Darkest Desires (The Club #14)

by Nicole Blanchard

  “I’ll try. See you later.”

  “Go get ‘em, tiger,” she says, grinning wildly. I roll my eyes at her again and give her a little wave.

  I find him as I round the corner to his office. He’s standing just in front of me talking to a pair of nurses.

  God, he’s attractive. Even more so in his lab coat and slacks, his stethoscope knotted in one pocket. Even though his eyes are drawn and somewhat lifeless and his smile doesn’t quite reach them, he’s still, quite possibly, the best-looking man I’ve ever seen. All competence and hollow cheeks. I have the sudden urge to muss him up a little, untuck his proper shirt and run my hands through his perfect hair.

  Then he finishes his business with the nurses and turns to find me standing just by the corner. His smile brightens, transforming his face. “Stellichka.”

  I don’t know what it means, but the light Russian accent he lets come through stirs my butterflies back to life. “Hi.”

  “You didn’t have to drop everything to come,” he says, crossing the hall and enveloping me in his arms. I breathe him in and squeeze him tight.

  “Of course I did.” I pull back and look up to his face, wishing I was a doctor so I could take away some of his pain. “No one should be alone after they lose someone.”

  His eyes cloud over, but he covers it so quickly, I’m not sure I even saw it in the first place. “Come sit with me in my office. I’ve got some paperwork to finish and then maybe we can grab a bite to eat?”

  “Sounds good to me. What are you even doing at work today?” I ask as he draws me in the room.

  “I’m a workaholic,” he says with an easy smile.

  “How’s the tattoo?” I ask.

  He flexes his shoulder. “Sore as hell, but worth it. Thank you for going with me, for coming here.”

  “Of course, whatever you need.” I say as I take a chair opposite his executive style desk.

  “What do you feel like having?” he asks as he shuffles through some papers.

  “Whatever you want.”

  He gives me a little smirk. “You aren’t one of those women, are you?”

  Not sure if I should feel affronted, I say, “What kind of woman is that?”

  “The kind who can’t make up her mind about what we’re going to eat so we argue about it for the next ten minutes until you tell me what it is you want.”

  He’s smiling. God, it’s a big, beautiful smile that brings out the slightest lines at the corners of his pretty blue eyes. Wanting to keep him smiling, I say, “I’m serious. We can have whatever you want.”

  Those pretty blue eyes heat and for a second I feel exactly like a rabbit pinned by a sleek, sly fox. There’s something feral around the edge of his lips and the intensity of his gaze.

  If the man from The Club commands me with words and punishment, Misha can do so with his eyes alone.

  After margaritas and fresh, spicy tacos, Misha invites me to his house. A little tipsy and more than a lot into him, I agree.

  He does the opening my door thing again, something I’m not sure if I’ll ever get used to, and takes my hand. Something else I’m not sure I’ll get used to. I never thought I’d be the type of woman to enjoy constant, casual affection. A brush of his hand on the small of my back as he leads me to the restaurant. A finger on my lip to wipe away a bit of picante sauce. His hand hot and hard on my thigh. He doles it out like second nature, and I find myself greedy for it. Like a flower gone too long without sun.

  It’s not until we’re coming up the walk that I actually look up and take in his house. The sweeping porch, exposed beams and farmhouse charm is definitely not what I was expecting.

  “My parents left it and the farm to me in their will. I could never quite make myself sell it. Grandpa liked to come over sometimes and remember them. And it’s a great neighborhood, if I ever decided to have a family.”

  “It’s wonderful. And so big!” I look around in awe. “I think it’s bigger than my whole floor in New York.”

  He laughs as he opens the door for me to walk in. “I like my space.”

  The interior is light and bright, even though the sun is already setting. The walls are a beautiful exposed white shiplap that’s common in Texas and are accented with antiques and soft blues and greens. The whole space is open from entryway to kitchen. I can even see an expansive backyard through the French doors on the far side of the eat-in nook. “I’ll say.”

