Chapter 2
Artyom
After I finished dealing with the traitor, the stink of blood still clung to me.
I didn't even know where my work gloves had ended up. My sleeves had been shoved up to my forearms, but that iron, rusty tang still seeped through my clothes and stuck to my skin. It wouldn't quit.
Truth was, I didn't really like drinking.
Alcohol dulled reflexes. Slowed judgment. I didn't need that shit.
But tonight I needed somewhere quiet, somewhere I could let the muscles in my shoulders unclench, even if it was only ten minutes.
At first I figured no one would barge in. This private room was mine. The owner was a friend, and he never, ever booked it for other customers.
Then the lock clicked.
My hand moved on instinct, finding the grip of the gun in my pocket.
No knock. No "excuse me." Anyone who could just push that door open either wanted to die or had walked into the wrong place. My fingers hooked around the shape of the grip, my thumb resting where the safety sat.
Then I looked up and ran straight into a pair of eyes.
They were glossy with booze, wet like rain. Like a lake at dawn with a slit of light cracking across the mist.
She stood in the doorway and swayed a little.
Deep copper-red curls caught the hallway light from behind, big and thick, like a burning cloud.
She was lush, curvy. Not the kind of body fashion magazines put on a cover.
But the way she stood there, she had this rare, unguarded softness to her. Almost innocent.
She stared at me and swallowed. Her ice-blue irises melted under the warm light, like thin frost slowly giving in.
Pretty.
That was the first thought that flashed through my head. Then another one slammed right over it. Whose play was this? A honey trap? Not exactly original, but whoever picked the bait had taste.
I waited for her to talk. Waited for the rehearsed opener. Waited for the quick flick of a wrist revealing a recorder or a blade.
But...
She slapped the door shut.
Then she said, "Handsome, I'm gonna take real good care of you."
I stared at her.
She swallowed again, louder this time. I could hear it from where I sat.
I tilted my head, not because I relaxed, but because I almost laughed. If this was an enemy's revenge plan, I had to question their standards.
Her foot slipped. She lurched toward me.
I stepped aside and caught her wrist with two fingers. Light touch. Just enough to steady her.
Her hand was soft. No calluses, no hard edges from years of training. When I held it, it felt like it had just come out of warm sheets.
Something was off.
This wasn't a hand that lived on weapons.
She hummed, dazed, and a wave of alcohol hit me with a sweet raspberry note mixed in, sticky and thick.
She tipped her face up and squinted at me. The booze haze wobbled in her pupils like lamp reflections that hadn't settled.
"You escorts... you know how to massage too?"
Escort. Massage.
She actually thought my test grip was a damn massage.
I felt my temper spike and my amusement chase it at the same time. My temple ticked twice.
What the hell did she think I was? Some pretty boy hired to sit in a booth and make girls feel special?
I loosened my hold on her wrist. I stopped treating her like a problem that needed solving. I only took half a step back, leaned against the edge of the couch, and watched her.
She shook her head like she was trying to clear water from her ears. She got her balance, but her eyes kept crawling over me, sliding from my shoulders down like she was measuring.
"Your body's better than the guys in porn."
I couldn't help it. I laughed once. "So you watched."
She let out a small, weirdly cute drunken hiccup.
She froze for a second, then kept leaning in. Then she swung a leg over and sat down on me.
Warm weight settled into my lap. Through the fabric, I felt the shape of her thighs, the softness, the heavy, real pressure of her.
Her fingers found the buttons on my jacket.
"I didn't just watch," she said, head down, dead serious as she fumbled at my shirt. Her hands shook so badly she slipped off the buttons a few times before she found the gaps. "I want to practice."
I wasn't sure if I should push her off.
But...
I didn't want to. Not then. Not at all.
I sat up a little and wrapped an arm around her waist. Her waist gave under my palm, soft enough that I felt it yield, a gentle curve sinking under my hand.
"Listen, you little drunk," I said. "I'm not some guy you ordered."
As I spoke, she sat on my thighs, her deep copper curls brushing my jawline. That small patch of skin itched where she tickled it.
She tipped her head, and the haze in her eyes rippled like a wind-touched lake, swaying twice before it steadied.
"You aren't?"
She startled, for real. Not acting. Her eyes opened wider, and even the alcohol fog seemed to thin for a beat.
"Then you cost more?"
I didn't answer.
She wrinkled her nose, and that raspberry sweetness rushed me again, mixed with beer's grainy bite. Soft and warm, like candy left against skin.
