24. Nikolai
Nikolai
Our annual celebrity poker tournament kicks off today. Fifty VIP players. Movie stars, athletes, a tech billionaire who thinks he’s God’s gift to poker. They’re all staying in the building. Premium suites. Premium treatment. Premium headache.
And now, they’re getting soaked.
The blaring fire alarm feels like it will split my head in two.
I don't wait for the elevator. My security team falls in behind me on the stairwell, and the casino floor is chaos when I get there. Water is pouring from the ceiling sprinklers. People are shouting. Someone’s screaming about their phone.
A woman in a designer dress looks like she just crawled out of a lake.
My staff is trying to keep the customers calm as they direct them to the exit.
I search the floor. The table where Gabby usually works is empty. My heart is beating a little faster than normal. Then, I see her.
She’s talking with a couple of the other staff. Her hair is drenched and sticking to her face, but she’s okay. Our eyes meet. Her expression is apologetic. I nod once, a wordless acknowledgment that we’re both okay.
I spot the tech billionaire—Henry something—drenched and furious. He sees me and points.
“This is unacceptable!”
I ignore him and grab the nearest security guard. “Where did it start?”
“Kitchen area. Looks like someone left something on a burner.”
Not arson. Not sabotage. Just incompetence.
I pull out my phone and call Pasha. “We have a situation.”
“I heard. I’m on my way.”
I hate calling him. He had a thing with Mila today, touring a new school or something. But I need him.
The fire department arrives within minutes. They shut off the alarm, but the sprinklers have already done their damage. Water is everywhere. The carpets are soaked. The walls are dripping. And my VIP guests are standing in the hallway looking like drowned rats.
I move through the crowd, assessing as I go. Most just need dry clothes and an apology. A few will demand compensation. Henry is going to be a problem.
“Mr. Sokolov.” One of the event coordinators appears at my elbow with a tablet in her hand. “The poker tournament is supposed to start in two hours.”
“I’m aware.”
She gestures helplessly at the wet, angry people around us. “We were just getting the press junket underway.”
That was why I was hiding in my office. The press was necessary. A warmup for the grand opening of the Tatiana.
“Get them new rooms. Comp everything. Send up champagne. The usual high-roller package.”
"Rooms are being reassigned now."
Pasha arrives, surveys the scene, and shakes his head. “This is a nightmare.”
“It gets better. The media’s here.”
“Perfect fucking timing.”
I spot the news crew setting up in the lobby through the window. This is about to be everywhere.
“Kitchen accident?” Pasha asks.
“That’s what they said.”
“Have you checked?”
“No.”
“Go. I’ll get the staff situated.”
I head toward the kitchen, my shoes squelching with every step. Water drips from my hair, down my neck, and soaks into my collar. I don’t care. I need to see this for myself.
The kitchen is worse than the main floor. Several inches of water cover everything. The overhead sprinklers have stopped, but the damage is done.
The head chef, Jean Luc, is standing near the main prep station and looking like he wants to murder someone. He sees me and his expression shifts to something between anger and fear.
“Mr. Sokolov, I don’t know what happened. My kitchen does not make mistakes.”
“Show me.”
He leads me to the back section, near the industrial stoves, where a large pot sits on one of the burners.
“Someone left grease on high heat,” he says. “It caught fire. Triggered the sprinklers.”
“Who was working this station?”
“That’s the thing.” He runs a hand through his wet hair. “Nobody. This section wasn’t even being used today. We were focused on prep for the VIP dinner tonight. That was happening on the other side.”
That stupid feeling again. The one that, unfortunately, is never wrong.
“How long does it take for grease to catch fire on high heat?”
“Depends on the amount and temperature. Maybe ten, fifteen minutes?”
“And nobody noticed a pot sitting here for fifteen minutes?”
He shakes his head. “We were busy. Everyone was focused on banquet prep.”
“I’m going to pull the security footage.”
“We’re shut down,” he says. “I have to have the health department inspect everything.”
“Fuck!”
I leave the kitchen. The fire department is moving through the building. The customers have been cleared out. Most of the staff is gone. Gabby is gone, probably with the rest of the staff.
