Hef dug into his wallet.
The breathless middle-aged husband tugged at his tie. “How much is—”
“Five large.” Maisano came out of nowhere and held out a stack of hundreds.
Sergei stared up at him.
“I ain’t got that much,” Hef muttered, and took his drink and left.
“My wife would kill me.” The married guy skulked away too. No one even tried to pony up more.
Sergei gritted his teeth. On the other hand, Domenico was offering five Gs for a fifteen minute private dance. Sergei hardly needed the money, but if this guy was willing to cough up that much, Sergei couldn’t help but be intrigued. If Domenico was here to ask Sergei to take somebody out, he’d have even more in his pocket. And if he’d come for the money Sergei had taken earlier…
Keeping his nerves beneath the surface, he asked, “You got the cash?”
Domenico held up the wad of hundreds.
Sergei forced himself not to scowl as he plucked the money from the man’s hand. “Looks like you’re the lucky winner.”
Domenico shivered. That was odd—the Mafiosos were strictly business when they came in here. They’d pay a fortune for a dance that wasn’t really a dance, and if anything, curled their lips at the strippers and clientele.
And suddenly Sergei was fighting a grin instead of a scowl. Maybe he’d been right about Domenico after all. Those little glances. The nerves.
He led Domenico to one of the private booths in the back. Roy the bouncer met his eyes, and Sergei gave him a nod. Code for “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.” He’d stay close enough to intervene if shit went down, but otherwise he’d keep his back turned and watch the other guys giving their dances. Then he’d get a cut of whatever Sergei made from the against-club-policy activities he’d turned a blind eye to. He got fifty bucks for ignoring a blowjob that never happened, and Sergei got a shitload more than that for taking whatever contract was offered to him in hushed tones behind a curtain.
Or maybe, unlike all his other brethren who came in here with wads of cash, Domenico really wanted a lap dance.
Sergei pulled the curtain across, and didn’t quite know why his heart was beating so fast as he turned to face Domenico.
The Italian unbuttoned his jacket and lowered himself into the crimson armchair. Most guys flopped down on the cushion and waited like a drooling dog for the show to get started. Not this guy. Arrogant Mafioso, royalty in name only, he sat like an overlord taking his throne instead of a sleazy asshole panting for dick in a chair where a thousand men before him had blown their loads.
The music came on.
Sergei assumed his usual provocative stance, standing close enough to fuck with his mind and pulse while he ran his hands up and down his own sides. Here’s the goods. You like what you see?
“So.” Sergei gazed down at him. “You want more information, I assume.”
“Not this time.” Domenico met his eyes, and he grinned, knowingly and dangerously. “This time I want a dance.”
That was… unexpected. This was the moment when his contacts usually started speaking in code, and “a dance” wasn’t part of that code.
Sergei ran the tip of his tongue across his lip. “Just a dance?”
“Yes.” The long, lingering down-up Domenico gave him, his breath hitching here and there, raised goose bumps on Sergei’s mostly exposed flesh. When their eyes met again, Domenico spoke just loud enough for Sergei to hear him over the music, “I suspect with you involved, there’s no such thing as just a dance.”
Apparently he wasn’t here in any official capacity. And maybe he’d given up on his pursuit of more details about the night they’d met. Sergei would certainly keep his guard up, but if Domenico wanted a dance…
Sergei stripped down to his G-string, watching Domenico’s eyes widen. He swore he could feel the man’s pulse rising, especially when Sergei stepped closer and slid a knee between his thighs. Domenico parted them farther, and his fingers curled over the edges of the armrests. Maybe the arrogant overlord…wasn’t. Eyes wide and spine stiff, knuckles turning white, he suddenly seemed in over his head.
“You ever had a dance like this?”
He gulped, and a flicker of something—nerves?—broke the rest of the calm and cool fa?ade. Slowly, he shook his head.
“Rules are simple.” Sergei climbed onto his lap, sliding his hands over broad shoulders. “I dance. You don’t move. Don’t touch me. Got it?”
His eyes were fixed on Sergei’s abs, and as he nodded, he whispered, “Yeah.” He looked Sergei up and down. “My God…”
“Why did you come back?”
“I had to.” Domenico’s voice was just loud enough to be heard. “I can’t…” His gaze drifted up and down Sergei’s torso. “Can’t stop thinking about you.”
Sergei swallowed. Gay wise guys weren’t unheard of, but they didn’t last long.
“What’s your name?” Domenico asked again.
Sergei shook his head. “It’s not important.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.”