Page 135 of Koroleva

"Are you fucking stupid or what?" The blond pulled the garment off his face, angrily balled it up, and came over to my bed side. "Oil doesn't come off that easily!"

"No shit, well then we're even, the stains from my dick won't leave your shirt, just like you won't leave my mind, my body, or any part of my organism. You're all my desires."

I was hoping he'd admit he felt the same, that he was acting like an idiot by putting a distance I hadn't asked for. I wanted him to accept that, like it or not, we were attracted to each other and that it probably didn't just end there and that's why he was terrified to sleep with me.

Andrey stood there, stiff as a rock, with those pair of blue eyes that made me want to dive into them. He clenched the shirt in his fist, while his chest rose and fell inside that armor full of muscles and tendons.

"Forget us," he whispered.

"I can't," I confessed.

"Well, you have to."

"Why? What's wrong? Tell me, let me understand what's blocking you. And don't tell me it's because we barely count it, or because you want to focus on work and keep Koroleva safe, because I don't believe you."

I saw him hesitate between speaking or remaining silent. Finally, he spoke with his back to me, heading to throw the garment with the rest of the dirty laundry.

"I'm not your man. I have nothing for you, nor do I have anything else to say."

If the pain had allowed, I would have stood up and shown him in a thousand different ways.

"Well, I think you do. What happens is that, no matter how cold you are, when you're near me, you melt, and that's why you can't stand the idea of continuing to share a mattress with me, because you'd end up being a fucking lake for me to dive into. Because, whether you like it or not, I am your sin and you were born to sin."

His back was so stiff I could have snapped it in two with a sharp blow.

"You sound like a cheap preacher and I've long stopped believing," he muttered without looking at me. "Dante is out there, so you'll know if you want to greet him with your dick out for his last rites. Have a good time."

"Andrey, damn it, Andrey! Look at me!" He didn’t care that I called or that I pleaded, because he walked out the door without giving me a few seconds to cover my embarrassments.

Dante peeked his head and I felt like jumping up and beating the Russian until I split that thick head open and saw what he buried in it.

"May I?" asked my friend, shaking a pack of beers.

"Come in. You're sure to give me better conversation than that son of Perestroika." The manager of the Angeli dall'inferno bar offered one of his best smiles.

Dante was the typical guy you could imagine cruising down Route 66 on a Harley. His appearance was so tough that if he crossed paths with a family mother, she might make the sign of the cross, clutch her purse, or change sidewalks. He looked intimidating, however, beneath that long hair and thick beard was a joker and the most loyal of friends. It didn't matter that he was capable of doing things that scared most people, like all of us.

"Your little friend doesn't seem to be at his best, maybe you should find another to heat up your cock," he admitted sarcastically.

Dante had realized what was going on between Andrey and me from the day at the club. There was no need to ask him to keep quiet, because he was the embodiment of discretion. He had no prejudices and didn't meddle in such matters because Dante was on my team. We had never gotten intimate, I hadn't slept with him, he wasn't my type, nor did he play in the same league as me. He was more into leather, whips, and bears.

He set the beers on the bedside table and opened a couple.

"As if it were that easy," I admitted. "Do me a favor and let's talk about something else. What's new with you?"

"I was thinking of distracting you for a while, but since you're asking..."

"Shoot," I urged him, knowing something was up, it was obvious by the way he twirled the bottle in his hands.

"I'm worried, sugar sales have dropped fifteen percent, and I don't want to worry the boss, he's got enough on his plate with the Russian pearl." We called coke "sugar" because there was nothing more addictive than the sweet. His comment worried me.

"Fifteen percent is a lot."

"Yeah, the damn Chinese are undercutting costs, selling like it's fucking AliExpress."

"Do you mean their product is of poor quality?"

"No. I mean that if they continue at this rate, I see us putting our asses on a roundabout. Some of our best clients are opting to buy from them and the quality is more than acceptable." I drank from the beer bottle.

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