Little mouse.
Yeah, it fits alright.
“I’ll be fine,” I tell him.
His intensity barrels through me. I love it more than he knows and more than I ever realized, his concern only flushing me more.
I add, “Don’t worry about me.” My sweltering body disagrees.
He gives me a look like that’s just not possible. “I’ve worried about you since you first showed up in Vegas and could barely drink a shot.” At The Red Death, when he said the city would swallow me whole.
“Really?” That long? He’s naturally protective, but still, I smile.
He lifts my chin. “I don’t lie.”
“That’s good to know.” My face tightens, realizing that response sounded flat on my account. “So…”
He kisses me, and I almost drop the hangers in a daze. If his eyes are hell, his tongue is heaven, and I would gladly return. I walk backwards with him, my lips stinging and my body aching. His hand falls to my hip, and it crosses my mind—he’s guiding me.
Leading me.
Somewhere.
My legs move of their own will, my brain no longer attached. I hold onto his waist, succumbing to wherever he’s taking me. The backs of my knees hit a bench. And he breaks apart to shut the dressing room door behind him. It’s tiny with a mirror, a wooden bench against the wall and a hook.
“Did anyone…see us?” I pant.
“It doesn’t matter,” he says lowly, his eyes devouring me. He steals the lingerie and hangs it on the hook. I look up. He stares down. A foot of space separating us.
I remain stationary, allowing him to dictate what happens next. The mystery pumps blood through my veins.
Nikolai fingers the hem of my green tank top, and he lifts it over my head, my dirty-blonde hair draping over my bare shoulders, only in jean shorts and a simple blue bra.
My breasts rise and fall with my heavy breath, especially the longer he studies my motions. I remember back to the first night at The Red Death, when he could tell so much about me from so little.
He kisses me again, my lips swollen with the pressure, and his hand slips to my shorts. He skillfully unbuttons them, lowers them, and I step out of the fabric. Now in a bra and white cotton panties. Had I known he would be coming here with me, I wonder if I would’ve chosen a less innocent color.
When he studies me again, I’m careful about appearing relaxed, my arms at my sides, not covering my chest. I want him to touch the barest parts of me—and my nerves shall not stop him. I won’t let them.
“Breathe,” he instructs as he steps near again, his hands on my hips. His tough skin along my soft.
I blow out my usual trained breath. His eyes only say I want you closer to me. In one swift motion, he lifts me up to his abs, my legs split apart around him. I’m too short to even cross my ankles. He kneels on the wooden bench and pushes my back up against the wall.
This is…happening.
I’m uncertain what this is but I’m not opposed to finding out.
He gauges my reaction. “Breathe, myshka.”
“I am,” I whisper. Am I?
He kisses me, and he forces oxygen into my lungs, one of the most intimate moments of my life. Right now. Then his fingers brush along the clasp of my bra. When he breaks the kiss, I pant, “I can’t…believe you’ve already seen them.” I pause. “I mean, my boobs.” I would face-palm myself if I wasn’t clutching his arms.
His lips curve, so close to mine. “You’ve already seen my cock.” He kisses me again, a slow, unhurried one.
In between, I whisper, “That is true.”
He unclasps my bra, the straps sliding down my arms until its all the way off. The cold air bites me and almost instantly hardens my nipples. I can see myself in the adjacent mirror, of how heavy I breathe, of how small I am in his arms. More than half-naked.
It’s one of the most visually stimulating things I’ve ever laid eyes on—and it involves me. The unsexy friend. The girl who doesn’t know passion.
He follows my gaze, and the desire in his movements amplifies. Times a million. He lifts me higher on his body, my breasts lined with his mouth. He tongue flicks over the barbell piercing, sensations bursting in lower places.
“Nik…” I gasp, and as my clutch tightens, so does his. Each finger scalding against my skin. You’re in public, Thora. Dear God.
