Page 88 of Craving Dahlia

I feel the rough brush of plastic sliding into my knee-high sock, and my mouth goes dry, my stomach knotting as the temperature in the room spikes. “Thanks,” I whisper as Maks straightens, that cocky smirk back on his face.

“You’re welcome.” After a tangible pause, he gestures for me to carry on with my night, and I practically sprint down the stairs, slinging my leg over the velvet rope rather than unhooking it in my desperation to run away.

“Oh my god, were you just talking to Maksim Yashkov?” Claire asks, her green eyes wide with disbelief once again as I slide our tray of shots onto the table.

“Um, I’m not sure—” I glance back over my shoulder to find those captivating blue eyes still watching me. My heart skips a beat. “Come on, let’s take the shots.”

“Can I point out the fact that our girl just waltzed into the VIP section and actually came back with drinks?” Tommy toasts as we raise our shot glasses.

I slam mine, resisting the urge to cringe as the tequila burns down the back of my throat, settling in my stomach. A moment later, its warmth seeps into my veins, helping me relax.

“Yeah, whoever he is, tall, dark, and handsome is still eye fucking you,” Annie observes, looking over my shoulder as she ogles him appreciatively, Jackson completely forgotten behind her.

Breath catching in my throat, I glance back to find him watching me, one eyebrow raised, and my stomach does a nervous flip-flop.

“I mean, if they all came in packages like that, I might spend the night with an older man,” Mirabelle quips with a giggle as all eyes from my table turn to look at Maks.

“Are you kidding me?” Claire asks. “That’s not just some hot older man, you guys.He’s the owner of the Dungeon.”

“I thought you said it belongs to the mob,” Annie counters, her tone playfully skeptical.

My pulse quickens as I watch Maks watching me.Could he be some kind of mobster?The air of danger that surrounds him makes me think it’s possible. Licking my suddenly dry lips, I turn to take a sip of my sickly sweet drink.

When I sneak a peek over my shoulder, those sharp blue eyes are gone, and I can’t help the sinking disappointment.

ChapterTwo

Lindsey

If I thought I was nervous the last time we came to the Dungeon, this time I can barely stand still as I wait for the same dark-haired bouncer to look at my ID and compare it to my face.He stamps the same red devil onto the back of my hand, and just like that night, I’m intensely relieved to make it past his scrutiny and through the club door, where I can escape the frigid Chicago breeze.

I check my coat before following Mirabelle and Annie down the hall of twinkling stars that reflect back at me from the floor. I can’t stop thinking about what Claire said that night—how the Dungeon has ties to the Russian mob. Chicago’s ‘Bratva’ is what she called it, though I’m unfamiliar with the term. I thought the mafia was from Italy, but what do I know? When I think of Maks, though—I can’t help thinking Claire might have been trying to pull my leg. He does give off powerful-businessman vibes, and I could go so far as to believe he owns the club, but being involved with the Bratva? I just think he seems a bit charming for that.

My stomach trembles as we step into the club, and it might be because I’m hoping to run into my sexy older Russian again—just so I can see if I believe the rumors are true. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. It’s not because I can’t stop thinking about Maks since our brief exchange last weekend. At the time, running from a bad decision seemed like the smart thing to do, but I would be lying if I said I haven’t pictured Maks while using my vibrator since then. My curiosity over what it would be like to sleep with an older man—who knows his way around a woman’s body—has continued to grow since that night.

It’s easier to find a table tonight, with just the three of us and no boys to complicate the question. A table full of college frat bros stop us almost as soon as we enter the club, inviting us to join them, and it would seem they’ve paid for table service because a server appears for a drink order within minutes of us sitting.

We order cocktails, me settling for a paloma after recalling the sickly sweet neon drink John got us last week. As we wait for them to arrive, I study the frat boy sitting next to Mirabelleand across from me. His eyes are already nearing glazed with inebriation, and he keeps them focused on the dancers behind me. His fascination with them is even more blatant than mine last week, and maybe it’s hypocritical of me, but the way he ogles them makes my nose wrinkle with disgust. Where I snuck peeks of the erotic display, embarrassed by my interest in their sensual moves, this khaki and polo-wearing college boy is openly riveted and practically drooling over the entertainers. From the look on Mirabelle’s face, she’s not thrilled to be sitting next to him either.

“You girls look like you came to have some fun!” the blond frat bro next to me shouts in my ear just as our drinks arrive.

As I take my first sip of tequila and grapefruit, he slings his arm over the back of the booth so his fingers brush across my shoulder. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, my mind automatically comparing him to the last man who hit on me at this club, and the frat boy doesn’t stand a chance. In a mint-green button-down with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, he reeks of Old Spice as he unleashes his dimples on me like he thinks he’s halfway into my panties already. He’s clean shaven, but I can tell from the hint of reddish stubble that he’s still working on growing a full beard—not at all like Maks’s dark, gray-flecked five o’clock shadow. A vivid recollection of his intelligent sky-blue eyes makes this frat boy’s flat brown ones look dull and emotionless as they scan down my body.

“Yeah, we like to dance,” I agree, pulling my gray-and-tan tweed mini skirt a little farther down my thighs. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t pick my outfit tonight in the hopes of earning a second chance at that invitation my sexy older Russian extended to me last week. My white sweetheart neckline crop top with cap sleeves shows off just a bit more of my cleavage and midriff, too, my high-waist zip-front skirt a little flirtier, but sitting next to this overly-fragrant frat boy, I’m starting to regret my choice. Iscan the VIP section once again, searching for the man I can’t seem to get off my mind.

“You looking for your boyfriend?” Annie teases, smiling wickedly before she leans forward to take a sip of her drink.

“You have a boyfriend?” Disappointment tinges the frat boy’s voice as he grudgingly starts to withdraw his hand from my shoulder.

“He’s not my boyfriend.” I narrow my eyes at Annie, then realize I maybe should have gone with it, even if that meant she gave me a hard time, because the scent of Old Spice immediately assaults my nose as the blond frat boy leans closer again.

“Oh good.” Turning to face me more fully, the frat boy taps the corner of my glasses, knocking them against the bridge of my nose. “Because I’m digging your sexy librarian vibe.”

Ew, if this is him trying to flirt, he really needs a lesson or two from Maks.Grabbing my paloma, I skip the straw and take a healthy gulp to remind myself the girls didn’t invite me out tonight so I could flirt with my sexy older Russian—no, not mine,I have to remind myself. But the alcohol does little to soften the edge of the frat boy’s overbearing presence. “You girls wanna dance?” I suggest, glancing between Annie and Mirabelle.

Annie seems oblivious to the bad choice in seating companions, but Mirabelle looks just as ready to abandon ship as I am.

“Yep!” she says, nudging Annie back out of the booth.

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