I find Pasha in the hallway, coordinating with the fire marshal. He sees my face and steps away from the conversation.
“What?” he asks quietly.
“Sabotage.”
His jaw tightens. “You’re sure?”
“Pot of grease on high heat in a section nobody was using. Nobody saw it. Nobody noticed until it was too late.”
“The Italians.”
I take a breath. “Get me the security footage. I want to know who was in that kitchen. And I want to know how they got in.”
“Pulling names now.”
The fire marshal approaches. “Mr. Sokolov, we’ll need to do a full inspection before you can reopen this section.”
“How long?”
“Forty-eight hours minimum.”
More money. More complications.
Death by a thousand cuts.
“Do what you need to do,” I tell him.
I head up to my office and sit down. I hate when things don’t go according to plan. I’m fucking sick of them testing me.
It’s time to show them I’m done.
There’s a knock on the door. Gabby pushes it open, her wet hair hanging around her shoulders.
“Hey,” she says. “I just wanted to check in. I heard it was a kitchen incident. Nothing was damaged.”
“The fucking casino and kitchen are soaked. That’s damage.”
“Fixable,” she says.
I’m in a shit mood. “I’ve got the fucking media here to document my humiliation.”
“I know. But still.” She closes my office door. “Are you okay?”
I look at her. She’s asking because she cares.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“Liar.”
“I’m fucking pissed.”
She reaches out and touches my upper arm. “What can I do?”
“Nothing.”
“Talk to me.”
I watch her. I note the genuine concern in her eyes. I don’t know how to express what I’m feeling. I’m… pissed.
“I know how to get you to talk,” she says softly.
“I don’t want to fucking talk, Gabby.”
She grabs my belt buckle, pulling me to her. I arch a brow. She slowly undoes my belt. I watch her open my pants and push them down.
She drops to her knees without a sound. The sight of her there, wet hair clinging to her head, eyes locked on mine, thickens my cock before she even touches it.
The rage from the sabotage is still simmering. She tugs my briefs down just enough. The cool office air hits my skin for half a second before her warm palm wraps around me.
“Gabby,” I rasp, one hand gripping the edge of the desk behind me. The other slides into her damp hair.
She doesn’t answer with words. Her tongue drags slowly and deliberately up the underside of my shaft. My hips jerk forward on instinct. The frustration, humiliation, and need to burn something down all take a back seat.
Everything is focused on the heat of her mouth as she takes me in. She’s not gentle. She’s determined, sucking hard, cheeks hollowing, one hand working what her lips can’t reach.
I bite back a groan and tip my head back. She takes me deeper with every pull, making my balls tighten fast. Her free hand grips my thigh, nails digging in. I thrust shallow once, twice, testing. She moans around me, the vibration shooting straight through my spine.
Her tongue laps at me like my dick is a fucking ice cream cone. She sucks hard, one hand massaging my balls as she moans around me.
“Fuck,” I mutter, tightening my fingers in her hair.
She works faster, tongue swirling, throat relaxing to take me to the back. The sound of her sucking on my cock is the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard. My body tightens.
I need all of her right now.
My hand fists her hair, and I pull her to her feet. She gasps.
“I need more,” I say.
Her eyes are dark, hungry, matching the storm in my chest. I grab her waistband, popping the button before dragging the zipper down. I spin her around and shove her forward over the desk, scattering papers. I yank her pants down. I twist the fabric in my fist and tear it.
“Nik!”
“I’ll buy you new fucking panties.”
She’s bent, ass up, wet, and waiting. I slip my hand between her thighs. My index finger slides across her slick heat.
“You like sucking my cock,” I hiss against her ear. “You’re wet.”
“Nik, shut up and fuck me.”
I smirk. If I didn’t want to fuck her so badly, I would tease her. But I don’t have that kind of self-control right now.
I line myself up and slide inside her. I drop my head back and clench my jaw to keep from exploding right away.
“Dammit. Your fucking pussy was made for me.”
I grip her hips hard enough to bruise and drive into her with punishing force, each thrust slamming her against the edge of the desk.
