Page 4 of Stricken

We both know what we want, so instead of tiptoeing around it, I go for a kill. "Are you offering to make it better?"

His lips morph into a seductive smile. "Are you looking to feel better tonight?"

My buzz intensifies. I know there's always the possibility of being watched. Vlad Solovey can't be seen leaving with another man.

With a sigh, I push to my feet, the pleasant hum in my head fading to a distant echo. Snagging a napkin from the holder, I scrawl my room number with a pen I grab from the bartender as he passes. It's an impulse. An invitation to keep the charade going a little longer.

I slide the napkin toward the stranger, my fingertips grazing his knuckles. An electric thrill rushes through me at the contact.

As if sensing this, he licks his lips.

"Thanks for the drink." Then I turn and walk away, feeling the heat of his stare between my shoulder blades and a shiver whispering down my spine that has nothing to do with the California coast chill outside.

* * *

Upstairs, the whiskey from the mini-bar in my room swirls in my glass like a miniature storm of regret and desire. I knock the drink back, savoring the flavor.

The room spins slightly as reality settles in. The voice that sounds a lot like Father's, judgmental and heavily accented, says in my head:What possessed you to give that stranger your room number, Vladimir?

I shake it off and pour another, my hands trembling slightly. The weight of family expectations presses down me. Even now when I'm my own man, living across the ocean. If my father were alive, he'd spit on me for even considering this... dalliance.

But he's not here. I made sure of it. He's where he's supposed to be. In his grave.

My mind drifts to my little brother. He's living openly now, free from the suffocating grip of our family's toxic legacy. A twinge of envy mixes with fierce pride.

I reach for my phone, finger hovering over Sasha's name. To hear his voice, to know he's safe...

A sharp knock shatters the silence.

My heart jumps into my throat. I cross the room, pulse thundering in my ears, and flip the lock. The door swings open.

He stands there, Adonis in the flesh, jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder. Tie undone, hanging around his neck, loose. A wolfish grin plays on his lips.

"Well," he purrs, eyeing me up and down, "seems I've hit the jackpot tonight."

I realize I discarded my own jacket a while ago—when I returned to my suite—and my shirt is halfway unbuttoned. It almost feels as if I'm naked when I'm not put together.

You don't need clothes for what you're about to do, a voice in my head whispers. This time it sounds nothing like Yuri, thank God.

I step aside, wordless. The stranger from the lounge saunters in, whistling low as he takes in the suite. He's pretending to be impressed, but I can see it in his eyes he's used to luxury the same way I am. He's grown up in it. Everything about him, including his diamond Chanel watch, tells me so. Bold choice. But he wears it well. This man is no opportunistic hustler.

"Presidential suite, huh?" the stranger comments, tossing his jacket on the couch as I shut the door closed right after slipping the do-not-disturb sign on the handle outside.

"You're one to talk," I counter, taking a sip of the drink I'm still holding in my hand.

He laughs. That rich sound that makes me forget who I am. "Touché. In that case, shall we dispense with the pretense? We both know why I'm here."

I nod, a primal hunger rising within me as I set my tumbler on the table nearby. "Let's get down to business then," I whisper under my breath, taking a step in his direction.

He moves closer too.

The distance between us shrinks until it disappears entirely. I inhale deeply, eyes half-closed against the dim light of the room. "You smell like fucking," I tell him, grabbing the front of his shirt.

"So do you," he replies, his eyes— intense and impossibly blue—never leave mine, and it feels like he's staring right down into my soul. Up until now, I thought this was only a dumb fairytale you'd find in books. A gaze so profoundly deep a person could read you without saying a word or posing a question. But here he is, a stranger, whose name I won't ask, looking at me like he knows every one of my secrets, even those I myself have forgotten.

"Just to be clear," I supply, yanking at his shirt slightly, "I do the fucking."

He smirks. "Only if I let you, Hot Shot."

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