The man in the suit slides gracefully into Reggie's vacated seat. My stomach does a backflip as his gaze rakes over me.

It's so strange-when Reggie glanced at my cleavage, I felt creeped out. But when this man does the exact same thing, I clench up from head to toe like I just stuck a fork in a wall socket.

"He's gone," I sigh. "Thank you for that."

"My pleasure."

I shuffle my feet under the table, feeling extremely self-conscious. Everything about him screams "sex appeal." Even the way his lips form the word "pleasure" feels like foreplay.

"Were you eavesdropping on me?" I ask. The silence is too much to bear.

He nods solemnly. "Of course."

"Why?"

"Because you caught my attention, kiska."

"I can't imagine why."

He nods, his expression growing thoughtful. "That makes two of us."

After about five seconds of another very pregnant silence, I clear my throat. "Well, thank you again for rescuing me. But I should, you know, head back now..."

Of course, that exact moment is when the waiter arrives with the drinks Reggie had ordered for us. "Sorry for the delay, ma'am," she says, setting the drinks down on the table.

"Head back? It would be a shame to waste a good drink," the man in the suit remarks.

Brianna's words flash through my head again. You're not even giving him a chance. When was the last time you were attracted to any man?

One thing is very obvious: this man does it for me. And she's right-I've spent years hiding from everyone with a Y chromosome.

This guy is here. He's hot. And he's looking at me like he wants to swallow me whole.

"Okay," I concede guiltily. "One drink. But first, tell me your name."

He grins and leans forward. "My name is Isaak," he says. "Isaak Vorobev."

2

ISAAK

"Your turn," I say.

"Huh?" She wrinkles her nose in confusion. It's an adorable quirk, and so utterly unfamiliar to me that I almost laugh out loud.

The women I usually fuck don't wrinkle their noses. They purr, they smile, they stroke your arm seductively. They know their power and how to use it.

This girl? She doesn't have a fucking clue.

But maybe that's why I'm here with her, instead of in bed with any of the other dozens of playthings at my disposal.

"Tell me your name," I explain. "I heard 'Cami.' I want to know all of it."

"Oh." She blushes. Again, fucking adorable. "Right. Cami. Short for Camila. Camila Ferrara."

"You prefer Camila?"

The dress she's wearing is simple but it hugs her figure deliciously. Her cleavage is subtle, almost teasing. I'd already imagined ripping down the neckline numerous times during my business meeting. The one I bailed on to come over here and rescue her from her idiot date.

"My family and friends call me Cami," she mumbles.

"Cami it is. After all, we did grow up next to each other."

She smiles. That's when I notice the dimple on her right cheek. Such an innocent little kiska, I think to myself. Kiska-Russian for kitten. A tiny, helpless little creature begging to be devoured. The name suits her.

I lean back in my seat and adjust my pants-mostly because my throbbing erection is starting to get distracting.

"You really didn't have to do that," she says. "Save me, I mean."

"As I said, it was my pleasure."

She cocks her head to the side. A spray of glossy blonde hair falls across one shoulder. "Do you make a habit of saving every stranger who looks like they're having a miserable time?"

"Only the beautiful ones."

She blushes and looks down nervously in her lap.

"You must've known what you were getting into the second he asked you out," I chuckle. "Based on the way he slinked to the exit, I'm surprised he had the balls to ask in the first place."

"He didn't ask," she says. "Not exactly."

I arch my eyebrow. "Explain."

"Well, what I mean is, he's been interested for a while and he kept asking my brother-in-law if I'd go out with him-"

"He sent a messenger boy to ask you on a date?"

I can't hide my disgust.

"He didn't want to make things awkward in case I said no."

"That's a coward's way out."

"I thought it was thoughtful."

"Then you need to raise your standards."

She recoils. "You realize we only met five minutes ago, right?"

I shrug, unfazed. "Good advice is good advice."

"What a gentleman you are," she sneers.

I chuckle and take a sip of the wine her date ordered. All things considered, it's not the worst selection in the world. "I've been accused of many things, kiska. But never that."

