Torrid

by Nikki Sloane

  The side of my neck itched. The stitches had come out two weeks ago, and the scar was a red, angry line. I didn’t mind it, and Oksana said it was sexy. A reminder of what we’d been through. Proof I had part of her inside me.

  As I expected, no FBI showed up the next day to take us into custody. Sure, the cops would find my DNA all over the place, but what else might they find? Oksana said the office was her father’s favorite room to take people out. They might find stuff to close half a dozen missing person cases. It was too risky for Konstantine to get authorities involved, and it’d make him look weak.

  Sergey had a heart attack. That was the story they chose to go with. Did anyone wonder why it was a closed casket funeral, or why his two bodyguards weren’t at the service? I smiled to myself at the thought.

  Filip glared at the server who lingered. “We’re not ready to order yet.”

  Oksana sighed. “Maybe we should. We’ve been waiting half an hour.”

  Thirty-three minutes, actually, but who was counting? “If he doesn’t show tonight, we’ll keep doing this until he—”

  Konstantine appeared in the lobby, flanked by two enormous men. Their necks were thicker than their heads. It was overkill, but whatever. As they approached the table, her brother’s gaze locked onto me. Konstantine wasn’t his father and didn’t have as hard of an edge, but the sudden promotion in his family had sharpened him up. Impressive hate burned in his eyes.

  That wasn’t fair. Sergey had tried to slash my throat. It was a miracle he hadn’t hit an artery, or I would have bled out in the Lexus and been dead minutes after leaving the house.

  Konstantine wore a gray suit and smoothed a hand down his black tie as he sat, but his posture cried he’d like to be anywhere else but this table. He looked at Filip, then back to me. His blue eyes wouldn’t move toward her.

  “Thanks for coming,” I said.

  “Let’s get this over with. What the fuck do you want?”

  Oksana took a breath. “To tell you why I did it.”

  He kept his gaze on me. “You said this was business.”

  “It is business. My uncle was going to have you killed. He wanted all-out war. But me? I don’t want that. Do you?”

  Konstantine stared at the folded napkin propped up on the plate in front of him. “You came into my family’s home and murdered my father. We’re already at war.”

  “Vasilije didn’t kill him,” Oksana said. “I did.”

  It was semantics. Her first shot had been lethal. Sergey had been wheezing as his lung collapsed, and only minutes left to live before I’d delivered my head shot and ended him. Her brother’s attention slowly, finally shifted to her, and her already stiff posture somehow straightened under his intensity.

  “He was our father.”

  She raised her chin, defiant. “I know you loved him, but you also know he was a monster, and he had it fucking coming.”

  I put my hand over my mouth to hide the smile. God, she was sexy when she was strong. She went with me everywhere now. My silent, lethal queen.

  “Business,” I reminded. “My uncle wanted you dead, and Oksana saved you. We don’t need a war. There’s enough business here to go around.”

  He looked offended. “You want a truce? You think I’m going to—”

  “A partnership.” I set my hand on top of Oksana’s on the tabletop. “Our families can work together.”

  He acted like I just pulled a gun on him, and jolted back in his seat. “Are you fucking insane?”

  I smirked. “Probably.”

  “No,” he said. “Absolutely no.”

  I clenched my teeth. “Feel free to take some time to think about it.” He was too emotional about this. A smart guy would see the deal I was offering was good.

  Konstantine’s expression hardened as he stared at his sister. “You betrayed the family. You’re not a Petrov anymore.”

  Her tone was incredulous. “I never was.”

  “You betrayed me, Oksana.”

  The pain in his voice was mirrored in her eyes, and I couldn’t stand it. I owed this guy. He’d stopped Ilia from doing more damage than he already had, and protected the girl I’d eventually fall in love with.

  “She saved your life,” I announced. “We’re not at war, unless you come after her.” Then, all bets were off. I’d tear Chicago apart to keep her beside me. “It’s your move, Konstantine.”

  He pushed away from the table, stood, and left without a word, the bodyguards trailing behind him.

