Page 68 of Vicious Addictions

“Found him,” Mina murmurs, snapping me back to reality.

Fuck.

Here I am, daydreaming of making Mina come with my fingers when she was keeping her eyes on tonight’s real prize.

Never again, I promise myself.

Never again will I go on a job with her.

She muddles my thoughts and makes me stupid.

“Where?” I ask once I’m back in control.

“First row. Center stage.”

I follow her line of vision and find the man we’re looking for. Impeccably dressed, he sits alone, with two men behind him standing watch.

“Are you sure he’sjusta dealer?” Mina asks suspiciously. “He seems… important.”

She’s right. He doesn’t look like your run-of-the-mill drug dealer—helooksmade.

He must sense our eyes on him because he slowly begins to turn his head, just enough for his gaze to lock onto ours.

Shit.

I react on instinct, cupping Mina’s face and crashing my lips against hers.

It’s supposed to be a decoy—a strategic farce to throw him off our scent.

But the second our lips touch and her mouth parts ever so invitingly, I’m done for.

All plans vanish from my mind, and all that exists is her.

All that has ever existed is Mina.

I’ve craved her kiss more than I’ve craved oxygen to fill my lungs. The memory of our first kiss pales in comparison to this one. This one is desperate and all-consuming.

As if we knew we’d never get this stolen moment back once we pull away.

Because that’s exactly what this is—stolen time from the path we’re both on.

I deepen the kiss, tasting, taking—owning

My pulse skips a beat when her nails begin to rake down my shirt, her soft moan lost in the bass of the music.

“Ahem.” The sound of someone clearing their throat nearby is what reluctantly pulls us apart. We look up and find a waitress standing at the foot of our table with a champagne bottle and two flute glasses in her hands. “Mr. Pavlin wants to welcome you to his club,” she says, placing the glasses on the table.

I exhale, steadying myself as she pours the champagne into the glasses before setting the bottle on the table.

“Much obliged,” I reply, ensuring that my American accent is nice and thick for her to report back to her boss. “Pavlin? What an interesting name. Polish?”

“Slovenian, I think,” the waitress replies.

“Ah, well, tell Mr. Pavlin that we’re both enjoying the show immensely.”

She smiles at us, but Mina says nothing. Her lips are swollen, and her breath is still uneven.

I smirk, lifting my champagne glass toward our host. He raises his own in return without a smile—just a long, unreadable stare—before turning his attention back to the stage.

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