"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."

He grins. But he knows one thing: I'm not going anywhere.

Gripping my hip with one huge hand, he reels me into him again. This time, the kiss is more passionate, more aggressive. His lips plunder mine as he paws at my waist. He walks me backward. I stop only when my back hits the cool marble of the countertop.

I've never been so turned on by a kiss. Then, before I can catch my breath, he's spun me around so that my back is to him. Our reflections staring back at us.

Isaak towers over me. His face is cast in shadow, but those eyes shine through anyways like they're lit from within. It's hard to look away.

I watch with bated breath as his hands trail over my figure, tracing my shape slowly. He peels my coat off and lets it fall at our feet. Then his fingers are at my side, pulling down the zipper holding me in this dress.

I couldn't wear a bra with it, so when the last of the zipper gives way and the dress peels down, my breasts spring free. Isaak cups one in his palm and tweaks my nipple. I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out.

My panties are completely soaked through. I might be embarrassed if I weren't so desperate for him.

When he starts pinching my nipples between his fingers, my spine arches of its own accord and the back of my head hits his chest.

One hand finds my throat and squeezes gently. Enough to threaten danger. The other hand slides leisurely down my front. Dips past the hem of my panties.

And finds the part of me that wants him most.

He fingers me gently, eliciting hard-won moans as I struggle to keep quiet. I grip the edge of the counter for stability. My legs are turning to jelly with every passing second.

I feel the shift in the air at the same time he does. This isn't enough, it's saying. We need more.

With a feral growl, Isaak grabs my panties in one hand and jerks them halfway down my thighs. Then he plants a heavy palm on the back of my neck and shoves me forward.

That stupid, preachy voice cries out in my head again. Shouldn't you slap him? Shouldn't you be offended? Shouldn't you say no?

I always would've said I'm not the type of girl who has sex like this.

But maybe there's more to us than we ever realize.

And it takes a man like Isaak to bring that part to light.

I can't see his hand with my cheek pressed flush against the cold marble, but I can feel him moving behind me. Can hear the sound of his zipper rustling.

And then, when his hardness brushes up against my opening, I cry out.

There's a slight nagging in the back of my head. A gentle reminder that's alerting me to the fact that I might be forgetting something. He might be forgetting something.

But in the next second, he pushes inside me, filling me with one deep thrust, and I forget everything.

My own name vanishes and my control over my cries goes with it as he starts fucking me.

He's going so slow, though. Even as every grind of his hips fills me more than I've ever been filled before, it's not enough to feed the fire.

I start to push myself back onto his cock, but he stops me by gripping my hips in place.

"No, kiska," he growls ferociously. "You'll move when I say you can move. Moan when I say you can moan. Is that understood?"

He's still pinning me down to the expanse of marble between the gilded sinks. I try to nod, but Isaak's fingers tamp down on the back of my neck. At the same time, he slaps my bare ass hard. I cry out.

"Use your words," he orders. His face is a mask of cruel and savage lust.

"Yes," I whisper back. Hating myself for saying it. Loving him for making me.

I glance up and catch sight of myself in the mirror. I'm splayed out before him, and he dominates the mirror, his reflection larger than life and intensely powerful. It's the sexiest thing I've ever seen.

Then, satisfied, he starts pounding into me, fucking me hard. Each thrust forces out a moan. Louder and louder.

I'm wide open and soaking wet for him. He's so deep that he's making my eyes roll back in my head.

And it's still not enough.

"That's a good girl," he murmurs, leaning down to nip my ear between his teeth. His fucking gets harder and harder. Our hips crash together. My hair dances in a frenetic halo around my head.

I feel the orgasm coming from a long way off. The tempo increases, bringing it closer, closer, closer...

Until it's almost on me. Until I'm scratching and clawing at the marble. Until my throat is raw from moaning and my legs are shaking from supporting my weight and Isaak still hasn't stopped fucking me harder, as hard as he can, as hard as I can take it.

Until it breaks over me and drowns me in its waves.

The first clench has me spasming. Isaak keeps me pinned in place. His body flush over mine. I need that solidity. That comfort. That smell.

Otherwise, this orgasm might break me.

He fucks me again. Again. Again.

Then, just as the most intense contractions pass, he takes his turn. He grabs my hair into a makeshift ponytail and uses it to jerk me upright.

Then, with his hand on my throat, he empties himself with a roar.

I almost come again at the sight of his face in the mirror as he erupts. A single bead of sweat trickles down his perfect cheekbone.

I'm breathing hard. Sweat gathers at the base of my neck and across my collarbone. Isaak pulls out and grabs a pair of the ivory hand towels from the rack on the counter.

He offers me one. I take it, though I keep one hand planted on the marble so I don't fall over. My legs are mush and the rest of me isn't much stronger.

My thoughts are slowly drifting back to earth as I clean myself up.

And then it hits me.

The nagging feeling I'd had just before he'd entered me wasn't irrational. I'm not on the pill. And he didn't use a condom.

I turn to him, my eyes going wide with panic.

"What did we-"

But my words are drowned out by something that I feel as much as I hear. An explosion. A wall of sound and air that hits me like a fist in the chest.

The walls buckle.

"Oh my God," I gasp, but I can't even hear myself over the aftermath of the explosion.

I turn around just in time to see Isaak pull out a gun that he'd been concealing somewhere in his expertly tailored suit.

And all I can think is...

What have I gotten myself into?

4

ISAAK

I cock the gun and focus my attention on the door.

I'd been foolish to think I could afford one night of escape.

There's no room for respite in my world.

There's no chance of forgetting.

"Isaak?"

I glance towards Camila, but I refuse to take my eyes off the door.

It's our only way out of here and I don't want to be forced into a corner by Maxim and his fucking goons.

I grab her hand and pull her behind me. "Get dressed," I tell her urgently. "We don't have time."

"Time? Time for w... what? What's going on?"

"The restaurant has been attacked. They're here for me."

"How do you know?"

"That explosion wasn't for show."

"I mean, how do you know whoever is out there is here for you?" she asks, stumbling into her dress. She's struggling with the zipper, but it's stuck on something and won't budge.

"I told you," I say. "I'm an important person. Which means I have a lot of enemies."

The walls shake again. Another crack fissures through the wall we're facing.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God..." Camila repeats again and again.

"Camila," I say, forcing her eyes to mine. "Do you trust me?"

She hesitates, but the nod that follows is confident. "Yes."

"I'm going to get you out of here in one piece, okay?"

She trembles a little, but gives me another nod.

My phone starts to vibrate, and I pull it out and pick up immediately. "Vlad, is it him?"

"It's him, boss. I'm sorry, we should have-"

"There's no point in 'should have' now. How many men?"