Chapter 1 #2
"I like it deep," he rumbles. The smirk is audible in his voice, even through the padding.
The sound of his voice is like gravel and velvet, rubbing against my nerves in a way that makes my breath catch.
"I’ve never been one for half-measures. And don't be shy with the pressure. I’ve been told you don't mind a little struggle. That you're... efficient."
I want to ask him who told him that, but I can't because customers are Gods and you don't question Gods. Something Sofia reminds me of on a daily basis.
I move to the side of the table, my fingers slicking with the neutral oil. My hands are trembling, a fine, frantic vibration I can't control, but the moment I press my palms into his skin, the tremor stops.
He’s hot. Not just warm from the sun, but radiating a staggering amount of heat, like a furnace. As I lean my weight into the first stroke, pressing my palms into the base of his neck, a spark zips through my fingertips.
My fingers are tingling. It’s an involuntary, crazy reaction to the contact.
It’s a pull, a magnetic attraction so intense it scares me.
I’ve touched hundreds of men in the last six months—fat men, thin men, men who smelled like cheap gin and men who smelled like expensive soap—and I’ve felt nothing but a vague sense of disgust. But this? This is different.
Something is wrong. Very wrong.
My hands move down his spine, and I can't help but notice the way his muscles shift and roll under my palms. He’s solid, like granite covered in silk.
My traitorous mind starts to wonder what those muscles would look like when they’re tensed in a different way.
I imagine those scarred lats flexing under me, the weight of him pressing me into a mattress instead of a massage table.
Stop it, Irina . He’s a pig. A criminal. He probably has a wife and three mistresses back in the Motherland.
But the "Elena" in me doesn't care. She just wants to keep touching him. I find myself lingering on the curve of his lower back, where the sheet dips low enough to reveal the top of a V-line that disappears into the shadows. My thumbs trace the ridge of his spine, and I feel a low, thrumming ache start to build in my own lower belly. It’s a heat I haven't felt in years, a hunger that makes me want to rip the sheet away and see exactly what he’s hiding.
"Y-Your muscles are very tight," I say, my voice sounding far away, as if I’m watching myself from the corner of the room. I dig my thumbs into the thick knots near his shoulder blades, leaning into it, using the strength of my whole body. "You carry a lot of tension here. It’s like you’re waiting for a fight. "
"I carry a lot of things," he grunts, his voice a low vibration beneath my hands that I feel in my own bones. The sound of it travels through my palms and straight to my chest, making my breath hitch. "Tension is the least of them. Most people find my company... stressful."
My mind is racing, flashing images of those large, calloused hands gripping my waist, pulling me against that furnace of a chest. I can almost feel the phantom pressure of him on top of me, his rough voice whispering filthy promises in my ear.
What in the world is wrong with me??
God, I’m pathetic.
I slide my hands up the sides of his neck, my fingers brushing the hair at the base of his skull.
A few months of celibacy and I’m ready to jump the first Russian who looks like he could snap me in half.
But goodness. The way he smells . Like ozone and expensive leather and something purely masculine that calls to a part of me I thought was dead. I wonder if he's one of those men who like to do weird things. The ones who buy silence and skin.
Irina! What the hell are you thinking about?
Every time my skin brushes his, every time my fingers trace the edge of a tattoo or the ridge of a scar, my heart hammers harder.
He has such a massive presence. He takes up all the space in the room, making me feel small, exposed, and strangely, terrifyingly alive. My fingers are still tingling, the sensation spreading up my arms and settling into a heavy, wet heat between my thighs.
"How long have you been in Cancun, Elena?" he asks.
The name sounds like a joke coming from him. A secret he’s humoring because he finds it amusing. The gravelly depth of his voice sends a fresh wave of shivers over my skin.
"J-Just a couple of months," I answer, lying easily, focusing on the curve of his neck, trying to ignore the way my tunic feels suddenly too tight across my chest. "It’s a good place to work. People are generous."