“Take me,” I demand.
She pushes back, taking me just a little deeper.
She gasps, fingers clawing at the desk, but I don’t ease up. The rage from the sabotage burns through me, and I fuck it out against her tight, slick heat, pounding deep and relentless.
I reach around and rub her clit hard, circling fast as I bottom out again and again. “Come on my cock,” I order. “Now.”
She shatters with a choked cry, her walls clamping down so tight that it nearly pulls me over the edge. I fuck her through it, harder, chasing my release while her moans turn broken and desperate.
My free hand fists in her wet hair, yanking her head back so I can bite the side of her neck. “You feel that? That’s me claiming you.”
Her body quakes again, another orgasm ripping through her as I grind in deep.
I follow right after, spilling inside her with a guttural snarl as pleasure burns through the last of my fury.
For a long moment I stay buried, breathing hard, my hands still locked on her like she might disappear.
Then I pull out slowly, watching my cock slide from her body. I’m still hard. I want more.
But I’ve got a disaster to deal with. I grab a tissue from the desk and clean her up.
“Get dressed.” My voice is still thick. She straightens on shaky legs, her face flushed, and her eyes glassy. I tuck myself away and adjust my wet clothes, the leftover anger still simmering, but quieter now.
She turns and pulls up her pants. “You tore my panties and busted my button off.”
“I was going to buy you new ones anyway. Go home, Gabby.”
She puts a hand on her hip. “What about you?”
“I need to handle some things.”
Pasha, knocks and the door opens before I can answer. He steps inside, takes one look at me, then at Gabby, and I see the moment he realizes what he almost walked in on.
“Am I interrupting?” The smirk on his face says he knows the answer.
“No,” I say flatly. “Gabby was just leaving.”
She shoots me a look that says we’re not done talking, but she knows better than to argue in front of Pasha. She nods at Pasha and walks to the door.
“I’ll see you at home,” she calls back.
Home. She called it home.
I watch her leave, then turn to Pasha. He’s still got that stupid grin on his face.
“What?” I snap.
“Nothing.” He holds up his hands. “Absolutely nothing.”
“Say it or get out.”
“I’m just observing that you two seem... close.”
“Don’t.”
“We don’t know who she is,” he warns.
“You don’t know who she is.”
“You do?”
“I know enough. Her name doesn’t fucking matter.”
“I’m not judging. I’m cautioning.”
I give him a hard stare.
He sighs. “Fine. Let’s talk about the real problem right now. The casino.”
I exhale slowly, forcing myself to focus. “It’s them. The Italians. This wasn’t an accident.”
“You don’t know that for sure.”
“I know.”
“Nik, before you go on a revenge tour, let me investigate. It might be nothing. Shit happens in kitchens. Grease fires are common.”
“Not in my kitchen.”
“The timing is suspicious; I’ll give you that. But let me pull the footage. Let me talk to the staff. If it’s sabotage, we’ll know.”
Every instinct I have is screaming at me to act. Now. To go to their territory and burn something down. To make them feel what I’m feeling.
“With the opening date getting closer, they’re trying to push me,” I say. “They want me reactive. They want me to make a mistake.”
“Exactly. Which is why you need to let me handle the investigation first.” He leans forward. “You go in right now, guns blazing, and you’re doing what they want. You’ll look like the aggressor. You’ll give them what they need to justify escalating further.”
I hate that he’s right.
“Give me twenty-four hours to pull everything together. If it’s them, I’ll have proof. And then you can do whatever you want.”
“Fine,” I say.
“Maybe you should go home. I think there’s something there you can use to work through this frustration.”
“Fuck off.”
He laughs and walks back to the door. “For what it’s worth? I think she’s good for you.”
He leaves before I can tell him to fuck off again.
They made a mistake coming into my casino. Invading my territory. There will be payback.
But revenge isn’t what I’m thinking about. I’m thinking about going home and tying Gabby to my bed and fucking her until we’re both too weak to move.
Pasha’s right. Gabby is good for me.
I just don’t know if that’s a good thing or the biggest mistake I’ve ever made.