Amour Amour (Aerial Ethereal #1)(9)

Blood rushes to my head, the alcohol setting in minute by minute, flushing my skin in a hot, sticky sweat. More nauseous than dizzy.

The boisterous spectators overpower the electronic music with a new mantra: “God of Russia! God of Russia! God of Russia!” It has to take more than winning handstand competitions to achieve that title.

“God of Russia!” Not helping.

“Go, Thora!” a lone guy cheers for me, the underdog. It’s not John—that I can tell. “Kick his ass!”

Nikolai lets out a short, irritated laugh and says something in Russian.

The guy responds with the same lilt. I take it, they know each other. When Nikolai speaks English, it’s perfect. No accent really, and part of me wonders if he’s Russian-American. Born here. Parents from there.

Concentrate, Thora. I inhale a breath, blinking as my stomach roils in violent protest of this position. And of what I ingested. My confident, focused glare morphs into unease. I glance at Nikolai again, and he switches hands on the concrete floor without even teetering.

Perfect balance.

My core tightens, and I sense my downfall before it even happens. Before he even gives me a look that says, you’re about to lose, myshka. I know. I know.

Alcohol, handstands, and Thora James do not mix. Lesson learned.

It’s not my arm that gives out.

It’s my stomach.

An acidic liquid rises, and I impulsively drop to my ass, swallowing the vomit before it escapes. While the burn sets in, the cheers escalate, blistering my ears.

Nikolai effortlessly returns to his feet, and he takes the applause with less self-gratification than I thought he would. No blinding grin or smirk. It’s not about the win, then. He likes this part, maybe. Where he pushes someone out of their comfort zone.

He squats right in front of me, almost eye-level. I watch him comb a hand through his dark brown hair, the strands out of his face, but pieces still brush his ears and neck. Then he says in that low, husky voice, “I won’t lie to you. This is going to hurt.”

My nose flares as I restrain more emotion. I can do this. “Okay.”

He clasps my forearm and literally pulls me to my feet in one swift motion. The air plunges out of my lungs. His hand lingers on my hip. “Follow me,” he says, heading to the empty chair.

I do. He leads me there, and someone hands him a piercing gun.

“Sit,” he commands.

I cautiously lower my ass onto the seat, wondering which body part he’ll puncture with a needle. My ear, I hope.

The silence between us pounds my heart. I’m left with those gray eyes, that strong jaw, and the red devilish hue that casts down on us. I’m breathing too heavily, and since he’s so perceptive, he calls me out on it.

“Relax,” he says, resting a hand on the frame of the chair.

How can I relax? He’s a foot from my body, and he’s holding a giant needle. I can’t do anything other than pant like an out-of-shape linebacker.

“Breathe,” he instructs, waiting for me to calm down. Though his eyes flit around me, trying to determine what to pierce.

“I am breathing.”

He shoots me a look. “Breathe normally,” he clarifies. He places a hand right below my collarbones. His palm feels heavy, weighted, but it carries an electric current that zips through my nerves. “Match me, myshka.”

He takes my hand and places it on his bare chest, his muscles unintentionally flexing beneath, warm on my skin. My ribs want to padlock my lungs. I swear.

But I try to exhale and inhale, trained breaths this time. And his hand falls lower, towards my heart. His brows rise at me, and I realize he must feel my heart hammering, pulsing in a sporadic way.

I sink lower in the chair, and he lifts me up with his free hand, grabbing my waist. He says a couple words in Russian that I don’t understand.

I shake my head at him.

“You’re cute,” he translates vaguely. Unsexy friend. “But you need to stay still.”

I nod. “I can do that.”

“Good.” Then he uses his foot to push mine aside, abruptly breaking my legs apart. What… I open my mouth to ask what’s happening, but he sits on the edge of the seat, facing me. He swiftly lifts me by the hips, setting me on his lap.

I’m straddling a Russian man. I can’t tell if my eyes are about to pop out or if I’m scowling again. I’m rigid. Like he said I’d be. A straight-laced gymnast.

“Deep breaths,” he coaches. A fraction of a smile peeks at his lips. He knows that he’s driving me to an edge. A sexual, exhilarating one that I can’t compute. My brain is frying too fast.

I don’t know where to put my hands. “I don’t…” I start. But I can’t finish because he takes my hands in his and puts them on his shoulders. My arms must’ve been hesitating midair.

“Thora,” he says, training my focus on his eyes. “You have a choice. I’m going to tell you what I’m piercing. If you want out, there’s the exit.” He motions to the literal club exit, a door in the far-right corner.

“What are you piercing?” I ask, not letting my mind mull over quitting. I’ve come this far. Right?

Without balking or breaking eye contact, he says, “Your nipple.”

I gape. What? “What?” I think I’ve heard him wrong. My voice is lost in the shouts of glee from the guys around the club. Some even high-five and slosh their liquor.