Everything went white. Sergei arched against him, thrusting against wet silk until a shudder almost knocked his arms out from under him. He slumped over Domenico, trembling from head to toe. This was the first time ever—since he’d discovered he could make a fortune by grinding against a man in a dark back room—that he’d come during a lap dance. That he’d even come inside this godforsaken building.
And he’d come all over Domenico’s shirt and tie. For a split second, he thought Domenico would get upset, but then the breathless Italian whispered, “That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”
“G-good.” Sergei licked his lips as he struggled to hold himself up on shaking arms.
“Can I touch you?”
Sergei swallowed. It was strictly against club policy, but so was coming on a guy’s shirt during an illegally naked lap dance. Nothing about Domenico pegged his danger radar now—chances were, he had no idea who Sergei really was, and at least the men near the top in his world were usually civilized when it came to those not involved in the Mob.
“Yeah,” Sergei panted. “You can—”
Domenico cupped Sergei’s face and kissed him.
Every instinct Sergei had honed as both a killer and a stripper screamed at him to shove the man back and get the fuck out of there, but…
But.
Domenico’s fingers twitched against the sides of Sergei’s face. His lips were softer and gentler than he’d thought they could be. If not for the coarse stubble abrading his chin, Sergei might’ve forgotten this uncertain tough guy was a Sicilian wise guy. That he was Domenico Maisano, for God’s sake.
He couldn’t help it—his curiosity got the best of him. He opened to Domenico’s kiss, and let himself be pulled in closer as Domenico gently explored his mouth. Against his better judgement, he slid a hand into Domenico’s hair, cradling the back of his head as lips and tongues sent Sergei’s pulse into overdrive. Domenico was tentative, and yet bold at the same time, his hands light on Sergei’s skin even as his mouth demanded more.
Eventually, Sergei lifted his head. Domenico stared up at him, and goddamn, he looked as surprised as Sergei felt. They were both out of breath, Sergei’s hips pressed against Domenico’s rock-hard dick, and even though Sergei had already come, that look in Domenico’s eyes sent his heart rate surging upward.
The bass in the lounge thumped against Sergei’s nerve endings, reminding him where he was, why he was here, what the laws and common sense said he could and couldn’t do.
Knees shaking, Sergei got to his feet, thankful for the muscle memory that kept the motion graceful and deliberate when he felt this clumsy.
As Sergei pulled on his G-string, Domenico rose. He didn’t say a word, and they both cleaned off and straightened their clothes, Domenico tugging at his tie and his sleeves while Sergei shimmied into the barely-there leather shorts.
Then they faced each other, and before Sergei could make heads or tails of any goddamned thing, Domenico held up a card between two fingers. “I want to see you again.”
Sergei took the card. His mind knew of at least a thousand reasons why that was a bad idea, but his body was definitely intrigued. He shouldn’t have wanted a damned thing to do with him, and he should’ve turned tail and gotten the fuck away from him, but he wanted to know what it was like to get him alone.
“See me again?” Sergei thumbed the edge of the card. “When?”
“Soon.” Domenico ran the backs of his fingers down Sergei’s arm. “Very soon.”
Sergei looked him up and down, sizing him up. Domenico was a few inches taller, and much wider in the shoulders. If Sergei didn’t know a fuckton of ways to kill men twice his size without breaking a sweat, he’d have backed away. He told himself that, anyhow. Standing this close to him, smelling his cologne and sweat as Domenico loomed over him with cum all over his shirt, Sergei was half-tempted to suggest they fuck there and then.
He’d probably lost all the good sense he’d had left, but at least he was losing it with someone who had as much reason as he did to keep his trap shut. More reason, actually. All Sergei had to do was leak it to the world—or the media—that he’d had sex with Domenico Maisano, and his family would have him killed. Fags didn’t last long in their world.
Sergei wasn’t worried about his own safety. Only a handful of Mafiosi knew who he was. They all knew him by reputation, but nothing more. His very, very select few contacts knew his face and his profession, but they didn’t know his real name, and they absolutely knew what would happen if they betrayed his confidence. Outside those contacts, no one—least of all the man in front of him with the cum-stained shirt—knew the killer who handled the lion’s share of all three families’ hits was a smart-mouthed bleach blond stripper.
“There’s…” He hesitated. “There’s a motel near the waterfront. The Sandpiper. My shift is over at one thirty.”
Domenico glanced at his watch. Then he nodded. “I’ll meet you there.”
“Get a room. Put it under the name Sullivan.”
“Okay.”