  As he steps in and takes off his coat and tie, hanging them on the hooks by the door, I study the pictures on the walls. I find one of him when he was young, surrounded by his parents and his grandpa. They look happy. What I imagine a real family looks like.

  A pang echoes in my chest and when I look at the next picture, recognizing Misha next to a beautiful blonde bombshell, the pang nearly steals my breath away.

  “Is this your ex-wife?” I ask, hating the insecurity that makes my voice thin. “She’s beautiful.”

  He turns me away from the picture, his hands cupping my cheeks so I have to look into his eyes. “You’re beautiful, Stellichka,” he says with such conviction, I forget my moment of petty jealousy.

  I twine my arms around his neck and pull his mouth down to mine. His hands skim down my rumpled tunic dress and grip the bare skin of my thighs. My knees buckle when he grips the spot just beneath my ass to press me against him. I lift my hands to his chest for balance, clutching the collar of his button-up shirt.

  His big hands lift me up and he leverages his weight to press me against the wall next to the panoramic, floor-to-ceiling windows in his living room. I try not to think about his neighbors, about how they may happen by a window and look into his and see us. They aren’t terribly close, but close enough to send my senses into hyperawareness. My heart thuds a quick tattoo in my ribs and I moan into his mouth, spurring his hands to wander up and underneath the hem of my dress.

  Reaching down, I try to stop them, try to pull away and protest. We should go to his bedroom. Find a bed, like a normal couple, somewhere not out in the open like this, where anyone can see. The thought nearly makes me laugh, but the wave of an orgasm is already swelling inside of me just from the threat of an audience. He quells my protest with a nip of his teeth. My hands change direction, aiming his closer to the need pulsing between my legs.

  I see a light flick on out of the corner of my eye and my head drops back against the wall. Misha’s lips trace my jaw and the line of my throat with deft precision. His hands are urging my hips in a subtle rhythm against his thigh and I want to wrap my body around him like ivy around a pole.

  “Let’s go upstairs,” I say into the shadows.

  “No,” he says, following the line of my shirt to my exposed cleavage. “Right here. Now.”

  “But,” I murmur, the word breaking off in the middle on a strangled moan. “The windows.”

  He chuckles as he pulls down my shirt to bare my breasts. “No one’s watching,” he says.

  “You don’t know that,” I say.

  “You’re right.” I nearly choke and then he adds, “I’m watching. I want to watch you. I want to watch you come all over my fingers, then I’ll watch you come while I use my mouth on you, then again all over my cock.”

  With a desperate sound, I pull him closer, needing to taste him again. His purely masculine taste and the tang from the margarita is intoxicating, intensifying my lightheadedness. His nimble fingers slip under my dress and pull my panties to the side. My breath catches and our eyes meet and my arms tighten around his shoulders. He doesn’t break eye contact and for one guilty moment, I imagine the man from The Club is him. As he works me up, up, up, I look at him and wish he was. As I fly over the first peak, I imagine them both watching me lose control, then I forget everything but him.

  My legs are shaking by the time I come down. Disoriented, it takes me a moment to realize Misha’s already on his knees. With a devilish grin, he drapes one of my legs over his shoulders. I don’t have time to think, or catch my breath—which is mos
t certainly his plan, and it’s diabolical--before his tongue turns my knees to water with it’s precision. Incredibly, he brings me to the edge again, but this time he holds me there. One hand keeping my leg clamped to his shoulder and the other holds my dress up so he can watch the effects of his ministrations play across my face.

  I grip his head with both hands, wanting both to ease his unrelenting assault and make sure it never ends. He adjusts his shoulders to cup my hips with both hands to bring me ever closer to the careful flicks of his tongue.

  Another light flicks on next door, drawing my attention to the wide open windows with a jerk of my neck. Cool air rushes across my heated cheeks. Shadows move behind the curtains. There are people there. My thighs tighten in his hold and I try to wiggle my hips back, but his grip is immovable. Caught, pinned, forced to feel everything, my breath stops up in my throat and I let out a silent scream as I fly out into the night’s sky.

