“Whatever.” Dasha is pissed. Can’t blame her. Her boyfriend would rather fuck his assistant than spend time with her.
I wonder what Dasha would do if she found out the truth? Blame Angela? Or would she be smart enough to accept she wasted her time on a cheating manwhore?
“Hey.” Deveraux cups her face. A little too rough for my taste. “Don’t be upset, babe. It’s business. But,” he bends forward, ogling me, “why don’t you take Boulder?”
“What?” Dasha and I bark in unison.
Deveraux flashes his most charming smile. “I’ll be at my mansion all afternoon. We’ve upped security, and I don’t think anyone will come after me in my own house.”
You don’t know the first thing about Shadow, idiot. He could kill you in Fort Knox if he pleases.
“What do you say, Boulder? Will you carry my girl’s bags and assure her she looks great in whatever she wears?”
Heat sears my skin. I look out the window, fighting the urge to strangle the jerk. “I’m nobody’s personal shopper.”
“It’s okay.” There’s an edge to Dasha’s voice. It speaks of hurt. “I’ll be fine on my own.”
Jesus fucking Christ. Why the hell do I feel guilty? He is her boyfriend and he’d rather fuck his mistress. This isn’t my responsibility. I did nothing wrong. Except—
I hurt her. And instead of being the better man, I allowed my own emotions—or lack of control over them—to get in the way.
Damn you, Boulder. Damn. You.
“Fine.” I can’t fake excitement, but I do my best not to sound like a complete asshole. “I’ll go.”
Dasha cocks a brow. “You don’t have to.” Whoa, so now we’re defensive, huh?
“I want to.” I flash her a big grin. “Could use a new pair of jeans, anyway.”
Dasha’s lips part. Pretty sure she’s going to object.
“Great.” Deveraux nips the argument in the bud. “That’s settled then.”
• • •
The tabloids going nuts about Deveraux’s new club finally makes sense. L’Enfer—French for “The Inferno”—used to be a hotel on Ocean Drive, a quick walk from the beach. On the outside, it’s a combination of Victorian chic and Greek art. On the inside, it’s like stepping back in time to meet Marie Antoinette for a glass of champagne in Versailles. From the dark red wallpaper with gold ornaments to the velvet chaise lounges and heavy gold curtains, it reeks of prestige and the glory of long-forgotten times.
Deveraux leads us into a massive ballroom. The bar is stocked with an expensive booze collection, and the dark hardwood floor along with the red and gold furniture makes this the perfect location to shoot a historical movie.
“What do you think?” Deveraux asks, chest inflated.
“It’s…” I have no fucking clue what to say.
“Exquisite?” Dasha offers.
I was going to say over the top. Exquisite will have to do. “Yeah.”
“And this is just the dance floor.” Pride colors Deveraux’s voice. “C’mon.” He seizes hold of my shirt. “I’ll show you the rest.”
Twelve floors, each posher than the other. Every room has been turned into a relic of the past. The four-poster beds are covered with heavy red fabric, the walls are colored in every dark shade of red that exists, and the doorknobs are made of pure fucking gold. I’d be impressed, but something about L’Enfer is odd. Why does a nightclub need guest rooms? And why can’t I shake the feeling I’m touring a high-end brothel?
We ride the elevator to the rooftop terrace. “So this isn’t just a club? It’s a hotel, too?”
“No.” Deveraux smirks. “It’s a nightclub, but in order to make money, you have to offer folks something new, something special.”
“Like themed rooms to—” I bite my tongue.
“Protect my guests’ privacy,” he says sharply.
Dasha sniffs at the comment. Something tells me she’s not a fan of her boyfriend’s business concept. Neither am I, by the way.
“Our grand opening night is called Nuit De Masques,” Deveraux explains. “It means—”
“Night of masks.” Six languages, remember?
Deveraux’s brows fly up. “I didn’t know you speak French.”
“Yeah, well.” I stare at the electronic numbers, waiting to see thirteen. “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me.” Like the fact I sucked your girlfriend’s tits.
