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Yes, that’s more like it.
Konstantin
Something’s not right. She has a body made for sin and of course, the attraction is surprisingly potent, but there’s something else going on in the background. She is not just a girl who took part in a dinner date auction for charity.
She’s hiding something from me.
Emotions, many negative, flit through those beautiful, thickly lashed eyes. Then her teeth sink into that plump bottom lip and my attention is drawn to the holy sight like a moth to a flame. Intense arousal burns in my stomach as an image flashes into my mind. My cock buried in that swollen mouth. The image is vivid and raw and sexually jarring. Fuck!
My gaze drops down to her barely covered chest. Another image rushes into my head. Her legs wrapped around my waist, and my face buried between those full, heavy breasts.
My blood rushes away from my brain, and heads downward. My cock jumps into life, hard and greedy for a taste of Raine Fillander. I wonder how she would react if she knew how hot and hard I am for her.
I stare straight into her eyes. Her breathing hitches, and she drops her gaze hurriedly.
“I have a question,” I say softly.
She freezes, and it takes a few seconds before she is able to return her gaze to mine, a frigid smile across her face. She is nervous, very nervous about something.
“Yes?” she whispers.
“Did you know who I was before the auction?”
She shakes her head, and her voice is sure and somewhat relieved. “No.”
“So why aren’t you curious like all the other girls?”
Hot color runs up her creamy neck and turns her cheeks rosy. “I’d already done my own research,” she answers softly.
“And you don’t like what you found?” I ask, amused.
“Something like that,” she admits.
“Which part doesn’t suit you?”
She shifts uncomfortably. “I don’t like what you stand for.”
“Ah, a socialist. You don’t like insatiable billionaires as a principle.”
She draws her shoulders back, and I see angry fire come into her sapphire eyes. They become stormy with emotion. It’s as if someone just tipped a wild leopard onto the chair in front of me. I stare at her with fascination. I’d love to see those eyes when she comes.
“I’m not a socialist,” she says tightly, “but yes, I detest billionaires who lie, cheat and steal on their way to the top, then think they can make it alright by making a tax deductible million to a children’s hospital.”
Finally, she is not pretending, but if she hates cheating, lying, stealing billionaires who make donations for all the wrong reasons, why is she here dressed to kill? I take a sip of my vodka as I weigh my options. I’d very much like to fuck the living daylights out of her, but I’m also aware there is something else going on under the surface. I decide to call her bluff.
“You know, you don’t have to stay. I’m quite happy to dine on my own.”
With that the marvelous wildfire is instantly extinguished, and to my surprise, a mixture of fear and some other emotion takes its place.
Raine
Panic floods my body. Jesus, what the hell am I doing? This is not a date where I am free to sprout my nonsense about how unfair the world is! I’m here to save Madison. I drop my gaze quickly to the shiny surface of the table so I can regroup. I let my dislike of his status cloud my judgment, but I won’t make the same mistake again. When I look up, my face is schooled into apologetic lines.
“I’m sorry. That is not fair. I don’t know anything about you, or how you made your money. No matter what your reasons are for dropping a million on this dinner, it is for a good cause and the least I can do is fulfil my end of the bargain and be an interesting dinner companion.” I lean back and give him my best smile. “Can we start again?”
His expression remains unreadable, his voice indifferent. “Sure.”
The sheer relief almost makes me lean forward and thank him, but I stop myself in time. That would be suspicious. Fearful that there could be an awkward silence, I throw out the first question that comes into my head. “Do you ever go back to Russia?”
“Yes, I have many business interests there.”
Not much to go on, but at least it isn’t a one-word answer. “I’ve seen pictures of Russia, but I’ve never been.”
“Of course you haven’t. You’re American.”
I feel my back start to straighten and force my voice to be kinder. “What do you mean?”
“Aren’t Americans taught to fear the big Russian bear behind the iron curtain?”
I shake my head. “Not at all. There are even a couple of Russian kids in my school.”
Suddenly, he looks bored. “If you are finished with your aperitif, perhaps we can head over to our table.”