Her laughter is nervous. "I get the feeling you're not kidding."

"You deserve a man. Not a fucking fool who can't even pick up the bill."

She bristles at that. "I can pay my own way perfectly fine. Not every damsel is in distress, you know."

"No," I murmur with a smirk. "Some are in denial."

Her lips move silently for a moment like she can't think of a retort. But the blush on her cheeks is persistent.

As is my throbbing cock.

"If I've insulted you, I can always have Reggie brought back here," I suggest after a moment has passed. "You can finish your drink with him instead. Maybe even get dessert. I hear the crème brûlée is to die for."

"You wouldn't dare."

"You're wrong about that, kiska," I laugh. "I'd dare to do things you've never even dreamed of."

"You're not kidding about that either, are you?"

"No. Not in the slightest." I lean forward instinctively. Her lips are pursed and full. I want them wrapped around my cock. "Does that frighten you, Cami?"

"Oh, gee, am I that easy to read?" she retorts sarcastically.

"I'll tell you at the end of the night."

"Do you always speak in riddles?" Cami snaps. "Or are you just really leaning in to the whole 'handsome, mysterious stranger' deal?"

I chuckle and swirl the wine in the glass. "Did you just say I'm handsome?"

She rolls her eyes. "Don't do that. Don't pretend like you don't know you're handsome."

"Fair enough. No woman has ever complained."

"She'd have to be blind."

The energy between us has grown prickly and dangerous now. I wonder if she can feel it the way I can. Based on the way she clears her throat and stiffens her posture, I'm guessing the answer is yes.

I lean back in my seat and study her. "What do you like to do, Cami?"

"You mean besides go tit-for-tat with arrogant men in expensive suits?"

I shrug. "Everyone has a hobby."

"Let me assure you that this is not mine," she says solemnly. "This is very much a first time thing for me, you know."

"You've never been on a date before?"

"I've never abandoned one bad date for another, wise guy," she says, though she can't help but giggle. The sound is enough to drive a man crazy with lust. I have to adjust my cock again where it's straining at the zipper of my pants.

"And here I was, thinking we were getting along well," I drawl.

"Sorry to burst your bubble."

"You can make it up to me," I say coolly.

She wrinkles her nose again. It's bizarre how much that tiny little motion affects me. Like hooking up jumper cables to my balls. It makes me want to see what other faces she makes.

"How do you suggest I do that? No, better question: why would I do that?"

"You can do it like this-" I wave a hand over my shoulder and the bartender whose eyes have followed me all evening long comes scurrying over immediately with another pair of drinks. "And you should because I'm not the kind of man who likes being told no."

Cami's eyes widen when she sees the bartender set the drinks down on our table. "Oh, no, no, no," she stammers. "I said one drink. Now you're gonna start getting ideas."

"You were telling me about your hobbies," I say. "Continue."

She eyes the drink then me, back and forth, back and forth. Eventually, she sighs and her shoulders slump forward. "One more," she says. "But that's really it. I'm deadly serious."

I clink my glass to the edge of hers. "To the last drink we'll ever have, then."

The bartender has brought me whiskey neat this time. Twelve-year Glenlivet, one of the best bottles they keep in stock. I take a sip and relish the crisp edge and smooth burn as it slides down my throat.

Cami takes a tiny sip of her white wine and sets it back down on the table with trembling fingertips. "I read," she blurts suddenly.

"Books?"

"No, postcards," she snaps. "Yes, of course books."

"What kind of books?"

"Good books. Classics. Austen, Dickens, Du Maurier, Shakespeare. That kind of thing."

"Shakespeare, huh?" I muse. I stroke my clean-shaven jaw. "You strike me as a King Lear kind of girl. I always preferred Hamlet."

Her eyes leap up on her forehead. "You've read Hamlet?"

"Should I be offended by your surprise?"

She blushes guiltily. "Sorry. I just... You don't seem like a big reader."

"So yes, I should be offended."

Laughter bubbles through her lips. I can't take my eyes off her fucking smile. So goddamn innocent.

