by Alexa Land
Except for the boys at the bar.
So this was where the Stepford Blondes that made it into the lounge ended up – preening at the bar like a bunch of peacocks. A barstool opened up, and I tossed my jacket over it and took a seat, then ordered a beer (which cost ten dollars. Seriously? Would it blow my cover if I asked for a receipt so I could expense it?)
I sucked down half of it before realizing that at these prices, I really should be nursing this beer. And then a man of about forty in an expensive grey suit appeared beside me and said with a smarmy grin, “Hey handsome. Can I buy you a drink?”
“No thanks, I’m good,” I told him, and turned away from him and toward the bar. A huge mirror ran the length of the wall, and in it I could see most of the room. I scanned the crowd for Dmitri Teplov, trying to recognize him from the written description and grainy surveillance photos in the file I’d been given to prep for this assignment.
I didn’t see anyone matching his description, so idly, I scanned the faces of the bar blondes, not one of which was over twenty five, and all of whom looked like they belonged in an ad for Nordic ski equipment. And then I caught my own reflection in the mirror.
I stared at myself long and hard – at my gelled-for-the-occasion hair, at the tight turquoise shirt that brought out my blue eyes and hugged my toned body, at my tan, and yes, at my blondeness after a summer riding the waves at Fort Point. And I realized that I matched the bar babes – I looked like I was one of them.
Was that why I’d been selected for this undercover assignment? Not because of my stellar police work, not because I’d earned it. But because I looked the part, because I was the right physical type to make it in the door of Teplov’s club?
Ok, so why hadn’t Halpern, my police captain, just told me that? Why let me think this was some kind of promotion? And when this assignment was over, was he planning to chuck me back into uniform, at least until another assignment came up that called for a blonde bimbo?
Make that a gay blonde bimbo, I amended, as another guy in a suit tried to hit on me. This one was more tenacious that the last, and it took a while to convince him I really wasn’t dying of thirst and really didn’t want the drink he kept insisting on buying for me. I ended up pivoting on my barstool to turn my back to him, and he finally got the hint.
And that’s when I caught sight of Dmitri Teplov.
He was seated in a big booth in the corner. And though he wasn’t saying or doing much, it was clear that all the action in the room revolved around him, like he was the sun in this strange little universe.
Teplov was strikingly handsome, even more so than the surveillance photos had led me to believe. His hair was glossy and black and hung just past the collar of his finely tailored black suit jacket, his pale skin luminous in the soft light. His shoulders were broad and his body, what I could see of it, was long and lean.
A sleazy-looking businessman sat to the left of him, and – oh, here was a surprise – a blonde boy toy sat to his right. The businessman currently had his attention, but the blonde was doing his best to change that, running his hand up and down Teplov’s thigh. A phone on the table even seemed to be getting more attention than the blonde though, with Teplov glancing at it every so often and tapping the screen.
The blonde decided to increase his efforts, apparently trying to upgrade his status to at least above that of the smart phone, and he slid his hand into the club owner’s lap. Teplov gingerly plucked the blonde’s hand off his crotch and turned to him with a little smile, whispering something in his ear. And then he shot a quick glance at a short, heavy-set man in a loud burgundy suit jacket, who stood beside the booth. Burgundy Jacket immediately went around to the blonde and whispered something to him, and the boy toy slid out of the booth, looking both disappointed and a little wistful as he made his way back out into the crowd.
Not a minute later, a different blonde had been fetched by Burgundy Jacket, and was now cozying up to Teplov. This interchangeable Stepford boy was off to a good start, and I watched as Teplov said something that made the guy toss back his bleached head and laugh, then cuddle against Teplov, which earned him an arm around his shoulders.
Another thought occurred to me: had I been picked for this assignment not just because I could get in the door, but because I could potentially get into Teplov’s pants? Was my department pimping me out? It sure looked that way. I’d recently come out, both at work and to my family, and damned if this assignment didn’t just scream you were the right blonde queer for the job.
Burgundy Jacket was moving back into the crowd, scanning the selection of blondes with disinterested detachment. Oh ok, now I got why they – we – were all blonde: this was Teplov’s club, Teplov’s universe, and clearly he had a type.
Yet these facts hadn’t been in his file. I knew Dmitri Teplov was twenty six, knew he was born in San Francisco, and knew he had five sisters. I knew he’d gone to Stanford and dropped out a few weeks into his sophomore year, after his parents were killed in a car wreck. I knew he was a suspected key player in the Russian mafia, and suspected of importing heroin into the country. I even knew that on odd-numbered days he went running along Crissy Field, and on even days he went to the gym.
In other words, I knew a hell of a lot about this man. So given all the intel the department had on him, why wouldn’t the fact that he was openly gay have made it into the file?
Teplov’s latest blonde, who’d started off so well, was dismissed now. How long had he lasted, three minutes? Burgundy Jacket seamlessly guided another clueless boy toy into the seat beside the handsome club owner. Wow. Speed dating, mafia style.