She mumbled, "Then I'll pay extra."
She started squirming like she meant to climb off me and dig for a wallet, her palm braced against my chest. Her fingers pressed without thinking. The touch landed just above my collarbone, and even through my shirt I felt the damp warmth of her fingertips.
Wet and soft. I didn't want to let go.
I circled her waist and pulled her back where she was. My palm fit that slight dip again, and I pinned her there. She didn't fight much. She only paused, then lifted her face to look at me.
"Then what do you want?"
Her eyes shone, wet with drink. A small flare of anger pinched her brows together, like a cat that'd gotten its tail stepped on but wasn't sure if it should hiss.
"You're a pain in the ass," she said. "I'm leaving you a bad review on Yelp."
"A bad review?"
"Yeah." She nodded hard. "You claimed you're not an escort, but based on my professional assessment, your skills totally qualify. Too humble. Minus one star."
"Skills?" I echoed.
I followed her gaze.
It had stopped in my lap.
The fabric strained under the dim wall light, an obvious outline, tight and stubborn. A line pulled taut from the top of my thigh to the zipper like something pushing up against a cage.
Shit.
This woman was a menace.
My throat worked faster. My knuckles cracked when my hands clenched. I'd made it to thirty-six, and nobody had ever had the balls to treat me like some booth boy and tease me this shamelessly.
She blinked at me, the corners of her eyes red from alcohol, her nose a little pink.
She didn't give me time to recover. She reached down and poked the outline, right at the highest point, through the fabric.
"Mmm..."
I couldn't stop it.
A breath slipped out from deep in my throat, short and hot, with the end of it bitten back hard.
The pressure was getting painful. Heat knotted low in my gut.
"Bouncy," she muttered. "Guess expensive means something."
Then her clumsy fingers found the zipper and tugged.
I watched my cock spring free, eager and shameless, like I'd been waiting on her permission.
I leaned my head back and let out a breath.
The ceiling was warm gray. The wall lamp threw a curved shadow along the paneling.
Then her palm came down and closed around what she'd just set loose.
Her hand was hot and soft, her thumb resting perfectly at the tip. My body tensed on reflex, my stomach tightening.
She didn't do anything fancy. She just held on, and that heat kept pouring into me through skin like it had its own steady current.
"Don't," I said, the word shaking out with my breathing.
I didn't stop her. My fingertips rested on her side, on the fabric warmed by her body.
She glared at me like she hated being told anything.
Her grip tightened, and she moved her hand a couple of rough strokes on purpose. "I will."
I damn near lost it right there.
Her chest brushed my shirtfront, soft and restless, like a cat that refused to sit still. My blood rushed to one place until it felt like I couldn't think.
I breathed, "Keep messing around, and I'll take that as consent."
My voice came out wrecked. It sounded like a threat, but only I knew how bad I wanted it.
She laughed. "I already consented. Why else would I climb on?"
She leaned in, her nose grazing my throat, her breath hot on my skin. "You're too pretty. I'm not the one losing here."
Something inside me finally snapped.
I rolled and drove her down into the couch, covering her, and I kissed her soft mouth.
I kissed her harder, pinning her deeper into the couch cushions, my weight settling over her without much care for gentleness.
My hands shoved under her top, finding the soft give of her breasts, squeezing them roughly as my mouth dragged down her throat.
She made a small sound against my lips, half protest, half something else, but her legs stayed open under me.
I got her pants open next, shoved my hand straight between her thighs. No teasing. Two fingers pushed into her at once.
She was tight. So tight the resistance stopped me cold for a second. My fingers barely fit, the heat of her gripping them like she hadn't been touched like this before. I froze above her, breathing hard against her cheek.
"Shit," I muttered. "You're—"
I looked down at her face. She was flushed, eyes wide, lips parted. No experience in the way her body clenched around my fingers. First time.
Something in my chest shifted. The rough edge bled out of me. I eased my fingers back a little, slower now, testing the way she stretched around them.
"You're tight," I said, voice lower. "Really tight."
My free hand slid down her side, over the curve of her hip, the soft give of her stomach and thighs.
She had weight on her in all the places that felt good under my palms—full breasts, soft belly, thick thighs that pressed against my sides when I shifted.
I liked it. Liked the way she filled my hands instead of disappearing under them.
"You're soft everywhere," I told her, thumb brushing the underside of one breast. "Plump. Feels good. Real good."