I eye her unapologetically. The flush has extended past her cheeks and down to her chest. The tops of her breasts are rosy now. Begging for attention.

Her green eyes are bright, shimmering with excitement, with the adrenaline of stepping outside of the neat lines of her life. She's bookish and quiet, a wallflower, a stay-out-of-the-way kind of girl. My polar fucking opposite.

And I notice that she's leaning towards me. Same as how I can't help leaning in towards her.

Our bodies seeking one another out.

The fact that I haven't yet touched her, apart from that fleeting kiss on the cheek, seems ridiculous. Damn near offensive. I'm itching to tear that dress off her and lick all the way down to her thighs.

"What else have you read?" she prods. "Or do you just throw out the Hamlet line to impress women?"

"Why do I get the feeling that I'm being tested?"

She picks up her wine glass and shrugs her shoulders in a gesture that's very femme fatale. I like her fire, her feistiness. "Am I making you nervous?" she teases.

"I'm never nervous. Merely intrigued."

"By the question?"

"By you."

She almost wilts under the intensity of my stare. Maybe this is all too much for a girl like her. She's not used to a man like me. A man who isn't afraid to take what he wants.

But then, at the last moment, she sucks in a frantic breath and straightens up. Shoulders back, eyes forward, spine tall, she looks me in the eyes and meets fire with fire.

I've never been harder.

"To answer your question, I've read a fair amount. Dostoevsky. Tolstoy. Bulgakov. Pushkin. Gogol. To name a few."

"All Russian authors," she says. "Am I right in assuming you are, too?"

I nod.

"Vorobev," she murmurs, her eyebrows knotting together thoughtfully. "Why do I feel like I've heard that name before?"

I give nothing away. The Bratva isn't exactly a commonly discussed topic in this city. Mostly because the cops don't like admitting they have no control over me or my men.

But we're not a secret, either.

"I couldn't say."

She smiles. "Is this you being mysterious again?"

"Maybe you should ask another question."

She purses her lips. "Fine. What do you do?"

"A lot," I reply vaguely. "I own many different businesses."

"Please don't say you're a 'self-made man,'" she says. "Reggie said it about thirty times tonight, and the phrase alone makes me want to throw up in my mouth."

I grin. "In some ways, yes; in others, no," I say. "But I've worked hard to build and expand them. So you shouldn't think I'm a-"

"A trust fund kid?"

I smirk. "I haven't been a kid for a long time."

Her smile slowly fades away. "I believe that."

As we lapse into silence, the eye contact between us takes on a different rhythm. The static in the air is more charged than ever.

I've seen green eyes before. But not like hers. The color is soft, mellow. The kind of green that you spy in the folds of the ocean, rippling between the deep blues and murky greys.

She jerks her gaze away from mine, breaking the eye contact. "The restaurant has cleared out," she points out.

I look around, realizing she's right. We're the only two still sitting at a table, though the staff is still milling around, cleaning up.

The streets have emptied out, too. Except for my armored G-Wagon, which is parked across the street, right in front of the SUV that holds my personal security detail.

As I'm looking out the window, something catches my eye. A man standing almost out of sight. He's average in height, balding at the top of his head, and wearing clothes that look like he's pilfered them off a homeless shelter.

But the direction of his gaze catches my eye.

Because it's not me he's looking at.

It's Cami.

And it's not the casual leer of a creep checking out a beautiful woman in a little black dress. It's more than that. There's intent behind his gaze.

I don't fucking like it.

But I wave the thought away, and as I do, the man straightens up and vanishes into the night. I'm being paranoid for no reason. My meeting still has me on edge.

"Isaak?"

The sound of my name tripping off her tongue feels strangely fucking erotic. My cock has been hard for a full hour now, and it's starting to become painful.

"Are you okay?"

"Why do you ask?"

"You just look like you're concentrating really hard right now."

I smile. "It's nothing to worry yourself about. Just business."

"You still haven't told me what these businesses of yours do," she points out.

"Because it's not important."

She shrugs. "I suppose we don't have time for that anyway," she says. "It's late. They'll want to close up."

