1
Today, I have a Romeo
The air was heavy. The density and lack of ventilation were so great that I could feel the scant clothing sticking to my skin. I had paid over three thousand pounds for a little piece of cloth that many would say wasn”t even good enough to clean the floor with. Two squares of fabric, one in front and one behind, held together by wide strips that left my body exposed.
Rock music played in the background, and the scents of beer, cheap liquor, leather, and sweat permeated the dimly lit venue, lined with wood.
It seemed to me that in another era, a strong smell of tobacco would have also filled the air, had current laws not forced smokers to indulge their unhealthy habit outside the premises.
Places like the one I was in were not unfamiliar to me, on the contrary. From time to time, I enjoyed losing myself in similar dives for a single purpose, the same one that had brought me inside today.
The bikers offered wild, no-questions-asked sex, a hard fuck against any surface that could satisfy their hunger—and mine, of course. In business terms, we”d call it a win-win situation, meaning both parties benefited. There might even be an extra bonus if I managed to hook up with one of the guys who worked for my future husband; what a wonderful wedding gift that would be.
I smiled inwardly. Oh yes, that would be like scoring a goal in his own net.
I observed the obscene looks, filled with deep lust; there had to be someone suitable.
None of these men cared that I didn”t fit into their scene; they didn”t wonder what brought me there because their sole functioning neuron was fixated on placing me in relation to their erection.
Simple, that”s what they were.
Everything about me was a lure for their groin.
My naturally blonde hair fell in a clean cut below my soft jawline. My green, cat-like eyes promised to lick up every last drop from the bowl. My thick lips, smeared in velvety red, were ready to wrap around a pretty gift, not to mention my meter-ten legs made to wrap around a waist.
I was tall, standing at one seventy-five, which, with the extra ten centimeters my heels provided, made me tower over many.
Model. Most saw me with the eyes of a clothes hanger. They believed that was my job as soon as they set eyes on me. I admit that fashion was not indifferent to me; I liked using it to my advantage, capitalizing on the hidden message each garment held.
Another option they considered was that I worked as a hostess, whether on land, sea, or air. No one guessed right, which suited me just fine.
Nikita Koroleva was a businesswoman, perhaps not in the conventional sense, but a businesswoman nonetheless. The paths of the mafia were impenetrable. The Bratva had no choice but to adapt to the new times, taking a path that was the most ”legal”. This did not mean that the businesses we considered were entirely clean.
Most of us, the descendants, children of the mafia, operated on a scale that encompassed whites, blacks, and grays. A rainbow of sober colors in which we swam like fish in water.
I remember how my father explained to Yuri and me that Putin”s entrance into the government marked a before and after for the Bratva. The ”wild nineties” were history. Now there might be the occasional isolated shootout, tortures to extract information, but the harsher forms of extortion, with which my father grew up, or that my brother and I experienced from the protection of covert glances, sheltered behind slightly open doors, were diluted under the snap of broken bones and blood on concrete.
”Bullets” were fired from rooftops that no longer covered snipers. Now, the thrown weapons were wielded by lawyers and financiers, hence the highest levels of corruption occurred in the courts, where files were lost under the weight of corrupt officials, loyal to the regime.
Of course, murders still existed, though camouflaged in a spring of natural deaths that were not so natural. Anyone could suffer an overdose of paracetamol or a fortuitous faint at the edge of the train track. Luck was to blame for the future corpse falling just as the train sped by, turning their remains into bolognese on the rails.
My eyes focused and my tongue clicked as I spotted the train I was waiting for. Without a doubt, that was mine. I saw him clad in a white t-shirt, worn jeans, a scarf tied around his head, and a long, thick stick that moved fluidly in his broad hands.
Ummm, not bad, not bad at all.
Tattoos crawled up his powerful forearms, disappearing under the sleeves, only to emerge in a river of ink ascending his broad neck. Pure brute strength that made me salivate.
He was young. Must be around his thirties. Dark eyes like the espresso I couldn”t forgive in the mornings. Alone, without sugar, so bitter and hot it woke me up just by smelling it. What would he smell like?
