Page 8 of Only For Your Touch
“Quiet,” he bit out, before he reached around her, plucked her drink from her hand, and firmly set it on the bar top. “That’s on me,” he informed the bartender, who didn’t even pretend not to be an avid spectator.
With a palm to the small of her back, he guided her away from the bar and cut a path through the thick crowd with an ease that resulted from respect, power, or fear—probably all three in his case. He strode alongside her, his big body providing a barrier of sorts between her and everyone else. That small act of chivalry, even as he probably planned on throwing her ass out of the club, had her stomach fluttering.
He led her to the other side of the club and around the second bar to an unmarked door. After opening it, he waved her into the room, and as she brushed past him, her shoulder grazed his hard chest. Good Lord. If just that simple touch had a maelstrom of sparks dancing over her skin, she would be reduced to ashes by the end of the night…if he agreed to her plan. No, when,whenhe agreed.
He flipped the light switch next to her head, and a quick glance revealed that they stood in an office. She scanned the large desk, big armchairs, and filing cabinets before settling back on the Russian who waited patiently for her to refocus on him.Well, she amended, meeting his narrowed gaze,maybe not so patiently.
“I don’t know what—” he snarled.
“What’s your name?” she blurted.
“What?”
“What’s your name?” she repeated. “I’m tired of calling you the Russian or Ragnar in my head, so I just wanted to know…”Oh shit. She sounded like a babbling idiot, but damn it, with him, she couldn’t find her off button.
He stared at her, his shuttered expression and inscrutable scrutiny concealing none of his thoughts. “Ragnar isn’t Russian,” he said flatly.
“Yeah, I know, but well, you’re big like him. Blond. Then there are the eyes, and the—”
“Sasha,” he ground out, interrupting what would’ve been a humiliating tangent about the similarities between him and the legendary Viking. “Sasha Merchant.”
Sasha. She mentally rolled the name around on her tongue. It fit him. Exotic. Strong. Sensual. Especially when spoken in that dark, rumbling voice with the faint accent. She hadn’t been able to shake that sex-and-ice voice from her head last night; it’d whispered in her ear when she’d finally managed to sleep, repeating every dirty,hotthing he’d uttered to her.
Do you want me to play with your pussy?
Do I suck you off, or do I finger-fuck you?
That voice was a temptation. It was sin. A weapon lethal to every woman between the ages of sixteen and dead.
“It’s nice to meet you, Sasha,” she murmured, stretching her hand toward him. When he aimed a pointed glance down at her extended arm, she dropped it, rubbing her palms against her leather-clad thighs. “Right. We met already.” Holy Mary, mother of God, when did she transform into one of the dimwitted bimbos that, according to one of the papers, her father “kept” in his downtown condo?
“What are you doing here, and what does the wig have to do with it?” He sneered at the word “wig” as if it offended him.
She surreptitiously patted the hair piece, making sure it was on straight. “Last night you told me I was too recognizable.” Actually, he’d said she was naïve to think she wouldn’t be recognized. And he’d followed that up with her being a liability to the clubhecouldn’t afford. God, that had stung. “So I figured wearing this”—again she touched the platinum strands—“would be the solution to that problem.”
“Not when the problem is you being here in the first place. And you really believe changing your hair color is enough to conceal your identity?” He edged closer, his wolf gaze hooded, the corner of his hard but carnal mouth lifting into a half smile that held no trace of amusement. “Yes,lisichka, your hair is distinctive, but you can’t hide those tits or that ass. Any man with a dick and eyes would recognize them. And I’ve touched both.” He reached out, smoothed the pad of his thumb over her eyebrow, her cheekbone, the line of her jaw. “Did you really think I wouldn’t know you?” he asked, his hand falling away.
She couldn’t speak—not at first. Lust had vaporized her voice like fire evaporated water into steam. No one had ever spoken to her so…so frankly. And definitely not so sexually. A man didn’t dare stare too long at Carmine Salvaggi’s daughter, much less comment on her “tits and ass.” It should’ve been offensive… But, God help her, it wasn’t. Instead of stirring disdain or disgust, he—his boldness, his stunning sexuality, even the hardness that hinted at the capability of cruelty—ignited an unfamiliar heat so deep inside her, her sex clenched around the phantom ache. And then there had been the tenderness of his touch that had belied the carnality of his words. The man had her reeling. Confused. And so turned-on she ached.
“I wasn’t trying to hide from you,” she explained, flattening her palms on the wall behind her. “I wanted to find you.”
He stilled, and the sharp angles and lines of his face could’ve been carved from the ice of his homeland. “What game are you playing?”
He pressed closer, like last night, placing his hands on either side of her head, caging her between the wall and his big body. His scent reached out to her, and she inhaled, humming. If he were a scratch ’n’ sniff picture, he would be a cold winter morning in the woods with the sun spilling through naked branches. Earthy. Crisp. Fresh. And damn if it didn’t make her hungry.
He pinched her chin, tilted her head back to meet his piercing stare. “Why. Are. You. Here?”
Impatience clipped each of those words, and she ordered herself to focus on his demand and not on how his firm hold had her swallowing back a moan. Because she suspected her time for explanations was running out.
“Last night,” she breathed. “I want more of what you gave me last night.”
Slowly, he straightened. Took a step back. Away from her.
A stab of panic speared her, and she almost moved forward to reclaim the distance he’d placed between them. But caution, instinct—or that burst of embarrassment that pulsed through her at his rejection—glued her back to the wall.
“That was a mistake, and I already explained why you shouldn’t be here.”
“Because I’m bad for business. Got that,” she said, unable to prevent her bitterness from creeping in. “Having the daughter of a crime boss as a patron really taints the imageof yoursex club.”
