54. Chapter 54

54

Wren

I 'm wiping down the bar for the millionth time tonight, my eyes darting to the clock every few seconds. Fuck, time's dragging like a three-legged dog.

To be completely blunt, a part of me—a very stupid part—did a backflip when I laid eyes on D earlier.

But I fucking hate it when he always appears to be some knight in shining armor. Still, I can't help but find his expression cute when I called him my boyfriend. Like a puppy who just got tossed a bone.

Patrick leans in. "So, is Mr. Orlov really your boyfriend?" he asks, his eyes darting around the room to ensure no one else catches wind of this juicy gossip. Satisfied that he's safe, he sets down a Barracuda's Bite in front of a leggy blonde, his attention still on me.

I roll my eyes. "Christ, Patrick. You're worse than my little sister with the gossip." He's been bugging me all night, ever since D's little alpha male display.

He grins, unashamed. "Come on, Wren. Spill. The Russian boss and the new bartender? It's like a movie!"

"Yeah, a really bad porno," I mutter, but I can't help smirking.

We finish closing up, and I check my phone. There's a message from D:

Suite 3807. If you still want to talk.

I turn to Patrick. "Nah, just a friend," I say, answering his earlier question.

He gives me an "I don't believe you" look that makes me want to smack him. "Sure, Wren. Whatever you say."

We say goodnight, and I'm left alone with my thoughts. And they're a fucking mess.

I've been tired, working non-stop. Worse was fucking John, trying to break into Lenny's room to steal his laptop. Luckily, he hadn't succeeded, now that Em's moved in to share a room with me.

I turn off my phone and check myself in the mirror. I've unbuttoned two buttons on my shirt, and I reach for the lipstick, then stop myself.

What the fuck am I doing?

It's just a talk . A fucking chat. Not a goddamn mating call. And it sure as hell ain't a chance for him to stick his dick in me again.

I throw the lipstick back in my bag and walk toward the elevator, trying to ignore the butterflies in my stomach. They feel more like angry wasps, to be honest.

The elevator dings, and I step inside, jabbing the button for the 38th floor. The doors grind shut, and the box shudders. My stomach lurches as it drops, plummeting down two floors. My heart slams against my ribs, each thud echoing in my skull. Fuck . Why am I nervous? It's just D. Just the guy who's seen me with my ass hanging out, blood crusted on my knuckles and vomit in my hair.

The doors slide open with a hiss. I stomp down the hallway, my boots sinking into the fancy-ass carpet.

3805… 3806… 3807. I freeze, my fist an inch from the door.

What the hell am I doing here? My hand's clammy, and I scrub it on my skirt.

Christ, Wren. You've stared down loaded guns.

This is just a goddamn door.

Just D behind it.

Before I can answer my own question, I rap on the door. Three sharp knocks.

No hesitation, no turning back.

I'm here to talk . Just talk.

15 minutes, tops.

I can do this.

No sweating, no slipping, no accidentally admitting I want to tear his clothes off with my teeth. Just a nice, civil chat.

There's a pause, then footsteps. The door swings open, and there he is. Dimitri fucking Orlov, looking like sin in a suit.

I'm so fucking regretting this.

Dude is smokin' hot. Like a damn mountain, he looms over me, broad-shouldered and unapologetic, devouring me with his gaze.

My pussy betrays me, wet and aching like it can't wait to get filled with his cock again.

I'm practically salivating for this dickhead, but fuck him. I came here to tell him off, not give him a handy under the table. Though the thought's tempting, I'll admit.

So, I square my shoulders and lift my chin to lock onto his eyes like a pair of dueling gladiators.

" Ptichka ," he says, his voice low and gravelly.

I quirk an eyebrow. "You gonna invite me in, or are we having this chat in the hallway?"

He steps aside, and I brush past him, catching a whiff of his cologne. Fuck, he smells good.

I hate the way my body reacts to him. It's like my skin's on fucking fire.

