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ChapterNine
I stepinto Miso Hungry a couple of minutes early.
He’s not here yet. Good. That gives me a chance to gather my wits, such as they are.
The décor in this place is modern and clean. The smells that penetrate the filters in my nose aren’t too overpowering—just a faint hint of seaweed, a stronger tang of sesame oil, and a mix of stale colognes and perfumes that fill every indoor space occupied by people.
“Can I help you?” the hostess asks when I linger by the entrance.
“I’m waiting for—”
The restaurant door makes a jingle, and The Russian walks in.
Catching sight of him, the hostess gives me a look that’s a mix of respect and envy.
I gape at my not-a-date, mentally downloading the image to my rub bank.
Dressed in a bespoke suit, he looks more like a Wall Street executive than a ballet dancer. A scorching-hot Wall Street executive who’s just as good at taking care of his long position, as he is at penetrating foreign markets and watching spreads. (And yes, I picked up some of this lingo from my ex, who traded stocks from home as a way of avoiding an office job and all of its accompanying germs.)
As The Russian spots me, his chocolate eyes gleam and his lips twist in a dark smirk. I swallow my drool. It’s a wonder my pussy doesn’t sprout appendages and hack into my vibrating panties to make them work without the remote.
The remote that’s probably in his pocket.
“Hello, Lemon,” he says as he approaches, emphasizing the “o” in my name with his delectable accent.
“Hi,” I somehow manage to say without fainting from lust.
He glances imperiously at the hostess. “I called about a private room. Under Skulme.”
She nods. “Yes, Mr. Skulme. The tatami room is this way.”
She leads us to a room with no chairs, just pillows and a low table on matted flooring, all surrounded by paper walls—not exactly the setting that springs to mind when I think “private,” but still better than an open table.
The Russian takes off his shoes before entering the room and sits cross-legged on the floor, his back gracefully straight.
How very yummy and domestic.
Pulse speeding up, I take off my shoes too and kneel on the pillow opposite him. The pose makes me feel like a geisha about to perform a tea ceremony—or fellatio. Flushing, I switch to a cross-legged style of sitting, doing my best to mirror him.
The hostess promises to get our waitress and slides the paper door shut.
I clear my throat. Time to find out why we’re here. “So, Mr. Skulme—”
“Please.” His forehead creases sexily. “Call me Art.”
I already know he goes by that name from reading his bio, but I’m not sure I should admit that because I don’t want him to think of me as a stalker.
“Okay, Art,” I say, tasting the word and liking it, a lot. “That’s short for Artjoms, right?”
He nods. “I like to make it easy for people to pronounce and therefore remember my name. In Russia, I went by Artem, and here in the US, Art works best.”
I recross my legs. He’s having an unwanted effect between them. “That’s clever. Seeing how ballet is an art, that nickname should be very easy for people to remember. Unless… is ballet an art or a sport?”
“Great question. Athleticism is important in ballet, but—”
Our paper door slides open, and a waitress enters.
I wrinkle my nose. She’s wearing too much perfume, which immediately dampens my libido—a welcome effect for once. I just hope she doesn’t linger long enough to ruin my appetite for food.