He looks from me to Dasha and back. “Clearly.”
After what feels like forever, we reach the rooftop. There’s a square pool, a Jacuzzi, and a closed-off area with a rattan lounge. “This is my favorite spot.” He leans over the railing. “Just look at that view.”
“Beautiful,” Dasha whispers, gazing at the ocean.
“Boulder.” Deveraux nudges me. “What do you think?”
“Beautiful,” I repeat, eyes on Dasha.
“The view or my girlfriend?” Deveraux’s voice is hard and unforgiving.
I pull my eyes off the goddess and offer an innocent smile. “Both, of course.”
Dasha smiles. Deveraux? Let’s just say if looks could kill…yada, yada, yada.
“Well,” he frowns, “it’s time to head back down.” He checks the time on his phone. “The bouncers should be here any minute.”
The next two hours are a blur of new faces, same questions, and answers they believe will land them the gig. When the interviews end, I suggest he hire three of the guys and toss the others. The last thing he needs in a VIP club is a security guy looking to score with the next Jennifer Lawrence.
“Ready to hit the city?” Dasha asks, once all is said and done.
“Sure.”
“Are you?” She grins like the devil. “This is your last chance to back out, soldier.”
I survived war and terror. “I think I can handle a little shopping trip.”
Famous last words.
“Until we die.”
Markus
What’s worse than wading through the desert with no water? Spending midday on Lincoln Road, running from store to store while the sun beats down your neck and you’re loaded with shopping bags.
In the past three hours, we’ve been to Armani, Astoria Couture, Forever 21, and Banana Republic. I’m tired and ready to go home.
Dasha reads my expression. “You hungry?”
My belly groans like a lion. “I could eat.”
“Here’s the deal.” She tosses her hair over one shoulder. “We make one last stop, and lunch is on me?”
“Sounds good.”
Dasha’s gaze darts across the street. “Let’s go then.”
The blood drains from my face. Is this a joke? It must be. She’s fucking with me. No way in hell she wants me to go to Victoria’s Secret with her, right?
“What’s wrong?” The tease in her voice drives me up the wall.
“Please, tell me this,” I tilt my chin at the bras in the shop window, “isn’t the store.” I sound like I’m begging. Fuck, I am. I’d get on my knees and kiss her feet if it’d spare me a visit to Victoria’s Secret.
Dasha breaks into lusty laughter.
The sound breathes new life into my tired feet and agitates me at the same time. “You think that’s funny?”
She looks me in the eye. “You fought wars, soldier.” Her brow flies up. “But you’re scared of lingerie?”
“I’m not scared of lingerie.” It’s the combination of Dasha and hot-as-hell underwear fucking with my mind.
“Yes, you are,” she states, leaving no room for an argument.
I roll my eyes, annoyed she always has to have the last word. “I just think it’s inappropriate to buy bras with someone’s girlfriend.”
Hand on my bicep, she leans in closer. “As far as I remember, you had your mouth on someone’s girlfriend’s tits.”
When she’s right, she’s right. “Fine.” I move toward the satin-and-lace hell. “Let’s get this over with.”
We stroll through the store, passing by bras and
undies in all shapes and colors. I avoid the fabrics like the plague. When I do make the mistake to ogle what she wants to try on, I have a hard time not imagining a million ways I’d like to rip that shit off her skin.
“What about this one?” She shoves a black and red dream of lace, mesh, and garters slip under my nose.
In a heartbeat, my brain conjures up images of Dasha in heels and lace, bent over a table, eagerly waiting for my hard cock.
“Markus?” She chuckles. “You with me?”
My mouth is drier than the soil in Afghanistan. “Looks good.” She could wear a potato sack and still be the most stunning creature I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Dasha inches closer. Her fingertips connect with my arm, sparking a fire in the pit of my stomach. “Let’s see if it looks good on me.”
She disappears inside a dressing room. I, on the other hand, fling myself onto a chair and try to come up with images that’ll kill my boner. Un-fucking-successfully.
C’mon, Boulder, she’s just a chick.
