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“Rose, you are perfection.” He pulls out and spies my panties, quickly shoving them into his pocket.
I go to remove the plug, but he stops me. “You really thought I’ve gone around and done this kind of shit with other women? No, I haven’t. The plug stays in.”
He kisses me again, and then he opens the door and walks away.
* * *
New York glitters. I’m not sure where we are; I know Nikolai told me, but the hotel we’re at is small, upscale, boutique, and they know him.
White hot jealousy streaks through me at the thought of other women he might have brought here before, but I’m not saying a word. He removed the plug, making me lie face first on the bed, legs spread, inspecting, commenting, rocking it into me before pulling it free. He turns humiliation into an art form, makes me crave it. Or maybe it’s craving him looking at me, touching me the way he does.
Now, I’m showered, ready to go out, and Nikolai…
He’s in black, a three-piece suit, black patterned tie, a slate shirt. He’s enough to melt my panties off, if I had any on.
With his dark hair and fresh shave, he’s class personified. Dark. Dangerous. Every inch the killer he is.
“Turn, Rose.”
I do. Everything inside me swells at the possessive, satisfied gleam in his eyes as he takes a sip of the amber liquid in his hand.
“Rose.” He picks up a glass of wine and hands it to me. “The dress is spectacular.”
He handed it to me when we got here. It’s a slinky number that matches his shirt, with threads of something that offers the slightest sparkle and rubs my bare skin in a way that arouses me just a bit, and he knows it.
His gaze keeps sliding to my nipples. There’s no back to the dress so I can’t wear a bra, and he’s got me in the purple-soled shoes he made me crawl to him in, the ones I love.
“Hair up,” he says. “The red lipstick I got you.”
I do as asked and keep my eyes simple with a touch of shadow and mascara. He sets his glass down as he picks up the black collar he had made for me, kissing my shoulders and nape as he ties it on for me.
Nikolai slips his hands down my shoulders, his black rings on. My only pieces of jewelry besides the collar are the cuff with the tracker and my engagement ring.
“Where are we going?”
“High stakes poker game. I’m looking for something.”
I turn to look at him. “What?”
“Information.”
I nod.
“And Rose? Rewards come later.”
* * *
The club is on Tenth Avenue, around the West Forties, far enough from Broadway, Nikolai says. There are people everywhere, but we go past an alley and into a sports bar, then right through it and into another place, this one downstairs, and I’m hit with the pure adrenaline of power and money.
Nikolai pulls me to him, kissing me and nuzzling a path along my throat, his hands on my back. Then, he eases my head up so I can meet his gaze. The place is full of low-key noise—voices, laughter, music—and a heavy layer of smoke that makes the back of my throat dry.
Cigars.
I want to bury my face against my Niko and breathe him in deep, but I don’t. I wait.
“Sweet Rose, I have to go play poker, so have a drink or three. Mingle, but don’t think I won’t be watching you. My men are outside, and you have my collar on.”
I nod. “And the tracker.”