I rest my forehead on his broad, muscular shoulder, biting my gums to keep these pleasured noises at bay. The spot between my legs throbs now. He drops me some, my forehead now to his chest. He places a hand on the back of my neck and the other rubs the inside of my thigh, teasing.
I rock into him, subconsciously craving a hardness that he can give me.
His teasing hand shifts my panties, and the moment he rubs my clit, my body shudders. His hand tightens on my neck, holding me in place, warming me, protecting me. My lips part, a noise stuck in my throat, as the sensitivity escalates.
I need something hard—
His finger slips inside of me while his thumb creates circular, rhythmic motions over my clit. I shut my eyes, blinded by a new fullness. A sheen of sweat builds across my skin.
He presses his body harder, pinning me more to the wall. I reach down to feel his hand between my legs, and he kisses me again, my head floating away.
He pulses his finger inside of me, and he pauses for a brief second to fit another. I lean my head back. “I don’t…” know. If this will hurt.
He kisses me like trust me. “You’re wet enough,” he says lowly, his arousal clipping his deep words.
I inhale and lean back towards him, resting my cheek on his chest. I wrap my arms around his ribs, as far as they’ll go (which is not far at all). And he slips another finger in me, tight but not painful.
His pace begins again, deeper.
I’m going to come soon. I climb up the tallest pole, towards the peak. I tremble, my mouth open against his flesh. I cry into his chest, the noise muffled there. And then I feel myself clench around his fingers, my eyes almost rolling back.
While I ride the descent, he holds me still, his thumb caressing the skin on my neck. In my ear, he whispers, “Get used to this. It’s going to happen more often.”
I don’t see how I can ever get used to that. It’ll always be a rush. But I’m not complaining at all. I’m definitely an advocate of experiencing this again.
I pull back some, registering where we are. In the middle of the day. A dressing room. “I think…I’m going to just buy those…” I say with a nod at the lingerie hangers.
His intense eyes are fixed on me. “Good idea.” He licks his lips. “Exhale for me.”
I do. And he slowly retracts his fingers, a slight pinch of pain down below. I stifle a wince and inhale sharply. “We’re not going to fit together.”
“We are,” he says lowly. “In all ways.”
I hope he’s right. Because I don’t want this to end here.
Act Twenty-Five
Three and a half months in Vegas and summer is gone, but today is still the hottest day of the year, which is cause for celebration in this city. The Masquerade’s Wet & Wild Bash is one of the biggest pool parties I’ve ever been to, and I’d revel in the DJ, masses of bikini-clad girls, six-pack guys, open bar (for Masquerade employees only) and decently cold water if I didn’t feel like a semi-truck rolled over me this morning.
Bruises mar my arms, thighs, ankles—war wounds from apparatuses and training seven days a week. Now in a salmon-pink bathing suit, the bruises are visible, including a nasty green and brown welt on my upper-thigh.
I try to hide the pain in my muscles and joints while I stand beside a high-top table near the cabanas, overflowing with people. I can’t even see the lounge cushions beneath the bodies—same almost applies for the pool.
I rub my swollen knuckles, waiting for Nikolai to return with drinks. Amour isn’t playing tonight. Management scattered Infini in their time-slots, and Nik didn’t seem pleased by it. Maybe it’s a sign the show
isn’t performing well.
Elena could change that though. In six weeks she’ll take the stage in the aerial silk act, opposite Nikolai. I try to be happy for him, that he can finally perform his act again, but it’s hard to think of her and not see what I lost.
The high-top table vibrates from the DJ’s blasting speakers, and I rest my hands on the surface to steady it. A passing couple gives me the stink-eye for commandeering a table all to myself. Sorry. I’m waiting for someone. I doubt that I channel the apology through my face. Scowling. I’ve been scowling this whole time.
Resting Bitch Face fail.
My spirits lift slightly when I see a person behind them, a real grimace on his face every time someone bumps his arm. John looks ready to douse his beer on their heads. By the time he makes it to my table, he sighs heavily, like he just walked through the Sahara and barely came out alive.