  When he drapes me over the couch and arranges my legs over his shoulders and takes me over again, I forget about The Club. I forget about the man. I forget about my own lack of direction and my worries and my future.

  The only thing I think about is him as he brings me up and over again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Chapter 9

  “Stay with me, Stellichka,” Misha says as he reclines, unabashedly naked, in his bed. The early dawn light is buttery over his sinful Egyptian cotton sheets. He looks good enough to eat and he knows it, if his grin is any indication.

  “I’ll come back. I just have something I need to do and then I’ll come back, I promise.” I glance at him as I search for my bra and panties in the wreckage from our long, long night sex-fest. Aha! I find my bra on top of his dresser and my panties hanging from his bathroom door.

  “Come here,” he says, sitting up against his reclaimed wood headboard. “One kiss and I’ll let you go.”

  Slipping into my panties and wincing at the soreness of my thighs and back, I shake my head. “Oh no, we’ve played that game. One kiss could mean anything.”

  “On the lips,” he says. I give him a look as I clasp my bra and hunt down my dress. “Dirty girl,” he very nearly growls. “Fine, one kiss on your mouth and I’ll let you go.”

  I drag on my tunic dress and come to stand next to the bed. “One kiss.”

  He smiles, tucking his hands behind his back. “I won’t even touch you,” he says.

  I narrow my eyes, but put one knee on the bed, bracing my hands on his strong shoulders, careful to keep the tips of my fingers away from the tender skin near his tattoo. As I lean closer, I’m relieved to find his face is smooth, unworried, and his smile is easy. Closing my eyes, I press my lips to his.

  Even without touching me, I feel his kiss down to my bones, warming me from the inside out, causing a flush to break out on my skin. He slumps down and gravity forces me to follow, brushing our chests together. Momentum has me throwing a leg over his hips to break my fall, aligning us center to center.

  Heat against heat.

  His hardness, against my softness.

  I pull away, eyes narrowed.

  “What?” he asks, feigning innocence. “I didn’t touch you.”

  Weekdays at The Club are an altogether different affair than the weekend. The main floor is no longer the hedonistic haven it was the night I met him. Now, it looks like every other restaurant in Karim. Unremarkable, ordinary.

  Interesting how all the decadent things have a veneer of sophistication and normality in the daylight.

  Knowing he’ll find me, somehow he always does, I wander across the first floor to the members’ entrance that leads to the second. I press my thumb into the scanner and open the door after it beeps.

  The race up to the third floor is a quick one, fueled by an aching want and humming anticipation. The room he’s reserved for our last session is unoccupied. Following his instructions, I locate the customary blindfold and slip it over my eyes. I kneel beside the door and wait for him to enter.

  He keeps me waiting this time. Maybe he already knows I’m wavering. Can he sense my interest in another man? Knowing him, knowing how much he understands me, he must. Even in the short amount of time we’ve spent together, he can read me, read my body, like no one I’ve ever known.

  Emotion clogs my throat and I breathe deeply through my nose to stave off the tears.

  How am I ever supposed to let go of this side of me?

  How am I supposed to choose?

  The door opens before I’m able to sort through my feelings. I can sense him by the entrance, a coil of potential energy.

  “Are you purposefully tempting me to punish you, girl?” he asks when he sees I haven’t changed out of my street clothes.

  I don’t know. Maybe I am. So I say nothing.

  He crosses the room and fists a hand in my hair, pulling me to my knees. His breath is ragged, like he was so anxious he took the stairs two at a time to get to me. My stomach twists.

  “Have you been a bad girl?” he asks, his voice low. When I don’t answer he sucks a breath through his teeth. “You’ll answer me,” he says.

  Silence stretches between us, it burns my cheeks and brings tears to my eyes. I want to answer him. I want to tell him…what, I don’t know, but I can’t seem to make the words come out of my mouth.

