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 fuckwit 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 fuck 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 fuck 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—
His phone buzzed. He jumped, and panic shot through him. Was Sergei canceling?
He dug his phone out of his pocket and
“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 fuckwit 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 fuck 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 fuck 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—
His phone buzzed. He jumped, and panic shot through him. Was Sergei canceling?
He dug his phone out of his pocket and
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