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“God, you know I’m close already,” she murmured. “Can I please cum?”
Selfishly, I wanted to keep playing with her, but knew she had to get to work, and I needed to discuss some things with Chance and Declan on the way to California. “Cum,” I reluctantly replied.
We both struggled to suppress our moans as we locked eyes, reaching the peak of our pleasure. She fell back into the chair, catching her breath. If I could have done what I wanted, I would’ve had her handcuff herself in my office and perform for me all night long.
“Damn, Blondie,” Declan admired the grand foyer of Chance’s Malibu mansion as we stepped through one of the distorted glass double doors. “I have to admit, you have some fucking good taste.”
“I know.” Chance shrugged it off as he shut the door behind us. “Set your shit over there. I’ll have my butler send it up to your rooms with a warm, wet towel and a snack.”
“You have a butler?!” Declan whispered.
Amused, I stifled a smile, darting my eyes between them.
“No,” Chance snorted, “I don’t have a fucking butler.” He nodded toward Declan’s bags. “Pick your shit up and follow me, then you can get your own fucking snacks.” He led us up the wide, curved staircase. “I do have an elevator, though.”
“Why are we taking the stairs, then?” Declan replied.
“Takes longer than walking and you don’t need it.”
It was shortly after 2:00 a.m. and we were all exhausted. Unfortunately, with exhaustion didn’t come sleepiness, but a need to unwind from the long flight and a meeting. After showing us to our designated guest rooms, we met downstairs in the living room for a drink. When I entered, they were already sitting with glasses to their mouths, sipping on what was probably Grey Goose vodka and laughing loudly.
Declan may have looked like me, but he and Chance were more alike. Though they butted heads a lot, they were good friends now. I fell back onto the white, leather L-shaped sofa in the middle of the room, crossing my ankles on the black coffee table.
Sitting in a relaxed position on the other end of the couch, Chance raised his glass. I started to get up, but he waved me off and stood. With a casual stride, he made his way to the liquor cabinet on the opposite side of the room, giving me a sly glance over his shoulder. “Jameson, neat?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
He offered a single nod, turning his back, preparing my drink.
Declan was stretched out on a black and white marbled slipper chair and lowered his glass. “So, there’s this club we should check out while we’re out here.” He ran his fingers through his messy, warm brown hair. “I know the owner, and she might be good to talk to about the expansion plans.”
“Why didn’t you bring this up on the plane?” I asked.
Chance handed me the lowball glass of whiskey, then stepped over to the other side of the sofa, sitting back down.
Declan shrugged his shoulder, taking another gulp of his drink. “Didn’t even think about it on the plane. Was too busy listening to you, but after processing it all, I really think she’ll be good to talk to, maybe even collab with at some point.”
I lowered my glass, resting it on my thigh. Rolling my tongue over my bottom lip, I waited for a further explanation.
“Her name’s Ekaterina.”
“Hmm,” I hummed, “Russian?”
He nodded. “Alessio and I actually met her at a Bachelorette party when she and her friends came to Atlantic City. She’s fucking hot and smart. She’s abrasive, but it’s worth exploring.”
Chance shifted, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, lifting his glass to his lips. “What club does she work at?”
“Penthouse L.A.”
Chance forced a cough, covering his mouth with his fist, and set his drink on a coaster on the coffee table. “You’re joking.”
I glanced back and forth between them. “What the fuck is Penthouse L.A.?”
Chance chortled. “I don’t really think that’s a place we want to involve in our business.”
“It’s not your business. It’s Ian’s and mine.” I took a sip of my whiskey. “What’s wrong with the place?”
Chance smirked, leaning back and casually draping his arm over the back of the couch. With one ankle crossed over his knee, he raised an eyebrow. “Pivovarov ring a bell?”