“They’re all going to need a tetanus shot after this.” He gestures to the pool. “Idiots.”
I smile. “Nice to see you too, John.” In swim shorts, he’s way more toned than I thought he’d be, more definition in his abs.
He raises his drink at me in hello and scans the congested area, searching for someone. Then he turns to me. “So…” His dark brows tic up.
I frown. “So…?” I repeat.
“How do you two even work?” His face is still in that grimace. “Are you always on top?”
“John,” I say, wide-eyed. How Nikolai and I fuck is honestly—it’s something I’m still trying to picture. I don’t even want to be on top that much, which is the worrisome part.
Near us, a romantically-entwined couple starts making out with major tongue, and John’s lip curls at the affection. “Get a fucking room,” he says, loud enough that the guy shoots him a glare. “I’m not the one sucking face.” The guy flips him off but actually leaves our area. “Asshole.” John turns to me, my heart pounding. “You can’t be that surprised. When people see a giant fucking Russian man with a five-foot-something tiny blonde, it’s the first thing we all think.”
“No…” People aren’t that curious. But then I envision myself in their shoes. I internally groan—how do they have sex would be in my top five thoughts, for sure.
“You know what they say,” John grins into a grimace, “you fuck a Kotova and you go directly to hell. No passing Go.”
My hand is half-covering my face. “I think you just say that.” I inhale, mustering some confidence and drop my arm. “And to clear things up, Nik and I haven’t actually…had sex yet.” But we’ve done other things.
John chokes on his beer. His brows jump. “It’s that difficult?”
Dear God. “No…it’s not because of our height and size difference.” I’m trying not to be insecure about how we don’t exactly “fit” together. But it’s hard when I have people like John reminding me.
“You’re a virgin.” The look on his face—you’d think this was the best piece of gossip John’s heard all year.
“No,” I say slowly, dragging out the word. “It’s possible for two people to go at a slow pace.” It’s not weird. Right? Every relationship has a different timeline.
“You’ve been in Vegas for almost four months, and you see the guy every single day.”
“Those are some facts, yep,” I nod.
He gives me a weird look. “It’s decided. You’re my strangest friend.”
I burst into a smile. “You called me your friend.”
He rolls his eyes. “A figure of speech. I have no friends.”
“Camila is definitely your friend,” I note.
“Camila is my cousin. We’re forced to be somewhat cordial.”
“Right,” I laugh. If I had to label their relationship, it’d be best friends.
He points at me with his beer bottle. “You know, she’s the one who told me to pry into your sex life. I’m supposed to get free shots out of it.”
“Well, you can tell Camila that you’ve successfully earned your shots.”
His face contorts into a sour expression. “I don’t know. It feels cheap to earn shots off something so sad.”
I think I’m scowling harder. But he doesn’t shrink back. I’m sure staring in the mirror has made him accustomed to all types of glowers. “Shouldn’t you be congratulating me for not succumbing to a Kotova’s charm? I’m not going to hell.” I shake my fists in mock maracas, my sore muscles screaming and my swollen knuckles crying. It’s a distressing faux celebration.
“You’re dating him, so there’s still time for stupidity to seep in. I’m not discounting it.” He pauses to add, “I’ve also heard rumors about the size of his dick.”
“What?” My eyes threaten to pop out again. I can tell he’s been itching to switch to this topic, leaning forward a bit more.
“Can you confirm or have you not hit that base yet?”
He loves to pry. If I had any inclination about his own love life, I’d put him in the hot seat. But he’s really private on that front. “What are the rumors?” I ask, my curiosity peaking. I’ve definitely been through enough bases to have seen his cock, but I didn’t have a ruler or anything. All I know is that he’s much bigger than the blurry, drunken guy I slept with that one time in college. Or at least, my foggy memory says so.
John makes a measurement with this hands. I’m not sure how many inches he’s alluding to, but it seems huge.
“That has to be a lie.”
