I’ve been looking forward to another dance from the mysterious Ana all week. I will not have Conor Murphy causing a fucking scene and ruining it. I grab my shower supplies and turn, glaring at Conor.
“Boss says you act stupid, you end up dead in a ditch,” Dom warns, clearly enjoying himself.
“Boss,” Conor repeats, mock offended, rolling his eyes. “Not my fucking boss.”
I start stepping forward, butt naked except for shower shoes, toes gripping the tile. I would kick this asshole’s teeth in and not feel an ounce of guilt.
But Conor’s mouth is still swollen and bruised from the last punch I landed, and it seems to sense my very real ire. He lifts his hands in supplication.
“Oh, Jesus,” Conor groans, “I didn’t sign up for naked rage, dude. Chill! I’m not an idiot, mostly.”
“Mostly?” I hiss. “Mostly what? Mostly dumb?”
He scrambles back, still grinning like a smartass. “Alright, alright, I’ll behave! I swear. Scout’s honor. Kinda.”
I stalk closer.
“I mean, I can try,” he backpedals. “As long as there’s no strippers, or booze, or—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.” I snap.
Conor freezes mid-word, swallows hard. “Okay. Okay! Noted. Crystal clear.”
“You want to live through tonight?” I mutter. “Then do exactly as you’re told. No questions. One wrong move, and you’re done.”
He laughs nervously, eyes darting.
“Boss—I mean, Captain! You aren’t serious, right? This isn’t a full-on murder-threat situation… Right?”
“You. Stay. On. The. Path,” I growl.
“Okay,” he says placatingly. “I’ll be good. I promise.”
“Dominic will assure it,” I say.
In response, Dominic gives Conor a wolf’s smile, feral and full of killing promise. It’s the same smile I’ve seen him use countless times, usually just before sending someone to a hospital bed or worse.
Conor flinches, and I can’t help but smirk.
My thoughts are already drifting. I’m taut with a low-burning anticipation that I’ve never felt for anyone, especially for someone I’ve only met behind a mask, in shadows, in stolen moments.
I want her again. I want to feel her move, touch her in ways I haven’t yet but already ache for.
I want to hold her attention. I want to claim those fleeting minutes where she is mine, even if only for a heartbeat.
Her scent, soft and sweet, with that underlying spark of desire, clings to me in memory, making me forget to breathe. Her hands, gentle but sure on me, gnaw at my patience.
Conor’s knee bounces wildly in the back of the limousine, a jittery metronome of nervous energy, like a teen on his way to prom. I might find it as amusing as hell if I weren’t already distracted.
Because my mind isn’t on Conor, it isn’t on the city lights flashing past the tinted windows.
My focus is on the club, on Ana.