"You're in my seat."
The voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the sultry jazz playing in the exclusive underground lounge like a dagger wrapped in silk. Deep, steady, threaded with danger.
Aubrey…no, Dorian…looked up from the crystal glass he was pretending to sip from. His eyes landed on a tall, broad figure dressed in a dark tailored suit, black on black, everything about him dangerous and quiet like a storm waiting to happen.
Platinum blond hair, steel-cut jaw, cold grey eyes.
"Funny," Dorian said smoothly, swirling the drink in his hand with a lazy smirk, "I don't see your name carved into the leather."
The man didn't flinch. Didn't blink. He just looked at him.
And then slowly..calmly…he sat down in the seat directly across from him.
Every hair on Dorian's nape stood. This was the man. Borya Morozov. The heir of the oldest, deadliest Bratva empire in Russia. And Dorian had just stepped into the lion's den, smiling.
Borya tilted his head slightly. "American?"
"Something like that," Dorian replied, feigning indifference.
Borya didn't move. Just studied him like he was made of layers Borya wanted to rip apart with his hands or his mouth…maybe both.
"You're new," Borya said simply.
"And you're observant," Dorian replied, a little more clipped than he intended. "Did they teach you that in killer school?"
A flicker of amusement touched Borya's lips. "You think I kill?"
"I know you do."
"I see. And what do you do?" he leaned forward slightly. "Smile and sip drinks in stolen seats?"
Dorian leaned back against the booth, giving the illusion of relaxation. "Something like that."
Their eyes locked. Fire and ice. Law and crime. Neither backing down.
"Name?" Borya asked after a moment.
"Dorian."
"Last name?"
"Wouldn't you like to know."
Borya's smile didn't reach his eyes. "I make it my business to know everything."
Dorian chuckled under his breath. "Then you're slipping, darling. Because you didn't know I was sitting here."
Borya's jaw tensed, just slightly. He pulled a cigar from his jacket, lit it with a custom gold lighter, and took a slow draw, his eyes never leaving Dorian.
"You're bold."
"And you're predictable," Dorian replied.
Borya exhaled smoke between his lips. "Careful, Dorian. In this world, bold men tend to get eaten."
"Then I guess I should be thankful you're not that hungry," Dorian replied with a smile.
Borya leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Who said I'm not?"
The tension between them vibrated like an exposed nerve. Dorian's heart was thundering behind his ribs, but his face remained cool. Controlled.
He was trained for this.
But Borya was... something else.
The Russian was terrifyingly beautiful in a way only someone forged from blood and secrets could be. Every inch of him screamed danger. From the way he moved to the way he watched Dorian like he wanted to taste his lies.
And Dorian knew he shouldn't enjoy it. But he did.
"You're watching me too hard," he murmured.
"I always watch what I want to own."
That made Dorian laugh out loud. He leaned in, their faces just inches apart.
"Sweetheart," he whispered, "you couldn't even begin to afford me."
Borya's eyes darkened.
"You've got a mouth on you," he murmured.
"You haven't seen where else I have one," Dorian replied, lips curling.
There was a pause. And then…
"Come," Borya stood up abruptly.
Dorian blinked. "Excuse me?"
Borya extended a hand, dangerous calm radiating from every pore.
"I want a walk," he said. "You're coming with me."
"I don't take orders from strangers."
"Then let's fix that. I'm Borya."
Dorian stared at his hand. Hesitated.
Then he took it.
Borya's fingers curled around his like chains made of velvet. Firm. Possessive. Certain.
He didn't let go.
The hallway behind the lounge was quiet, dimly lit with red-gold lighting and mirrors lining the walls. The second the door shut behind them, Dorian was slammed against it, breath stolen from his lungs.
"What the hell…"
Borya kissed him.
Fierce. Brutal. Devastating.
And Dorian let him.
Their mouths collided like they were both fighting for control and losing it. Tongues. Teeth. Breath. Everything tangled. Fire seared through Dorian's veins and for a moment, he forgot who he was, why he was here. All that mattered was Borya's mouth and the way he growled against his lips like he couldn't get enough.
"You taste like lies," Borya breathed, breaking the kiss, voice hoarse.
"And you taste like sin," Dorian whispered, chest heaving.
Their foreheads pressed. Their hands gripped shirts, waists, skin.
"This is a bad idea," Dorian muttered.
"I don't do good ideas," Borya replied, "only dangerous ones."
They kissed again.
Longer.
Harder.
This time slower. As if they both realized this wasn't a one-time thing.
When they finally pulled apart, both were breathing raggedly.
"I don't fuck strangers," Dorian whispered.
"Then let's be more than strangers."
Dorian's heart tripped.
He wanted to say no.
He said, "Take me home."
Borya's smile could've started wars.
Borya didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
He pulled Dorian through the back exit of Sable, their fingers still tangled together like a promise. The cold night air slapped against their flushed skin, but neither of them noticed. Not when the fire between them threatened to consume whatever sanity they had left.
They reached the black Maserati parked just beyond the alley.
"Back seat," Borya said roughly.
Dorian arched a brow, breath fogging. "You don't even want to wait till we get to your place?"
"I'll wait when I'm dead."
He yanked the door open and shoved Dorian inside, not roughly…but firm enough to remind him who was in control. Borya followed right after, and the second the door slammed shut behind them, the city vanished.
All that existed was heat.
Teeth.
Tongue.
Hands.
Borya's mouth devoured his like he'd waited years for it. His hands tore at Dorian's shirt, yanking the buttons open, not caring where they scattered. The smooth glide of Dorian's bare chest beneath his palms made Borya curse in Russian.
Dorian gasped as Borya's teeth grazed down the side of his throat, biting just enough to leave a mark. "You're insane."
"Wrong," Borya growled against his skin. "I'm starving."
He pushed Dorian back across the leather seat and climbed over him, big hands roaming down his torso, over the waistband of his pants.
"You wore this tight on purpose," he muttered.
Dorian laughed breathlessly, his hips lifting as Borya unbuckled him with ease. "I was told Russians like a challenge."
Borya's eyes flicked up, ice and fire all at once. "You've got no idea what I like yet, Dorian."
"Then show me."
Clothes disappeared.
Breath by breath, inhibition dissolved into need.
And when Borya finally pushed into him, slow and deep, Dorian arched back against the seat and whispered…
"Fuck…"
Borya grunted, lips pressed to his throat. "Say it louder."
Dorian moaned.
Borya moved, slow at first, dragging every inch like he wanted Dorian to feel him for days. The rhythm built with every thrust, until they were a tangle of sweat, curses, and gasps.
When Dorian came, it was with a choked cry, nails clawing Borya's back.
Borya followed moments after, biting down into Dorian's shoulder like he needed something to anchor him. He didn't pull out immediately. He stayed there, breathing into the crook of Dorian's neck.
Silent.
Heavy.
Dangerous.
Dorian finally broke it with a breathless laugh. "You always fuck like you're trying to end a war?"
Borya didn't move. "No. Only when I find something I don't want to lose."
Dorian froze.
And for the first time in hours, something colder than lust crept into his chest.
Guilt.
Borya finally pulled away, adjusting his shirt. "I'll have you taken home."
"Not staying?"
The Russian's mouth twitched. "If I do, I won't let you leave."
Dorian smirked, masking the sudden ache behind his ribs. "Is that a threat?"
"It's a promise."
He opened the car door, stepping out like a king, like a storm.
And Dorian sat there alone.
Shaking.
Breathing.
And wondering what the hell he had just done.