“So you’ve never seen his dick,” John deduces, putting his beer bottle to his lips.
I open my mouth to explain.
“Who’s dick?” Nikolai’s deep voice pricks my arms.
Worst timing.
He sidles next to me, passing me a plastic cup with tequila and orange juice. He sets down his beer and then takes my hand, pressing a cold baggy of ice to my throbbing knuckles.
That feels so good. I find myself relaxing my hip against his body: shirtless, in just gray swim trunks. It’s a god-like view.
I didn’t even have to ask for this gesture—he must’ve seen how puffy my knuckles were this morning. It happens if I’m not careful with the aerial silk, bearing down on the tops of my hands.
I actually forget about Nik’s question for a second. That is, until John speaks.
“Yours,” he says, unabashed. “We were talking about the rumors.”
“Rumors about my cock,” he says flatly. It’s not a question.
“Don’t act surprised, this entire fucking establishment—” John gestures to the Masquerade and enormous pool “—is obsessed with your kind.”
Nikolai’s no-nonsense, intimidating glare starts to harden his face. I shift my weight uneasily. He says, “You seem really concerned with my kind.”
“Because you’re everywhere,” John retorts. “I can’t walk into the bathroom without running into one of you. It’s like you were bred in a factory.”
“Okay, John,” I cut in, afraid he’s offended Nikolai. “You’ve had your fun—”
“I would hardly call it fun.” His eyes narrow back at Nikolai, and they engage in a glaring contest that I can’t fully understand. Seconds tick by, straining the air. There seems to be something deeper here—
“Don’t fuck with my brother,” Nikolai forces. There it is.
John lets out a humorless laugh. “Oh God, you have no idea.” He shakes his head repeatedly. “Timo chases after me—because I am the only man on the strip that says no to him. Think about that for a second. Are you letting it process? Because there are some gross fucking tobacco-spitting, fifty-year-old men here.”
He really hates tobacco. It’s the only thought that stops my stomach from roiling.
Nikolai is unmoving, still glaring. A pit wedges in my ribcage.
“WET T-SHIRT CONTEST!” the DJ announces in the mic.
“Fucking cliché,” John says under his breath, but raises his beer to me in goodbye now and steps away from our table, predictably heading to the stage.
Nikolai focuses back to me, switching th
e ice bag to my other hand.
“I’m sorry John insulted your family,” I say in a cringe.
“He’s not the first Masquerade employee to hate us. But most of them have better sense than to insult me to my face.” The ill-will must derive from the “special treatment” they think the Kotovas receive. Both Timo and Luka are allowed in clubs and on the casino floor.
I wonder though if they’re just highly persuasive.
“Thora!”
My name and that voice reroutes my attention. And Nikolai’s. Our heads turn at the same time. A few feet from my table, I see the very familiar gymnast, and my heart explodes with emotion.
Shay.
Just like that, my old life slams into me at a hundred miles per hour.
Act Twenty-Six
Too excited to stay put, I run up to him, his smile growing brighter as I near. I stand on my toes to hug Shay around his broad shoulders, reaching his five-foot-seven self.
“Miss me?” he whispers in my ear, reciprocating the hug with a tighter one around my waist. Almost four months without any familiarity, after spending nearly eight years being surrounded by Shay and gymnastics and my parents—his sudden presence, it overwhelms me. He knows my answer by the escaped tears that land on his shoulder.
I squeeze him, just to ensure he’s not a mirage. “You’re really here.”
I can’t believe he’s here.
“Only for a few hours.”
“What?” I thud to my feet, disappointment flooding me. I try to stay positive. Three hours is better than nothing. Most definitely.
He holds my face and wipes the wetness beneath my eye. “I know. It fucking sucks. But the only way I could get my parents to pay for the ticket was for the ‘benefit of my career’.” He uses air-quotes. “I’m on my way to L.A. for an interview with USC. They have a job opening up in January since some athletic trainer is leaving. I made sure there was a layover so I could see you.”
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