  He releases my hair, and I stumble back like a boat without an anchor. His footsteps cross the room and he’s nearly to the door before I come to my senses.

  I rip off the blindfold, blinking to acclimatize to the ambient light. His dark form is nearly through the door before I catch up to him. I reach out, grabbing his shoulder and he hisses, ducking a little to remove my hand.

  Even when he turns, my brain can’t quite process what it’s seeing.

  Can’t wrap around the fact that my two worlds are colliding.

  Then he takes a step towards me and says, “Stellichka.”

  Epilogue

  Mikhail

  I run a hand through my hair, then roll my eyes at my reflection in the rearview mirror. After eleven hours on shift, where the decisions I make could result in life or death, it’s opening the door and meeting a woman that has my hands damn near trembling. Gritting my teeth, I palm my phone and keys, then unfold from the SUV, already wishing I’d come up with some sort of excuse.

  Might as well get in and get it over with, then I can go home and down the rest of the whiskey I’d been babysitting all week.

  If Diana hadn’t cornered me, I never would have agreed to take her daughter out on a date. The last thing I want or need is to get tangled up in a relationship. No matter what everyone says, time hasn’t healed my wounds and I’m not sure I want it to. I don’t glance at my phone, but I’m tempted to, even if it’s only to pretend to look at the time. Instead, I stuff it in my pocket defiantly and head to the crosswalk toward the restaurant.

  Considering how pushy Diana can be, her daughter probably didn’t have much say tonight either. We both may as well make the best of an awkward situation.

  I haven’t been to Bella Bella Italiano in over a year. In fact, I’ve done my best to avoid it. It wasn’t until Diana started walking away, after getting me to agree to the date that the name of the restaurant sunk in. Maybe I can convince the hostess to seat us in a quiet, secluded section where we won’t be disturbed. Then I can make some chit-chat with Diana’s daughter and make some excuse and get out without leading this girl on.

  There are a variety of restaurants in Karim, certainly plenty of Italian joints, but there’s already a crowd at the entrance. I sigh as I wait for the traffic to thin so I can cross the street. After spending all day in a crowded emergency room, the only thing I want is the slow burn of alcohol and a dark room where I can brood.

  Resigned, I look to my left and right, then up again to make sure the road is clear.

  That’s when I see her.

  The force of my reaction flattens me against the driver’s side door, stealing my breath, and damn
near stopping my heart. For a second there, I think I may need a trip back to the E.R., then I remember to breathe, though it doesn’t unpin me from the car.

  I recognize her from the various pictures Diana’s flashed from time to time, beaming with pride. I’d known she was beautiful, in a kind of passing sort of way. The way you see a piece of art in a museum from the corner of your eye and appreciate it, but not care about it. In person, she’s stunning, which floors me because I haven’t even been slightly attracted to a woman in ages.

  But it’s there, burning low in my stomach, in the heated flow of my blood.

  And the attraction is even worse than indifference.

  I glance down at the wedding band on my left hand. The one I haven’t thought of taking off in the year since I watched the woman I loved wither away from an illness I couldn’t cure.

  When I look back up, Stella is making her way inside and despite my excuses and grumbling, I find myself following close behind her. Her voice is musical, throaty, and carries over the din of the restaurant conversation and white noise from the kitchen. As the hostess points her to the bar, I nod, not giving her time to ask me where I’d like to sit. For some inexplicable reason, I want to observe Stella first. Need to see her.

  Then I’ll force myself to get on with the date and quite possibly my life.

  She takes a seat at the bar and orders a white wine from the bartender. I navigate through the evening crowd to an empty chair on the opposite side of the bar and wave away the bartender who comes to take my order. Stella sips her wine, bringing the glass to full, red lips and tousling the lush weight of her dark curls.

  A pair of women approach behind Stella as she studies her emptying glass, and my heart thuds in my chest when I recognize them as members from The Club.

  I give a nod to the bartender and gesture for them to bring me a tumbler of whiskey. Downing it the moment he sets it on the table, I relish the burn as it slides down my throat.