  She was tense, probably unsure what to say or do.

  I picked up the menu and scanned the print. “Let’s order. I’m fucking starving.”

  ♪

  We sat in the back of the dealership’s newly acquired Range Rover, heading home, when I unbuckled my seatbelt and slid over to her. She was wearing the same dress she’d worn when we’d gone to see Salome. It was the exact shade of red I could turn her skin with the palm of my bare hand, and such a beautiful color on her.

  The conversation with her brother had bothered her, and I wanted to distract her from it. He’d come around. In another life, it was possible Konstantine and I could have been friends.

  I gently placed my fingers on her neck, and felt her pulse beneath my fingertips quicken. Her throat bobbed with a swallow. Without words, she understood. I always wanted her, but the need was fierce tonight. I stroked my thumb along the curve of her neck and leaned in, making the tip of my tongue follow my thumb’s path.

  She shuddered with pleasure, and her tone was teasing. “Can you wait until we get home?”

  “Please?” came from up front. John sounded half-serious.

  “Everybody just relax,” I said, annoyed. “I’ll keep my hands to myself.” I leaned in again, putting my lips beside her ear. “For now.”

  A slow smile spread over her lips. “Promise?”

  I matched her smile. “You know me.”

  “I do. Better than anyone else.”

  Fuck, I loved this girl.

  Thank You

  Always to my husband for everything. You gave (and continue to give) endless support, be it a week away from your job to help with mine, letting me bounce story ideas off you, or holding purses for ten friends while we’re at the dick show in Vegas. I love you so very much!

  To my beta readers Joscelyn Freeman Fussell, Andrea Lefkowitz, Rebecca Nebel, Jennifer Santa Ana, and Nikki Terrill. Thanks for having the courage to tell me the first draft was slow and unbalanced, and Vashole needed to live up to the name. You give me notes where they encourage and motivate no matter how big they are, and I’m so grateful.

  To V. Thanks for the daily conversations I couldn’t function without. Sorry for all the rambling messages and the meowing cat in the background. That’s just her trying to steal your soul if she could get to you.

  To my editor Lori. Thank you for your hard work, for making me look good, and for fitting me in when I ask frantically for a second edit. You’re the best!

  To anyone who supported Sordid

  Whether you were a reader, a fellow author, or someone who purchased the book because you wanted to make a statement, thank you from the bottom of my heart. Thank you to those who reached out, either to offer help or share thoughts about my work. Your messages were a bright spot in a stressful time and much needed. Thank you to those who shared the book’s status and spread the word about which retailers it was available on.

  An extra thank you to the fabulous Mara White. Thank you for your words, your work, and for allowing the situation to reach a broader audience.

  An extra, super-duper THANK YOU to my publicist Heather Roberts. This woman, you guys. She was my voice when I didn’t know what to do or how to talk to the folks at You-Know-Where. When things got tough, she held me together and told me, “You got this.”

  And thank you to all the blogs who spread the word about great reads and new authors. I wouldn’t be anywhere without you, believe me. I’m in awe of what you do. (The reviews I write take foreve
r and they’re, like, a paragraph.) Thank you so much for everything and being awesome!

  IF YOU ENJOYED THE BOOK

  Thank you so much for taking the time to read Vasilije’s story. If you enjoyed it, would you be so kind as to let other readers know via a review? Just a few words can help an author tremendously, and are always appreciated!

  Want to chat with other Nikki Sloane fans? Join the private Facebook group! It’s a fun place to hang out and discuss naughty reads: Nikki's Naughty Nymphs

  ABOUT NIKKI SLOANE

  Nikki Sloane fell into graphic design after her careers as a waitress, a screenwriter, and a ballroom dance instructor fell through. For eight years she worked for a design firm in that extremely tall, black, and tiered building in Chicago that went through an unfortunate name change during her time there. She is a two-time Romance Writers of America RITA© Finalist, married with two sons, writes both romantic suspense and dirty books, and couldn’t be any happier.

