If The Seas Catch Fire(27)

Then they faced each other, and before Sergei could make heads or tails of any goddamned thing, Domenico held up a card between two fingers. “I want to see you again.”

Sergei took the card. His mind knew of at least a thousand reasons why that was a bad idea, but his body was definitely intrigued. He shouldn’t have wanted a damned thing to do with him, and he should’ve turned tail and gotten the f*ck away from him, but he wanted to know what it was like to get him alone.

“See me again?” Sergei thumbed the edge of the card. “When?”

“Soon.” Domenico ran the backs of his fingers down Sergei’s arm. “Very soon.”

Sergei looked him up and down, sizing him up. Domenico was a few inches taller, and much wider in the shoulders. If Sergei didn’t know a f*ckton of ways to kill men twice his size without breaking a sweat, he’d have backed away. He told himself that, anyhow. Standing this close to him, smelling his cologne and sweat as Domenico loomed over him with cum all over his shirt, Sergei was half-tempted to suggest they f*ck there and then.

He’d probably lost all the good sense he’d had left, but at least he was losing it with someone who had as much reason as he did to keep his trap shut. More reason, actually. All Sergei had to do was leak it to the world—or the media—that he’d had sex with Domenico Maisano, and his family would have him killed. Fags didn’t last long in their world.

Sergei wasn’t worried about his own safety. Only a handful of Mafiosi knew who he was. They all knew him by reputation, but nothing more. His very, very select few contacts knew his face and his profession, but they didn’t know his real name, and they absolutely knew what would happen if they betrayed his confidence. Outside those contacts, no one—least of all the man in front of him with the cum-stained shirt—knew the killer who handled the lion’s share of all three families’ hits was a smart-mouthed bleach blond stripper.

“There’s…” He hesitated. “There’s a motel near the waterfront. The Sandpiper. My shift is over at one thirty.”

Domenico glanced at his watch. Then he nodded. “I’ll meet you there.”

“Get a room. Put it under the name Sullivan.”

“Okay.”

They held each other’s gazes. Then Domenico straightened his wet tie, buttoned his jacket, and started to go, but then he paused. He met Sergei’s eyes. “By the way, um… thanks. For what you did that night. In the alley.”

“Don’t mention it.” Sergei hadn’t done it for any altruistic reasons, but he had to admit, he was glad this guy hadn’t been killed. In a weird way, he was starting to like him.

They held eye contact for a few more seconds. Then Dom broke eye contact and brushed past Sergei.

Sergei exhaled. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, wondering what the hell had just happened. Or what was going to happen later tonight. Or why in the world he thought this was anything but a stupid, potentially deadly idea.

Mind reeling, he straightened his hair just for something to do. Then he headed back out to the lounge.

Domenico was nowhere to be seen. Good. He was serious about the whole discretion thing, and wasn’t a complete f*ckwit about it.

Sergei looked down at the card in his hand. There was a handwritten phone number and nothing else. If he had any sense at all, he’d have set that card on fire and never let Domenico cross his mind again.

But it was too late for that. Sergei was intrigued.

He had to know what it was like to f*ck Domenico Maisano.





Chapter 8


Dom left the club and drove a few blocks before he had to pull over and collect his thoughts. He scrubbed his hands over his face, but that didn’t help—he could still smell Sergei’s cologne, sweat, and semen.

Semen? Had he really…

He looked down at his shirt and the damp spot he hadn’t been able to completely wipe away. Holy shit. He’d lost his mind. He shouldn’t have even been in that club, never mind letting a stripper come all over him and then making plans to meet that stripper later for sex.

A shiver ran through him. In his mind’s eye, he could still see Sergei’s face in that unbearably hot moment—eyes screwed shut, lips apart, fair skin flushed as he’d rubbed against Dom and shuddered. And that kiss. Maybe it had just been too long since he’d kissed a man, but Dom couldn’t remember a kiss ever turning him inside out like Sergei’s had.

He stared out the windshield. What the f*ck was he doing? For all he knew, this kid was a goddamned sociopath. He was, after all, capable of cold-blooded murder. That hadn’t been self-defense. Not when they were bound and gagged in the trunk of a car, and dispatched with two expertly-placed rounds apiece. And the bullet to Mandanici’s knee? Even if that had happened by accident—say, during a scuffle—a lot of time had passed between that wound and the lethal one.

But still, something about Sergei drew him in. Dom couldn’t deny that the cold detachment was part of it. Sergei was so in control, and all Dom could think was that Sergei was exactly what he needed so he could lose control.

And when Sergei’s control wavered, as it had tonight in that private booth, he was mesmerizing. Dom wanted more. He wanted to get under his skin. He wanted to see him and hear him and taste him when he let go completely. He needed to know what it felt like to—