Velvet Devil: A Russian Mafia Romance (5)

“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 br?lée 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?”