I’ve been Nikolai’s sex slave for a week and a half now.
It seems like I should hate it. I should hate everything about this. I’m using my body to pay off a sizable debt to the mob. Nikolai literally owns me and can make me do pretty much anything he wants or the deal is off.
Instead, it feels like glorious fantasy fulfillment.
I love that our arrangement has a start and end date. That the rules are very well defined. Nikolai gives me assignments or tells me what he wants, and I obey. It‘s like a job, and it seems to be one I’m good at, based on the boss’ constant hard-on for me.
Of course, he makes it fun. The things he demands of me are always a turn-on. He’s not hurting me or making me do things I hate. Just pushing my boundaries a little.
I’ve tried to ask about the scar before, but he doesn’t want to talk about it. Probably because it involves a crime.
That scares the crap out of me. I don’t even know what I’m afraid of. His getting shot again? Getting caught for a crime he committed? Finding out he’s done things that will yank me out of this little fantasy world?
“Does it hurt?”
“No. But I don’t like the way it feels.” Nikolai’s tone warns me not to go on.
“When did it happen? May I ask?”
At my second question, Nikolai’s face softens into his signature smirk. “No, you may not ask. I told you that already.”
“Because you were doing something illegal?” I can’t stop myself from pushing. It’s like the car crash you can’t look away from.
“No, I don’t like the way you get either scared or judgy about these things.”
My eyes widen, and his words hit me square in the chest. I realize it’s the first time he’s criticized anything about me, and I hate the way it feels.
“About what things?” My voice comes out sounding hoarse.
He shrugs. “About what I do. Or what you think I do.” He rolls off the bed and gets up.
He’s usually the one focused on me. I didn’t realize how addictive that attention was until he withdrew it.
I’m left cold. This is how it will feel when our month is over. When he’s through with me. Just like Rob Sharke. But that’s wrong. The end date was something I appreciate about our arrangement. Being hurt when it’s over would be absurd. I wouldn’t want this thing to go on indefinitely.
And making Nikolai’s withdrawal about me when he’s clearly the hurt party is even more ridiculous. I get out of bed and follow him, wrapping my arms around his waist from behind. He holds my hands and turns to face me. There’s surprise etched on his face, and for some reason, that adds to my guilt.
Like I haven’t shown him any affection when he’s been nothing but a gentleman with me. A very dirty and demanding gentleman but always considerate.
“I wasn’t asking to know more about what you do, I was asking to know more about you,” I try to explain.
He cocks a brow.
“You don’t share that much. I mean about the inner Nikolai. You hold your cards close to the vest.”
“Do you play poker, Chelle?”
I realize this is how he deflects. Asking me questions and never answering any of mine.
“My dad taught us both. Zane is better at it than I am.”
Nikolai nods. “Zane’s a good player.”
“Do you play?” I realize I know nothing about how his games even work. “Or are you the dealer?”
“No to both questions. I watch.”
“You facilitate.”
“Yes.”
I think of how well he handled my crazy skateboarding clients. “You’re good at that.”
Both his brows shoot up in surprise. His arms circle my waist, wrapped over the top of mine and he pulls me closer. “How do you know?” I love the seductive rumble in his voice.
“Because you’re the perfect manager. You manage people without them knowing they’re being handled. Like my clients. And…” I realize it’s true as the thought hits me. “Me.”
Nikolai presses a kiss to the top of my head. “Hmm.”
I wait, hoping for once, he’ll share more.
“Sometimes I think I’m good at nothing. I have no special skill. Not like Dima. I just break noses and collect money, and I’m not even the guy who’s good at that. I bring Oleg and Adrian along to do my dirty work.”
“That’s what I mean. You’re the manager. You are the special skill. Who you are.”
Nikolai searches my face like there’s some answer there he wants to believe.
“You could do anything and be successful at it. You’re a natural facilitator.” I’m sure of the words the moment they come out of my mouth. I’d been nervous bringing him along to that dinner, but he’d shone. Now that I know him, I’m almost certain I’d want him on my team for most any activity.
Nikolai cradles the side of my face in his hand and leans down to brush his lips across mine. “You’re sweet, Chelle Goldberg.”
“I’m not being sweet, I’m telling you my honest opinion.”
“Well, that honest opinion just earned you a visit to the Red Room tonight. Accompanied by me, of course.”
I kiss him hard. “You are the best. I promise I won’t let any random guys buy me a drink.”
“I wouldn’t let that happen, bunny rabbit. I would kill them first.”
I steal a glance at his face to see if he’s joking. His eyes twinkle, so I think he is, but this is a guy with a bullet hole through his gut, so I can’t be entirely sure.
He turns me toward the bathroom and slaps my ass. “You’d better get a move on, or you’ll be late for work, Ms. Junior Publicist.”
I laugh and scoot to the shower, loving how staying here with Nikolai is both magical and easy. I’m simultaneously comfortable with and excited by him at all times.
Sounds like love, a little voice in my head sings.
But that can’t be right. I can’t be falling in love with Nikolai.
Guys with bullet holes aren’t keepers.
Even if they do make your heart sing.
Nikolai
I love taking Chelle to the Red Room. We haven’t been out together, other than our bicycle rides around the lakeshore or shopping, and I enjoy the thought of spoiling her. Or maybe I just like the idea of fitting into her life. As strange as that dinner with Skate 32 had been, I liked seeing a glimpse of her life. How she thinks when she works. Now I get to see how she plays.
“Well, hello, you two,” her girlfriend Shanna greets us when we arrive, sliding a cocktail napkin across the bar in front of each of us.
“Nikolai, this is Shanna. I think you sort of met last time.”
“We did.” I put my hand out to shake hers.
“He was mad at me for trying to help you get laid. But it looks like it all worked out in the end, right?” She winks at Chelle, who blushes a pretty pink.
“Don’t meddle in my sex life if you don’t want me to meddle in yours.” Chelle shoots a pointed look at the other bartender—a tattooed guy in his mid-thirties who looks like he’s doing inventory at the other end of the bar.
“Stop it,” Shanna says immediately.