  Find her on the web: www.NikkiSloane.com

  Stalk her on Facebook: Nikki Sloane Author

  Contact her on Twitter: @AuthorNSloane

  Follow her on Instagram: authornikkisloane

  Send her an email: authornikkisloane@gmail.com

  COPYRIGHT

  Text copyright © 2017 by Nikki Sloane

  Cover photography © Tomasz Zienkiewicz - http://www.zieniu.com

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  S O R D I D

  1

  YOU LOOK LIKE A SLUT. This was the thought repeating in my head.

  I tugged at the knee-high white stockings and smoothed down my plaid skirt. It was much too short. The blouse of the sexed-up schoolgirl costume didn’t have buttons to close above my bra. The white shirt gapped and showed cleavage. I felt . . . uncomfortable. Yes, I looked like a slut, but it was also the look I was going for.

  Avery, my roommate, smeared on blood red lipstick, and although her gaze was on the mirror, I sensed she was watching me out of the sides of her eyes. She was waiting for me to chicken out.

  “You’re going out in that?” Her tone did nothing to disguise her disbelief.

  “Yeah.”

  Perhaps I looked ridiculous, and perhaps my stomach had done a flip-flop when I looked at myself in the mirror, but I wasn’t bluffing. Avery had been forced into inviting me to the party at her boyfriend’s frat, but I was going. I hadn’t been out to a party in ages, and Halloween was the one night I could reinvent myself.

  A reinvention was needed.

  I’d spent my whole life driving toward a medical degree, and everything else had been neglected, including a social life. It was my senior year at Randhurst University, and I’d never gotten close enough with another girl to find a roommate. Avery and I had been paired together randomly by a student housing computer.

  She wasn’t happy with the result. The spoiled sophomore was my opposite—she didn’t study. She didn’t care about her grades, her major, or have to worry about scholarship money. The International Bank of Mom and Dad was funding her pointless attempt at a college education, and it was likely she’d wash out by the end of the year. Perhaps even by the end of the semester. She wasn’t focused, and I couldn’t relate at all.

  “You look different,” Avery said. “Nice.”

  Her compliment threw me off-kilter. “Thanks. And thanks for letting me tag along.”

  “It shocked the hell out of me when you said yes. I thought you were a Mormon.”

  I blinked, confused. “Mormon?”

  “Yeah.” She fluffed her long brown hair. “They don’t celebrate holidays and shit.”

  My brain played loud static, my defense mechanism against stupidity. “I think you mean Jehovah’s Witness.” Not once had I mentioned church to her. I wasn’t even religious—unless you considered science a religion.

  She continued to preen in the mirror and I was ignored, which was Avery’s typical response. It could be worse, I told myself. She’d never outright been a bitch.

  Her phone rang, singing an obnoxious song, but it cut off as she answered it. “Hi, are you downstairs?” Her gaze flicked my direction. “Yeah, Addison’s ready, too. You remember she’s coming.” It wasn’t said like it was a question.

  I held down the hem of my skirt as I ducked into the back seat of Brent’s car. He was my age, and hadn’t been dating Avery all that long. The two-door Mustang’s back seat was a joke. I had to position my knees to the side so I could sit, but the car was warm and clean, so I knew not to complain.

  It was a short drive to the frat house. It’d be a hike back, but I could walk if needed. Although the campus was small, the city was a college town and relatively safe. Yet nerves fluttered in the pit of my stomach as the car parked behind the huge Tudor-style house adorned with the three Greek letters out front.

  I’d never been to a frat party.

  Would it be as wild as everyone made them out to be? I followed behind Avery and Brent, realizing now that their costumes matched. Batman and Catwoman. I tried not to stumble over the uneven walkway leading around the house and up to the front door.

  Music thumped steadily, and loud conversation could be heard through the open door. I shivered in the October air. On Avery’s suggestion, I’d left my coat back at the dorm. There’d be nowhere to put it, and she’d warned the place would get hot with that many bodies packed inside.