What the hell was Teplov looking for that none of those pretty boys seemed to possess? Did he do this every night? And how many men did he routinely reject in an evening? Forty? Fifty? What an arrogant son of a bitch to treat so many men this way, like they were candy in his own personal supermarket. And what stupid men for letting themselves get treated like that.
And holy shit, now Burgundy Jacket was coming up to me! He gave me a dead-eyed once over and said in a low monotone, “Mr. Teplov would like you to join him at his table for a drink.”
I raised an eyebrow at him. I was tempted to tell him to shove it up his ass, but I actually felt kind of bad for the guy. Sifting through young gay guys for his fickle employer couldn’t be this man’s idea of a good time. So I said politely, “With all due respect sir, if Mr. Teplov wants to have a drink with me, he can ask me his own damn self.”
The man didn’t look impressed. “You really want me to tell him that?”
I shrugged and said, “Tell him whatever you want,” then turned my back on the man and tossed back my ten dollar beer.
Ok, so I shouldn’t have said no to that. I was here to try to get close to Teplov. But now that I realized exactly how close I was probably supposed to get to the man, I was in no mood to play nice and allow myself to be treated like a whore by my department.
I watched in the mirror as Burgundy Jacket went up to Teplov and whispered in his ear. And I watched as his employer scanned the crowd, his gaze finally resting on my back with a raised eyebrow. That was probably the first time he’d ever faced rejection. He was probably stunned that anyone could resist his good looks, the money, the power – the total fucked up package that was Dmitri Teplov.
I looked down at my now empty beer bottle, mentally putting together the politely phrased fuck you I was going to deliver to my police captain on Monday morning when I told him where he could shove this assignment.
“Hi.”
I turned to glare at whoever was currently trying to pick me up, and my eyes went wide. Teplov reclined against the bar beside me, head tilted to one side as he studied me closely. Amusement sparkled in his blue eyes, his full lips barely concealing a grin. He leaned toward me, and I caught a whiff of expensive cologne as he said, “Would you please do me the honor of having a drink with me?”
He was even more stunningly attractive close up. In fact, he was th
e most gorgeous man I’d ever seen. It occurred to me that he’d probably bedded every gay blonde boy within a two hundred mile radius with no effort whatsoever. Well, at least those that passed whatever random screening process he subjected them to.
His appearance was distracting as hell. I could barely think straight while staring into that dazzling face. “I don’t think so,” I managed. Ok, again that was the wrong answer, but I’d already decided I wasn’t going through with this assignment. I was totally thrown off, both by his disarming attractiveness and by the unshakable feeling that my department was pimping me out.
“Funny. You don’t strike me as the coy type,” he said, and then unleashed a thousand megawatt smile at me. Oh Christ, he actually had dimples. Dimples! What the hell kind of mafia boss had dimples, I ask you?
“I’m not being coy. I sincerely don’t want to have a drink with you,” I told him, trying to bring up a veneer of indifference and drag my eyes away from that smile.
He laughed at that, a surprisingly genuine, uninhibited laugh. “So you wanted me to ask you to have a drink in person, just so you could shoot me down?” The dimples were still out in full force. He looked really young and innocent when he smiled. What an illusion.
“I wanted you to ask me in person,” I said, “because it’s annoying and degrading to be fetched by your lackey. I didn’t say anything about agreeing once you asked.”
That cornflower blue gaze slid to my mouth, and despite myself, I licked my lips. In response, his full, sensuous lips parted in a silent gasp. God, that was some mouth. A spark of desire slid down my spine, coming to rest in my groin, and I mentally slapped myself for being so easily distracted by a pretty face. He leaned in closer and said softly, his voice a bit husky, “Please? Just one drink.” My cock leapt to attention at his proximity, as much as it could in the confines of those incredibly tight jeans.
He was so close to me now that if I tilted my head just a few inches, I’d be resting my forehead against his. He had serious personal space issues. And apparently so did I, because I compulsively reached up and ran the tip of my index finger along the sensuous curve of his full lower lip. His eyes slid shut and he leaned into my touch, his hands coming up to encircle my waist.
Holy shit, what was I doing? I pulled my hand back quickly and mumbled, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”
“No?” he whispered. “What did you mean to do?”
I slid off my barstool and took a step back from him, thoroughly rattled, and said, “I really should go.”
He caught my wrist and said softly, his eyes locked (pleadingly?) with mine, “You really should stay.” And my heart actually fluttered. What the hell!
I could not think clearly around this man. The sight of him, the smell of him, the fact that sex oozed from every one of his molecules – it was too much. Another minute of this and I’d forget who and what he was and jam my tongue down his throat. I turned and bolted from the bar.
I left the VIP room and pushed my way through the crowded dance club. The cool night air was wonderfully bracing as I emerged outside, helping to clear my head as I jogged down the sidewalk and around to the quiet side street where I’d lucked into a parking space.