"They'll stay open as long as I need them to."

She considers that for a moment. "Is that your way of telling me you're important?"

"Infer what you will."

She eyes me carefully, taking in my Dolce suit and the Hublot on my wrist. "You are important," she guesses. "And dangerous."

I lean in. "Not to you," I tell her. "Not now."

She lets out a little breath and leans away from me with a barely repressed shiver. "I... I should get back home." She jerks out of her seat to her feet.

"If you must," I say, rising to meet her. "But do you really want to?"

"It's late," she says. "What I want right now is to go home."

I nod and snap my fingers. The maître d' comes rushing forward with Cami's coat held out. I take it from him and offer it to her. She hesitates for a long moment, but eventually she turns and lets me slide it onto her arms.

I'm treated to a view of her backless dress. The graceful curve of her spine. All that beautiful skin, tanned and smooth. My fingers tingle with the need to touch every inch of her.

When the coat is settled on her shoulders, I leave my hands there to pin her in place. I can feel her stiffen.

Leaning down, I brush my lips against her earlobe and whisper, "Well, kiska, what I want right now is to take you into the bathroom and fuck you on the counter until you come screaming in my ear."

She rips away from me and whirls around as soon as the words have left my mouth. Her eyes are wide and her cheeks are flushed. She's trying to look offended.

But I can see it on her face: she wants the same fucking thing.

CAMILA

He's not joking.

Eyes like his don't joke.

Steel-edged, hauntingly blue, they gaze calmly at me, completely unrepentant after whispering that in my ear.

Scorching heat blazes through my body as I try to sort through my frantic thoughts.

I ought to slap him, right? I ought to throw a drink in his face and storm out? Aren't I supposed to demand more for myself?

So why does it feel like Isaak has ripped all those choices away from me?

And why can't I hate him for it?

"Stop," he says, regarding me coolly.

"Stop what?"

"Stop overthinking," he replies. "Life is not a book. It happens here. Now. In the blink of an eye."

"Thanks for the philosophy lesson," I scowl. But my joke falls flat and stale in the crackling air between us.

Isaak stalks a step closer. "It's a simple question, kiska. What. Do. You. Want?" He enunciates each word slowly and clearly. I watch his lips move. Mesmerized, hypnotized, completely and utterly out of my element.

Whatever "this" is, it can't be happening. The fact that I am even considering giving into the heat building in my belly is insane. It's not me.

I'm a quiet bookworm. I've read Little Women enough times that I could recite it from memory. I don't own a single set of matching underwear. I don't do... this.

But maybe I could?

Isaak cocks his head to the side and smirks. Goddamn, it's such an intoxicating expression on him. Arrogant enough to make my blood boil. Sexy enough to make my center throb.

He closes the last distance between us. I'm out of room to retreat. I bump into a wall and yelp, though it dies quickly on my lips.

His hand finds my hip. That simple little contact is enough to make me even more flustered. My eyes dart around the empty restaurant beyond Isaak's shoulder. But all the waiters and bartenders seem to have disappeared.

"We... I can't," I mumble. "There are people."

Isaak laughs cruelly. "You know as well as I do that they're gone."

"We still can't. There are... there are rules."

"Rules?" he echoes, as though he doesn't understand the word.

His hand slips inside my coat. Finds the hem of my dress. Slowly, slowly, slowly, he teases it up. Fingertips tracing tiny spirals up my thigh.

"We can't," I tell him, trying to pull down my skirt. "Someone will see." I hate how my voice sounds: I'm not telling him no, I'm just pleading with him for mercy. Throw me an excuse, any excuse, and I'll take it and run out of here.

But he's not biting. He's not giving me an out.

Those sparkling blue eyes are all I can see as he presses his bulk into mine. That cool, fragrant cologne is all I can smell, like an alpine forest. He's pinning me between the wall. Consuming me already.

His fingertip keeps inching up my dress. My hands won't move from my sides.

Say no, I'm begging myself silently. As confident and forward as Isaak is, I have a good feeling that he'll relent if I can just summon up that one little syllable.