Once I'm in, my eyes dart around like a rat in a fancy cheese shop. The place screams money, from the polished mahogany desk to the plush carpet that swallows my heels. A king-sized bed dominates one side of the room, its crisp white sheets practically begging to be messed up.

"Fuck me," I mutter, then catch myself.

Poor choice of words.

D's gaze burns into my back as I walk, his eyes probably glued to my ass. I come to a stop by the bed, running my fingers over the silky duvet. My traitorous brain conjures images of D throwing me onto it, ripping off my clothes—

"Get a grip, Wren," I hiss to myself.

I turn, leaning against the bedpost, trying to look casual and not like I'm five seconds away from humping the man. D's limping slightly as he moves to the bar, his broad shoulders straining against his shirt. He's lost weight, but somehow, it only makes him look more dangerous. More fuckable .

"Drink?" he grunts, already pouring amber liquid into two glasses.

I eye the whiskey, remembering my own rule about not drinking on the job. But fuck it, I'm off the clock now.

"Sure, why not? Might as well enjoy the perks of your fancy-ass suite."

He hands me the glass, our fingers brushing. A jolt of electricity shoots up my arm.

"So," I start, desperate to break the tension. "Mr. Orlov, huh?" I down the glass of whiskey in one go, the liquid fire burning a path down my throat. I set the glass back on the table with a sharp clink. "How'd they know you, D?"

D takes a sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving mine. "Because, ptichka , we're the mafia. We happen to be in the hospitality business, too."

I snort, the sound echoing in the fancy room. "Right, because nothing says ‘hospitality' like breaking kneecaps and making offers people can't refuse."

"How are you?" he asks, his voice gruff, clearly trying to change the subject.

I quirk an eyebrow, my fingers drumming against my thigh.

"Superb, D. Just goddamn superb. You know, living the high life. Slinging drinks, breaking up bar fights. The usual glamorous shit."

D's jaw clenches. "The bar treating you well?"

"As you can see," I gesture to my uniform, two buttons undone to show just enough cleavage to boost tips, "it's a real step up from pole dancing."

D takes a sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving mine.

I know that look. No, don't let him fuck with you.

"It's steady work," I continue, filling the awkward silence. "Good tips. No one trying to stuff singles in my G-string. Can't complain."

D's eyes darken at the mention of my G-string. I shift, suddenly very aware of how close we are. The room feels too small, too fucking hot.

I clear my throat, desperate to change the subject. "So, how's the bullet hole and knife wound? Still leaking, or did Dr. Tits McGee patch you up nicely?"

"Dr. Tits… McGee?" D's lips twitch, almost a smile.

I drain my glass fast, setting it on the nearby desk with a little too much force. "Look, D. I didn't come here for small talk. I came to tell you to back off."

D just stares at me, his eyes going dark. Fuck . It's like looking into a shark tank, and I'm the chum. I feel my anger rising, pissed that I'm getting pulled into his orbit again.

"This whole… whatever the hell this is," I gesture between us, "I want out. No more mafia shit in my life. I've got a good gig at the bar, and I don't need you screwing it up."

D steps closer. I have to crane my neck to look at him.

Fucking giant.

"That what you really want, Wren?" His voice is low, rough.

My throat's dry as sandpaper. "Yeah. That's what I want."

Real smooth, dipshit.

He leans in close, his breath hot on my ear. "Bullshit."

A shiver runs through me. I slap a hand on his chest to push him away, but my fingers grab his shirt instead. Traitors.

"D," I growl, not sure if I'm warning him or myself.

His lips graze my neck. I clamp my jaw shut to keep from moaning like a bitch in heat.

"Tell me to stop, ptichka . Say you don't want this."

I should. But I don't. Instead, I tilt my head, giving him more access. Fucking idiot.

D's hands grab my hips, yanking me against him. He's hard. Real hard.

"Fuck," I spit out.

He chuckles, and I feel it in my bones. "That's the plan."