Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(58)

“Don’t you have an ass to tattoo?!” John yells, his surly tone sounding a hint more malicious.

It shouldn’t matter, Thora.

I know. I know.

I’m trying to make it not matter. How do I do that? My mind and my body are not on the same wavelength, clearly, and I’m having a difficult time reuniting them.

He grabbed a girl’s ass and sucked on her face.

Stop. Stop.

“I’m done for the night!” Nikolai shouts over the bass. “Are you two…” His voice dies in the music. I look up and see his grays darting between John and me. The look he wears—it matches the one I had earlier, when I saw him lip-locked with that girl.

His facial muscles tightening, his shoulders strict.

John seems highly unamused. “She’s not my type! While her ambitions are slightly endearing, they’re mostly delusional! But that’s not even the problem.” I did catch that compliment in there. I mean, this could be worse. Right?

“What’s the problem?” Nikolai asks, opening the floodgates.

“She has a vagina!” The music switched songs right when he screamed that. It came out so much louder than it should have.

I shut my eyes with a wince. Yeah, he just mentioned my vagina. To Nikolai. To make a point that he’s gay, and it’s just—a lot to take in. I just really, really hope I’m the only one picturing my vagina right now. Please let this be true.

I tentatively open my eyes by the silence. Timo is smiling like he’s already known this fact about John. And I can feel Nikolai’s hot gaze penetrating me.

Don’t engage—John basically said as much the first time I met Nikolai. Maybe I should’ve listened to him back then. I can still try now.

At least when we’re not at the gym.

Right?

I’m confused. I’m confusing myself.

“I’m going to get something to drink.” Timo speaks first. He begins walking towards the high-top table of men.

John curses under his breath before shouting, “The bar is the other way!” He shakes his head a few times.

Timo glances over his shoulder and grins, descending further into the throngs of dancers.

John sighs heavily and stares between me and Nikolai. Stay here. Do not leave me. I hope I’m expressing all of these things in my eyes. I wouldn’t be surprised if I just scowl harder though.

“Well this is unfortunate,” John says, and his gaze falls to me. “I just want you to know that I’m leaving for the alcohol and to avoid being a third wheel to whatever this is.”

It’s starting to set in: I’m going to have to confront my feelings. Head on soon.

John pats my shoulder and weaves between the bodies, picking up his pace to reach Timo.

Now I’m alone with Nikolai. Well…not alone alone. Technically there are bodies around us, some even pressing close to invade Nik’s space. I even spot girls gawking at him from the packed bar, whispering like they’re concocting plans to approach the God of Russia.

Good, I think.

My heart plummets.

Body and brain, still not aligned.

Nikolai leans down, his unshaven jaw rough against my cheek, and I smell the tequila from his breath, reminding me of his bet. Tattoo or piercing.

“Can I talk to you?” he asks lowly, his deep voice melting my defenses.

“Don’t you have to watch your brother?” I instantly regret adding more stress on him. Because whatever this is (as John called it) already weighs down his shoulders.

“It won’t take long.” His words send a shudder of alarm through me. He’s going to stop training me.

I nod and start mentally preparing ways out of this: I won’t see you outside of the gym, for starters. Or hang out at your suite anymore, also goes with number one.

Or pretend that I have feelings for you.

My eyes are burning. Stop burning.

Nikolai glances at the VIP area of the club, but it’s packed with bodies, allowing for no privacy. He spins to the other direction, near the bathroom. And he guides me with his hand on my hip, dropping to the small of my back.

I wish he wouldn’t touch me at all. It’d make this clearer. Easier.

I sidestep out of his grasp again, and when I catch a glimpse of him, his face is contorted like my action impaled him through the chest. We don’t say anything. But it’s hardly quiet.

The music never masks this vast, unyielding tension that tugs my senses. The line to the bathroom snakes along the wall, but he walks past it, aiming for a new door. One that says: employees only.

He turns the handle and slips inside, me right after. When he shuts out the cacophony behind him, I realize that we’re in a very cramped storeroom with extra bundles of napkins, stir-sticks, and racks of cleaning supplies.

With barely any space to move, my legs hit his, my head reaching the height of his shoulders. I’m tiny. In a tiny room. With a six-foot-five Russian man. And an even bigger elephant. His emotions, my emotions. There are many, many emotions here.

I tug at the hem of my dress that exposes my bare flesh. “What do you want to say?” I ask softly, avoiding his gaze. I fixate on the saltshakers that line the shelf in a neat row.

“Your eyes are black.”

My blood simmers, and I gape. “You brought me in here to tell me that my eyes are—”