A chick I’m developing an unhealthy obsession with.
In need of a distraction, I shove my hands between my thighs and say, “So what do you think about the club?”
Her dress hits the floor. “It’s nice, I suppose.”
“You’re not a fan, huh?”
Her bra—the one she wore—follows. “Is it that obvious?”
“Well, you didn’t look happy about the upper floors,” I admit, tearing my gaze off her V-shaped underwear lying next to her Bordeaux bra.
Dasha draws the curtain. One hand on the wall above her head, the other casually swinging by her side, she flashes me an innocent smile. “What do you say?”
My gaze darts over her bare legs, up to the black lace v-string hidden underneath the garter slip, to the plunge front, showing her rosy nipples. I’m going to die. Dasha will be the death of me.
“Okay, you either love it, or you hate it so much you have no idea how to tell me without breaking my fragile heart,” she teases, well aware it’s the first. Always the first.
“I…” Love it? Want to rip it off your skin? Am dying just looking at you? “It’s nice.”
“Just nice?” Dasha spins, exposing the cutout back and her well-toned ass. “Maybe I should go for the green one then.”
Red, black, green—she’s a goddess, divine in whatever color she wears. I can’t sit through another lingerie show, though. Not with my steel-hard cock driving me mad. I clear my throat. “You look…hot,” I cough.
“Just hot?”
“Sexy.”
She grips the arms of the chair, caging me in. Her nipples look back at me, begging for attention. “Nice, hot, and sexy,” she breathes down my face. “Not exactly what I was going for.”
My stomach twists. My loins burn. My mind shuts off. “What were you going for?” I choke out, pulling my eyes off her tits.
“I don’t know.” Her lips caress my ear. “How about ‘let me fuck you right here in the middle of the store with everyone watching’?”
I swallow. Hard.
“Or,” she goes on, voice smoky as hell, “‘bend over the table, spread your legs, and let me fuck your brains out’?”
Both! I want both.
She waits for me to say something—anything. But other than “spread your legs” and “ride my face,” my mind is blank.
After a while, she retreats to the dressing room. I swear I taste her disappointment on the tip of my tongue. It’s bitter, yet so fucking sweet it makes me feel like a dick for not being a dick. Man, I’m not making any sense.
“Dasha?” Shut up, Boulder. Just shut—
“Huh?”
“You should get that one,” I say before I exit the store to catch a break for me and my swollen dick.
• • •
Shake Shack is crowded as hell. It’s why the only free table was outside in the brutal sun. I needed to sit my ass down, so we didn’t think twice.
Dasha points to my untouched fries. “Do you eat those?” Most chicks rocking bodies like Dasha are petrified of burgers and fries. They’d rather starve than put on weight. The goddess? She’s on her second double ShackBurger and far from satisfied.
I push them her way. “Go for it.”
She dips them in mayo and ketchup before devouring them. “What?” she grumbles, cocking a brow. “Never seen a girl eat burgers and fries?”
I laugh. “I have.” They wore uniforms, not Armani.
“Then why are you staring at me like that?”
“Because,” I lean over the table, running my thumb over the edge of her lips, “you have ketchup on your face.”
Our eyes lock, and my world is reduced to an ocean of hazel. I swear those eyes…those eyes remind me of something. It’s like we’ve met before, but my brain refuses to replay the memory.
People stare at us. I feel their piercing gazes, and I know I have to pull back, bring some space between what I desire but can’t have. “Thanks for keeping my secret,” I eventually say, cutting through the moment.
She smiles. “I always keep my promises, soldier.”
Don’t ask me why I bring up the next topic. It’s not intentional, and I really don’t want to hurt her. It slips out. “How did your sister die?”
I expect her to flinch or bark at me. She wipes her lips with a napkin and speaks calmly, “She committed suicide.”
My heart bleeds for her. Losing someone is one thing. Living with the reality that the person you loved chose death over you? Fucking torture. “My mom shot herself in the face after my dad was killed in action,” I admit. “I found her the next morning.” The gruesome images of crimson and a leaking brain flood my system. “I wouldn’t stop screaming. Luke, my older brother, led me out of the room and told me it’d be okay. He was thirteen.”