But it's caught in my throat. Won't budge. Won't move.

I try and try and try to say it and for a moment, it feels like it's almost there, right on the tip of my tongue...

And then Isaak grazes my clit over the thin material of my Victoria's Secret panties, and the word No disappears like a wisp of smoke.

I gasp and shudder and clench Isaak's shoulders so I don't collapse to my knees. It's been a long time since a man touched me.

And even then, it was never like this.

"You're wet," he rumbles in my ear.

I tremble. But I'm past the point of embarrassment now. The only thing I can focus on is the feeling of his fingers, tap-dancing against my lips.

I shake my head, but I have no idea what I'm meant to say. Another man might have earned a slap.

But this man... If he wanted the fucking moon, he'd probably find a way to wrangle it from the sky.

I gasp again as he pulls aside the crotch of my panties and gives one teasing caress up my slit. My mouth rounds into a perfect, silent O when he parts me and slides a finger inside.

He moves painfully slowly. More patient than I would've ever thought possible. I nearly black out, and when I come to again one breath later, I realize I'm grinding my hips into his palm. My forehead is pressed against his muscled chest.

His name falls from my lips like a prayer. "Isaak..."

Chuckling, he pulls out slowly. Removes his hand from underneath my skirt.

And licks my juices right off the tips of his fingers.

"Sweet," he says. "Just as I suspected."

My jaw drops. "Who the hell are you?" I manage to gasp.

He smirks secretively. "Come with me and maybe you'll find out."

"I may read about heroines," I say quietly. "But that doesn't make me one."

"Then isn't it about time you changed that?"

He takes half a step backwards and holds out his hand to me. I miss his closeness, his warmth, his scent.

But it's right there. He's right there for the taking.

If I just let myself be brave.

So I eye his waiting hand for a moment before I slip my fingers into his palm.

He starts to pull me away, but a sudden thought crosses my mind. I dig my heels in. Isaak stops, turns to face me. "Why do you want this?" I blurt out. "Why me?"

His eyes shimmer. "I've never had much willpower when it comes to my vices."

I frown. "So I'm a vice now?"

"Without a fucking doubt."

Before I can ask for an explanation, he pulls me through the door of the restroom in the hall just behind him.

It's awash in white and gold. Marble countertops, golden inlay and taps, copper accents everywhere you look. The light comes from flickering candles set into sconces along the walls. The scent of lilac dances through the air.

Isaak strides into the middle of the space, then turns and surveys me. He strokes my cheek with the back of his hand.

"Those eyes," he murmurs to himself.

"My parents both have brown eyes," I say for some stupid reason. "So no one knows how I inherited this color. Mom claims that her mother had greenish eyes, but I never met her so I can't say for sure."

I know I'm rambling. But all the nervous energy inside me needs an outlet. It needs to devour the silence so that there won't be room for him to do something I won't be able to stop.

He had admitted to being important.

He had admitted to being dangerous.

And I'm the horny fool who walked into an empty bathroom in a deserted restaurant to be with him.

"She was the only grandparent I never met," I continue with my babbling. "She died when my mother was a little girl."

"Do you always chatter when you're nervous?" he asks, his fingers running through the locks of my hair.

"To be honest, I don't think I've ever been this nervous before."

He raises his eyebrows. "I'll take that as a compliment."

Then he leans in and presses his lips to mine.

Even though I'm expecting it, the kiss comes as a shock. His lips are full-bodied but gentle, still faint. He lingers for a moment before pulling me against his body and deepening it. His tongue flicks past mine. He tastes like whiskey and mint.

Isaak pulls away slightly. "If you want to walk away now, you can," he tells me.

"Would you even offer if you thought I'd take you up on it?"

His eyebrows arrow downward into a frowning V. "The choice is always yours, Camila."

The way he says my full name in that faint Russian accent of his makes me shudder. No one has ever said it quite like that. He makes it his own. He makes me his own.

"Are you always so sure of yourself?" I ask.

"Always."

"Must be nice."