When I reached the generic loaner car, I patted my pockets for my keys, and then swore vividly. Damn Jess and these manslut clothes! The keys were in my hoodie back in the VIP lounge, because these jeans were too tight to hold anything more than my i.d. and a couple bills. I sighed with frustration and splayed my arms over the green Hyundai, and lightly whacked my forehead against the roof of the car.
“You did that wrong, Cinderella,” a now familiar voice behind me said. “You’re supposed to leave a shoe behind, not the keys to the carriage.”
I turned to look at Dmitri Teplov. Christ, he’d actually followed me! My jacket was draped over his arm, my key ring looped around his long, graceful index finger. He smiled, but –was I imagining this? – seemed slightly unsure of himself. I stepped forward and took hold of my keys, and he closed his hand gently around my fingers and said softly, “What exactly is it about me that you find so repulsive?”
The answer to that question should be, the fact that you’re a lowlife criminal, or at the very least, the fact that you treat men like pieces of meat. I stared at him for a long moment, my heart trying to jackhammer its way out of my chest just from his proximity. We were close to the same height and stood eye to eye as he held my gaze steadily. And I answered honestly, my voice a bit rough, “Nothing.”
“Then why are you running from me?”
“Am I the first man in history to turn down your advances?” I hedged as I slid my hand from his.
“No. But you are the first man to turn me down that wanted me as much as I wanted him.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and tried to play it off. “So, just because you’re good looking you assume I want you? Well, that’s probably true for every other guy in that club, but don’t make that assumption about me.”
“It’s not an assumption,” he said simply, and moved to lean against my car.
“You’re incredibly arrogant,” I told him.
“You’re right. But that doesn’t change the fact that your entire body responded to me the moment I got near you.”
“What? No it didn’t.” Ok, it had, but he couldn’t possibly know that.
“Your eyes dilated, your cheeks flushed, your pulse when I grabbed your wrist was positively racing, and, not to be crude, but those tight jeans made it perfectly clear that you wanted to fuck me as much as I wanted you to,” he said matter-of-factly. “Which begs the question: why are you running from me?”
“Christ,” I muttered, running my palms over my gelled hair. That had actually been incredibly perceptive. “Fine. I’m attracted to you. But then so’s everyone, right? What difference does it make that I am, too?”
“All the difference in the world,” he said quietly.
“Would you please give me my keys so I can get the hell out of here?”
He pushed off my car and came to stand in front of me, and handed me the keys. And then he shocked the hell out of me by sinking to his knees and reaching for my belt. “What are you doing? Are you insane?” I gasped as he unfastened the buckle and unbuttoned my pants.
“If you want me to stop, just say the word,” he said as he slid my zipper down.
“This is completely crazy,” I said, glancing frantically around me. The little side street was deserted, but I knew that someone could come around the corner at any second.
“Fuck, that’s hot,” he murmured, sliding my jeans down my hips to reveal that embarrassing thong. He rested his palms on the back of my thighs and gently mouthed the tip of my cock through the thin fabric of my underwear.
I gasped and ran my fingers into his thick black hair, even as I said, “We can’t do this here.”
He tugged on the front of the thong, pulling it below my balls, and my hard-on popped out brazenly, clearly demonstrating how much I wanted this man. He ran his tongue down my shaft before whispering, “Then tell me to stop.” He took the head of my cock between those gorgeous lips and sucked me, and my legs shook as I moaned with pleasure.
“We’re going to get arrested for public indecency,” I managed between gasps.
He pulled his incredibly skilled mouth off my cock for a moment, stroking my shaft with his hand as he looked up at me and said, “I don’t hear the word stop anywhere in there.” And then he went back to sucking me while continuing to stroke me with his hand.
“Oh God, Dmitri, just not here,” I mumbled before pressing my eyes shut and moaning. Then I said, “Let’s go back to your club. Anywhere. Just not out here on the street.”
“You’re too close, baby. You’ll never make it all the way back there,” he told me. Then he reached for the keys that were pressed into my palm and unlocked the car with the push of a button. He swung the back door open, then quickly and gracefully pivoted me to sit sideways on the back seat, my feet res
ting on the curb. He slid his hands around to my ass, then deep throated me as he knelt between my legs on the sidewalk.
I threw my head back, fighting the urge to cry out as blinding pleasure washed through me. “Christ you’re good at that,” I muttered between clenched teeth, again sliding my hands into his hair. I fell back onto the seat, trying not to thrust into his warm, wet mouth, panting and writhing. And soon I exclaimed, “Oh God, I’m about to cum.”
I was sure he’d pull off me. But instead he squeezed my ass with both hands, took my cock deeper into his mouth, and began sucking me harder and faster. In the next instant I was exploding down his throat, struggling not to scream as he brought me to the most intense orgasm I’d ever experienced, wave after wave of pleasure pulsing through me.
And when finally I was spent, he released my cock and rested his head on my stomach, shaking slightly (or maybe that was me) and gasping for air. I stroked his hair as my breathing and heart rate gradually returned to normal.