He looked clean, and I liked the conscientious way he looked at the hole he intended to fit it into.
My dirty mind was already imagining us, and I liked how depraved he seemed.
His body was broad, meticulously sculpted in the gym. He had a reach that was three times mine and yet, he leaned over the table effortlessly. I liked them strong but agile, and he seemed to fit the bill.
I delighted in watching the movement of the wood. He calculated precisely the necessary force and trajectory to clinch victory. A winner. I liked that too.
I purred inwardly and savored the moisture that began to flow freely in my groin.
He was all I needed that night.
I walked, ignoring the crude remarks many threw my way, and reached the spot where my target was about to make his final shot, the one that would crown him king of the night.
I was convinced it would have been so, had it not been for the fact that I reached the ball before the wooden tip could strike it, and all he hit was air.
Murmurs of dismay arose from the guys surrounding us, who until then had been so focused on him they hadn”t even noticed my arrival.
I didn”t care who they were, or the astonished faces they made at the bold move I had just made. Because the only face that mattered to me had just risen to meet mine.
I felt like whistling.
A face worth remembering, indeed. Now that I saw him up close, he seemed even more handsome than when I had pegged him as my freight train.
Dark eyebrows, a straight nose adorned with a small hoop piercing in the right nostril. A square jaw, covered by a neatly groomed beard, and masculine lips, neither excessively thick nor too thin. Well-chiseled, just like the rest of that sexy biker. A most enticing ensemble.
He wasn”t a guy I”d date or enter into a relationship with, but he was definitely one I”d like to position in any way, naked before me, and perhaps even go for a repeat.
”What are you doing?” he barked violently, seeing me toss the ball up and down without looking.
”It”s your lucky night,” I replied in more than commendable Spanish.
My Eastern accent was noticeable; I never bothered to hide it. Proud of my roots, it was easy to identify my origin. I could communicate perfectly in several languages thanks to the education our parents provided, who insisted that the four of us study at an international school.
My father believed that, in the business world, being able to communicate was essential in an increasingly globalized universe. So, he spared no expense. We all spoke three languages, in addition to our mother tongue: Russian, German, English, and Spanish.
When I managed to make his gaze, apart from watching the ball, boldly scan my entire anatomy, I took the liberty of pocketing the dark sphere in the hole, giving him no chance to make the last shot.
More insignificant murmurs behind me.
I closed the distance between us and allowed myself to caress the cue the same way I would his member. The retinas flickered over the movement for a moment, which I captured with pleasure, and then they returned to mine.
”I hope you have a good reason for taking such a risk,” he remarked, anchored in my gaze.
He was a few inches taller than me, so he must have been around six foot three.
”I never do anything that isn”t worth it. Your game was already won, you knew it, they knew it... What everyone didn”t know, even you, is that the prize of the night had just arrived in the form: tonight you fuck with me.” If he was surprised, he didn”t show it. That turned me on, much more than if he had devoured me with his eyes, like most did. I offered him a lascivious smile. ”It”s time to celebrate, so drop that stick, because the real game is about to start somewhere else. Follow me,” I commanded, giving him a lick on the side of the neck that cut his breath. My right hand released the cue and offered an intimate caress, which I saw as necessary to assess the goods before tasting them.
Having duly verified that the material was top quality, I gave him an enticing grimace and started walking as if I knew exactly where I was going and the place was not unfamiliar to me.
I assumed that the bathroom or the drink storage would emerge at some point if I headed to the back.
I didn”t look back; someone like me didn”t do that. I was a sure bet, and it would have been very odd for a guy, no matter how handsome, to reject an offer like mine.
I reached the back, next to the bar was a door that read ”Authorized Personnel Only,” and opposite it, another that was the restrooms.
I turned around and found him watching me like a predator, just as I expected. I offered him a wicked smile.
”So, what”ll it be? Right?” I extended my hand toward the restrooms. ”Or left?” I pointed to the staff door.
He grabbed my wrist and pulled me confidently.
”Given a choice, I choose the same place I carry the charge,” he explained hoarsely. I liked his reasoning.
He opened the door without difficulty, and we stepped into the darkness.