Zoey sips at her drink, and I point to it. “What are you drinking?”
“Dirty martini,” she says.
That sums her up. “You want another?”
I expect her to say no and continue sipping at her drink. She shocks me when she downs it, licks her bright painted lips and nods. “Sounds good. Thank you.”
Zoey, it seems, likes to live life on the edge a little. She’s a tree hugging bad girl, how intriguing.
“Is it good?” I ask when she tastes the newly prepared cocktail the bartender places in front of her.
“Hhhhmm, delicious. Have a taste.” She slides the glass over to me, her fingers touching mine where they rest on the bar. Her nail polish is a shocking pink too, to match her lips. I want to smear that lipstick all over her face as I kiss her so hard, she tastes me for days.
I take the glass and take a sip. God, that is good.
She grins. “See? There’s a reason James Bond drinks a martini. Maybe you should have one?”
I shake my head. “I’m still taking it easy.”
“Oh?”
So she doesn’t know about me being shot. Then I think to myself, why the hell would she? K might have taken her out to Corfu to work with Maxim, his friend from back home, but he didn’t have her stay at Andrius’ place. She’s not his friend. She’s his employee. Curious, I lean toward her.
“Tell me it’s none of my business, but did you and K ever screw?”
She doesn’t blush, or simper, or tell me to get lost. She shakes her head, takes another olive, sucks it into her mouth, chews, swallows then hits me with a direct stare. “No. We met in a bar. I asked him if he wanted to fuck, but I’ll be honest with you. He’s not my type, but I’d had a shitty week. Really shitty. Almost as shitty as this one,” she adds. “Sometimes, when things are that bad, only drinking, dancing, and sex can help. I’d been drinking, I wasn’t in the mood for dancing, so when I saw Konstantin, I thought I’d try the sex approach. It didn’t happen.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. He came back to my place. It was a shitty place then, but I’ve got a better one now, thanks to the job he gave me. He saw my drawings and said they were amazing. Offered me a job. Effectively said he didn’t screw the help, hence the sex was off the menu, and left.”
“You weren’t offended?” A lot of women would be offended; I’m sure of it.
“Nah, course not. I got a job out of it. That’s better, right?” She smirks at me. “Anyway, like I say, he’s not really my type. I wasn’t in lust with him or anything.”
“What’s your type?”
She smiles again. “Dark hair. Blue-green eyes. Ink. Built but lean. Cut, you know?” She glances at my forearm where I have a tattoo on the inside of my arm.
She brushes her fingers over it, featherlight. Just that, a simple touch, has me on fire for her.
“Men who have tattoos in languages I don’t understand.”
“You’re not backward in coming forward,” I note.
“Would you prefer me to be?” She smiles at me. “Like the little lady to wait to be asked?”
“Hell no.”
“What does it say?” She nods at the ink.
“Voyage, in Russian lettering.”
“Can I ask the meaning behind it?”
I touch the ink with my forefinger. “It’s a reminder that life is a voyage. An adventure. A journey. It’s not meant to be spent static, you know? A voyage, it’s an experience. Life should be too.”
She touches it again, her slender pointer finger right next to mine. “It’s kind of deep.”
“Well, Zoey, if you’re going to etch something into your skin for life, it should have meaning, no?”
“Absolutely.”
“Want to compare ink?” I give her a cheeky grin, and she answers it with one of her own.
“Absolutely,” she says again.
“Come. I got a room. Hope that wasn’t too presumptuous?”
“Absolutely not.”
I bark out a laugh at that. “Come on, Zoey, with a Y. Let's tear shit up and see if we can make you forget for a while.”
When we reach the room, she pushes me inside, kicking the door closed behind her, and she’s on me with a hunger that matches my own. Our teeth clack as our mouths clash.
Her lipstick tastes like cherries, and she smells of something sweet like watermelon.
She’s a walking bag of contradictions. Hard and soft. Sweet but rough. Tough style, breathy, feminine voice. Who the fuck is the real Zoey? Is she a complex diamond made up of all these facets? Or are some of them a disguise?
I want to rip her dress right off, but I don’t. She hasn’t any other clothes with her, so that would be a dick move. Instead, I turn her around, so she’s facing the wall, and undo the zipper. It drops to the floor with a soft swoosh of fabric and pools around her ankles. She steps out of it and turns to me. I take in the feast that is her.
Yep, such a contradiction. I was expecting black and maybe lace when it came to her underwear. Instead, she’s wearing a baby pink camisole with matching panties. I reach out and touch it and realize it’s real silk. You can always tell the real stuff.
This I will rip from her body, I decide. She can walk home in just the dress. I take the camisole in my hands, look right into her pale blue eyes, and tear it from her. She smiles, and it is dark and filled with satisfaction.
“How rough do you want it?” I ask.
“Rough.”
“How rough?”
“Enough to leave bruises. Not enough to do lasting damage.”
My cock is so hard it’s going to burst. Fuck me. God invented my perfect woman, named her Zoey, and put her on this earth living in London. Why can’t she be in Moscow?
Then again, the way this is going, it’s a good thing she doesn’t. We’d probably end up in some sort of fucked up, messed up, destructive relationship, and right now, I’ve got to focus one hundred percent on building up what K gave me.
I’ll fuck her and get her out of my system.
She drops to her knees and undoes my belt. When she looks up at me and licks those smeared, hot-pink lips, I swallow hard. Undoing my zipper, she takes me out, sliding her hand down the length of me.
I’m well endowed. Enough that with one girlfriend it was a bit of an issue. She only liked it from certain angles as she said it hurt. Zoey doesn’t look worried though; she looks greedy.
As she licks at the tip of me, her hands cup my balls and squeeze. Soon, she’s sucking down half my dick, using her hand to work the other half, and fondling my balls. Jesus Christ.
I pull her to her feet and undress. As I do, I stare at her perky tits, the pink nipples all hard.
“You got that lip gloss you’re wearing on you?” I ask her.
She nods once, turns to her bag that she threw on the dresser, opens it and takes a tube out. I take it from her and push some of the gloopy liquid to the tip of the tube. Then I smear it all over her lips again. She smacks them together and stares at me as she pouts. Her eyes widen when I do the same thing again to each nipple.
Now she has gloopy lip gloss on each hard nub, and I rub it in, smoothing it over her areolas too.
I stand back and admire her. The front of her silky panties is damp, and the patch is spreading.