Dasha narrows her eyes, studying me as if she sees me for the first time. “Your brother sounds like a good man.”
“He was always there for me.” I stare into the distance. “And I failed him when he needed me most.”
“Looks like you and I have that in common.” Dasha pushes the fries away, her eyes distant and cold. “We both failed the people we loved. We’ll both have to live with the consequences.”
“Until we die.”
She nods. “Until we die.”
“You can always sit around and wait for a second chance. You seem to be really good at it.”
Markus
Thursday morning—three days into my new “job”—I have a hard time dragging my ass out of bed and to the gym. I’m fighting Dimitri’s best warrior Sunday. There’s no way around the gym. Tankovyy—my next opponent—has put several guys in wheelchairs. I don’t intend to be another notch in his belt.
Dropping my sweat pants, I climb under the spray of the shower. Heat doesn’t wake me, so I turn the faucet to bordering-on-brain-freeze cold. Two things happen at once: my eyes jerk open, and my hard-on goes bye, bye. Watching Deveraux is a test of self-restraint.
Last night, we stopped by Sin. Dasha showed, too. Her tight skinny jeans and V-neck shirt made it incredibly hard to focus on possible threats. Mostly because the real threat was twitching in my pants. My dick didn’t give a fuck that her boyfriend groped her, kissed her, and spread his saliva all over her neck. He wanted her regardless. I gave him a release once we got back home, pumping my fist so hard I’m surprised I didn’t get blisters.
Towel around my waist, I step out from underneath the water.
I rest my hand on the sink, ogling my reflection. Dark circles under the eyes and pale skin are evidence of three nights of parties, research, and watching Deveraux’s back. Who the fuck knew babysitting America’s First Son wore you out more than combat? I sure as hell didn’t. Or I would have bought a stack of energy drinks.
“Soldier?”
Dasha? Must be her. No one else calls me that.
“Are you in there?”
I was going to stop her, tell her I’m not appropriately dressed. She’s just too qu
ick.
The door flies open. “Markus?”
I turn to face her.
Her hazel eyes drift over my towel, my chest, and back up to meet my gaze. “S-Sorry,” she stammers, uncannily shy. “I didn’t…I mean, I had no idea—”
“There’s a chance I’m naked when taking a shower?” I tease.
This day will go down in history as “The Day I Made a Goddess Blush.”
Dasha stares at the floor. “Will said you’re going to the gym early.” She says it as if it explains why the hell she invades my bathroom at six in the morning.
“And?” I push, not sure where she’s going with this.
“He sent me to ask a favor.”
“A favor?” I repeat after her, not liking this. At all.
“You...” She draws a deep breath. “You heard about the charity auction, Friday night?” The one Angela—mistress slash assistant—is going nuts about? No kidding. Deveraux’s backyard looks like Kate and William booked it to refresh their vows.
“The whole world has heard about it, Dasha.” TMZ, MTV, CNN—they made a big fucking deal out of it. The headlines read: “William Deveraux, The Hero of Miami’s Homeless Youth,” or “Deveraux Junior’s Bachelor Auction, The Hottest Event of the Year.” And my favorite: “Can America’s First Son Get Any Sexier—Heart of Gold with the Looks of a Movie Star.”
Dasha shoves her hands in the pockets of her yoga pants. The fabric moves, exposing a sliver of flat, hard belly.
Damn you, yoga pants. And you, Dasha, for wearing them.
No, I don’t turn to hide the bulge under my towel. I don’t stare at my reflection to remind myself of monsters rather than goddesses. And I don’t fucking think about pushing her inside the shower, watching the water spray down her face as she takes me deep and fast. I. Just. Don’t.
“One of the bachelors jumped ship.” She tilts her head to the side. “Will wants you to take his place.”
Between spreading her legs, sucking her clit, and pushing her against the tiles in the shower, I only registered “jumped ship” and “take his place.”
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