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“Whatever you want to call it.” His lips curl into a sensual smile. “I told you, I don’t do traditional dating, but I’d like to explore this further.”
“You want to have sex with me again?”
He nods, his eyes gleaming. “Absolutely. Unless you have objections?”
Objections? What kind of objections can I have after the best sex of my life? “No objections here.”
“Good,” he says, a wealth of satisfaction in his tone. “Then it’s settled.”
I bite my lip. “Should we shake on it?”
“I have a better idea,” he murmurs, shifting so his hardening cock brushes against my thigh.
Really? “Again?”
“Unless you have objections?”
“No objections,” I repeat dazedly as he reaches across the bed for another condom.
6
St. Petersburg
“What do you fucking mean it failed?”
“His bodyguard took the bullet instead.” The assassin’s voice is expressionless. “I don’t know how he sensed it, but he did. Another second, and I would’ve had him.”
“Fuck.” Oleg Pavlov takes a deep breath, gripping the phone so hard the metal edges dig into his palm. “Are you losing your touch, Bes?”
“If you think so, you’re welcome to get someone else.”
The motherfucking—
Oleg takes another breath, reminding himself why it’s not a good idea to piss off Bes. “Look,” he says in a more conciliatory tone, “I just need to know if you can get it done or not. You know our agreement—”
“I can get it done.”
“Then do it.” Putting the phone away, Oleg turns his attention back to the man sitting across the table from him. On the stage in front of them, three blond girls are gyrating to the latest Russian hip-hop imitation, their slim bodies perfectly tanned and surgically enhanced. Under different circumstances, Oleg would’ve used one—or all three of them—to relieve some of his tension, but now isn’t the time to indulge.
Not when he has to explain the situation to one of the most dangerous men in St. Petersburg.
“I take it Volkov is in good health,” Vladimir Stefanov says dryly, his fleshy jowls quivering with each movement. With his thick lips and neck rolls, he reminds Oleg of Jabba the Hutt. Inside that bloated frame, however, lurks a razor-sharp intelligence and cunning slyness, something Oleg is careful never to forget.
“For now,” Oleg says, nodding. “But Bes will take care of it.”
“You place a lot of faith in that cleaner.”
“He’s never let me down before.”
“He’s never gone up against Alexander Volkov before either.”
Oleg shrugs. “He knows about Volkov’s reputation. He’ll be careful.”
“Oh, really?” Vladimir’s lips stretch into something resembling a smile. “You think he knows what Volkov is capable of?”
“He’s got the file on him,” Oleg says. “The same one you gave me.”
Vladimir lets out a harsh laugh, his entire body seeming to oscillate from the movement. “Well, then, let’s hope your boy is up to the task. Because if Volkov gets wind of who’s behind it all and why, you and I will both wish we’d never been born.”
7
I wake up to the unusual aroma of eggs and coffee. Opening my eyes, I stare at the shocking sight of a Russian tycoon standing next to the bed dressed in nothing more than a pair of boxer shorts. He’s holding a tray filled with a variety of dishes, apparently the source of the delicious smell.
Blinking, I sit up, holding the blanket up to cover my breasts as I try to orient myself. I must’ve fallen asleep in Alex’s bed, although I don’t remember doing so. As I shift to rest my back against the headboard, I become aware of a deep inner soreness, a reminder of last night’s sexual marathon.
“Hi,” I croak, my voice rough from sleep. Clearing my throat, I manage more normally, “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” he says, sitting down on the edge of the bed and carefully balancing the tray. He looks amused for some reason, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. In the bright morning light, he looks strikingly male, every muscle on his incredible body sharply defined and the hard planes of his face darkened by a hint of stubble.
Rubbing my eyes, I realize I went to bed last night without removing my makeup or taking a shower. My hair must look like a rat’s nest, and I have no doubt my mascara is smeared all over my face.
This is so not how I want Alex to see me after the amazing night we’ve just had, especially since he looks so good himself.
Casting a desperate look around, I notice a door leading to a bathroom. “Excuse me,” I mumble, scooting to the other end of the bed before letting go of the blanket and executing a quick escape into the bathroom.
Six minutes later, I emerge, looking and feeling much more human. I found a brand-new toothbrush someone had thoughtfully left on the edge of the sink and freshened up, removing all traces of mascara and smoothing my hair. I still need a shower, but that can wait until after breakfast.