  On the front porch, a guy stood and checked IDs. I dug mine out, but Brent shook his head. “You’re good.”

  “It’s fine, I’m twenty-one—” I started.

  “Nah, Addison, you’re with me, that’s all my boy needs to know.”

  I jammed the plastic card back in the tiny pocket of my skirt as a shimmer of disappointment flowed through me. I’d only turned twenty-one in August and hadn’t had many opportunities to use my new license. My birthday had been a sad affair. I’d spent the summer interning at the hospital, and a few of the other orderlies took me out. The evening had been over before ten p.m.

  The entryway was dark and packed with people trying to hold conversations over the loud music. Most were in costume and gripped a plastic cup. There were large rooms to the left and the right, a staircase ahead, and a hallway leading to the back of the house, lined with picture frames of past pledge classes.

  “Let’s get drinks,” Avery yelled in my ear.

  Relief washed through me. I’d expected her to ditch me the second we were inside. I wouldn’t cling to her, but I was grateful not to be abandoned immediately. Brent led the way as we threaded through the crowd, down the hallway and into a kitchen where lines had formed at the two kegs.

  I took my place, standing behind a guy dressed as an astronaut. He turned, gave me a glance, then his head swiveled forward with disinterest. It was a reaction I was used to. I wasn’t homely, but I was incredibly average. Nothing . . . special. Normally, my dull brown hair hung listlessly to brush my shoulders, although tonight I had the front section pulled up into two high ponytails to complete my naughty schoolgirl look. My skin was pale. I’d forgone sports in high school because I wasn’t coordinated, or fast, and that way I could focus on my advanced placement classes. My days were spent at a desk, rather than outside in the sun.

  The line crept forward. The astronaut stepped up to the keg, but abruptly shifted to the side, slipping a hand behind my back. “Ladies first.”

  I went rigid under this stranger’s hand. He gave me a friendly smile, but I got the feeling he expected me to be impressed. Like this was a grand, chivalrous gesture. A sacrifice, and not just polite courtesy. My gaze went from the astronaut to the empty red Solo
cup extended out to me.

  “Thanks,” I said to both the astronaut and the guy handing me the—

  It was him.

  My breath stalled in my lungs. He wore dark navy pants, a matching dress shirt, and a gold badge clipped to his chest. At his waist was a supply belt with a holster. The gun looked terrifyingly real, but it was also covered with the holster, and could just be part of the costume.

  Or maybe Luka was a cop now. I hadn’t seen him in two years. Although he had the perfect serious demeanor to match the uniform, I doubted my TA from Calculus 220 had gone into law enforcement. My gut said no, and a closer look at the badge proved it was fake.

  I gripped the plastic cup so fiercely, it crinkled, drawing his focus.

  His dark gaze swept over me and sharpened, cutting me bare. I felt naked under his assessing eyes. There was a flicker of recognition in him, which was surprising. We’d never spoken. I didn’t know him and he didn’t know me, but I’d spent countless hours of class studying him when it should have been the whiteboard.

  Like me, Luka rarely smiled. He’d sat in the corner at the front of the room and faced the class while the professor demonstrated equations. Luka’s head of espresso brown hair was always tipped downward, grading our worksheets. Every once in a while, he’d cock an eyebrow and circle aggressively with his red pen, as if the student’s wrong answer had offended him.

  I’d grown to love watching his subtle cues, so much so, I’d considered purposefully answering one of the questions wrong, just to get a rise. Yet, I wouldn’t do a thing to screw up my scholarships. Luka’s fun, displeased reaction would last a moment, but a bad grade could destroy everything.

  With heels on tonight, I didn’t have to tilt my head up as much to meet his gaze. His eyes were the color of onyx and framed with long, thick lashes. His nose was straight, his jaw defined. Tonight he was clean shaven with his hair styled casually. Two years ago he’d looked like an average grad student—well, better. Most looked like they’d just rolled out of bed and barely made it to class, but he’d seemed more pulled together. Always a coffee cup in hand for the early class.