"Are they?" He turns his head slightly in the headrest, though I still can't see his face.
I can see the sharp line of a jaw that looks like it was carved from obsidian.
"I find that people only come to a place like this when they want to forget who they were.
Or when they want to hide from someone who hasn't forgotten them. "
"I'm not hiding from anyone," I say, the sassy, stubborn Petrov pride I’ve been trying to kill for months suddenly flaring up in my chest. "I just prefer the sun to the New York winters."
I freeze. I didn't say New York. Why did I say New York? My heart is a drum now, beating a frantic rhythm that I’m sure he can feel through my hands.
"New York," he repeats, the words tasting like a threat. "I’ve heard it’s a beautiful city. Very cold. Very... unforgiving."
My skepticism about this "client" is turning into genuine alarm.
Is he a debt collector? One of Boris's men?
"Why did you ask for me? There are girls here with years more experience."
"I’ve heard many things about you," he says, his voice dropping to a predatory whisper that makes my knees feel like they're made of wax. "I heard you had a certain... fire. I wanted to try it for myself. To see if the rumors were true."
The innuendo in his words is clear now, dripping with a dark, mocking intent.
He isn't here for a massage. He’s here for me .
I become more and more agitated, my movements becoming jerky, my breathing shallow.
The tingling in my fingers has turned into a dull, thumping heat.
My mind is a chaotic mess of fear and a shameful, desperate curiosity. I want to know who he is.
I need to get out of here.
"Rumors are just talk," I say, my voice trembling. "I'm just a girl working a shift."
I step past him to reach for more oil, and that’s when it happens.
He shifts, his hand coming out from beneath the table with a speed that makes me gasp.
His large, calloused hand brushes firmly against my thigh, his fingers lingering on the skin just above the hem of my tunic.
The touch is like a brand, searing through my clothes and leaving a trail of fire in its wake.
It’s a deliberate, suggestive move—a claim of possession that shatters my mask into a thousand pieces.
Of course, it's just one of those stupid men who don't take no for an answer. You chose the wrong person to mess with.
The agitation in my chest turns into pure, incandescent rage.
I don't think. My stubbornness and my pride, the only things my father couldn't take from me, explode. This man thinks he can buy me? Thinks he can touch me just because he threw some money at Sofia?
I reach down, my fingers tangling in his dark golden hair, longer than it looks.
"I told you," I growl, my voice low and dangerous, the Russian heiress returning in a heartbeat. "I don't tolerate anyone harassing me at my workplace. I couldn't care less for this job, so I will kick your ass and leave you bleeding on this floor if you touch me one more time. Do you understand?"
The man doesn't flinch. Instead, for my absolute surprise, he lets out a low, dark laugh. It’s a sound of pure, unadulterated triumph.
"If you like it rough, you should have stayed back home, dorogaya ," he says, the voice finally clear, no longer muffled by the table. "We would have been the perfect match."
The blood drains from my face so fast the room tilts. My hands are still tangled in his hair, but my fingers are frozen. I don't understand. I can't breathe.
No, no, no, no.
"Back home?" I whisper, the words barely audible over the roar of the blood in my ears. "What are you talking about?"
I yank his head back with everything I have. I force him up, pulling his face out of the hole, forcing him to look at me. I’m ready to scream, ready to scratch his eyes out.
He shifts, his eyes catching the amber light of the candles. Dark blue. Wild. Glinting with a terrifying amount of amusement and a possessiveness that makes my lungs seize.
"New York, Irina," he says, his voice dropping to a growl that settles deep in my marrow.
My heart stops. The world collapses into the space between us. I look at the face I tried to erase from my memory. I look at the dark blue eyes that haunted every dream I’ve had in this tropical purgatory. I look at the man I left standing at the altar.
"I want what should have been mine for six months now," he says, his hand closing over my wrist with the strength of a steel trap. "I’m done playing, I want my wife."