He forced a grin as he egged them on so they’d up the ante and outbid each other, but his mind was already back in the private booths. In one booth in particular. The thought of getting through a private dance made his stomach turn. Not because he couldn’t stand being on a horny stranger’s lap—he loved what he did and made no apologies for it—but because he needed to be in that room with Dom. What the fuck was going on? Why did Dom suddenly need him badly enough to risk showing his face in this club again?
He shook himself and focused on the men bidding for a dance. Thank God, they all backed off one by one until there was a last man standing. He didn’t think he had it in him to dance on two men out here before finally taking the highest bidder into the back. There was a clear winner, so Sergei stepped off the stage, grinned, and beckoned to the tall black man with the stack of hundreds in his hand.
On the way back to the booth, he glanced at booth seven.
The knot in his gut tightened. What was going on? Why—
Didn’t matter now. He had work to do.
Resisting the urge to even lean into booth seven to make sure Dom was all right—why the hell do I care?—he led his customer into the booth directly across from seven.
He tried to shove every thought of Dom into the back of his mind as he shimmed out of everything but his G-string. As focused as he could be, he climbed onto the customer’s lap. The music thumped hard enough along his bones to remind him of the tempo, but his thumping heart drowned out the rest. All he could think of was Dom. In the other booth. In a chair just like this one. Turned on in a way Sergei had never seen him. Not just needy, but needy.
Focus. Dance.
Like he had on the stage, he threw himself into this dance as much as he could. Grinding against the customer’s thick erection, rubbing all over him until the man’s breath was coming in hot, heavy huffs. The client bit his lip, shifting in the chair. A rush of breath rushed across Sergei’s abs.
Just like Dom’s did when—
Sergei bit down on a curse. Every lap dance customer who could breathe did that. It wasn’t just Dom.
Get a grip, idiot.
Mercifully, though, the song eventually wound down. Sergei rubbed a few more times against the prominent hard-on, and then rose.
“OhmyGod,” the man slurred, and wiped a hand over his face. “Thank… thank you.”
Sergei grinned and held up the cash. “Thank you.”
Dazed and unsteady, the client left.
Sergei exhaled. Finally. He’d covered himself—no one in the club had any reason to believe anything was going on besides business as usual.
Quickly, he put on his clothes and straightened his hair, but before he moved to the next booth, he paused, holding his own gaze in the dingy mirror on the wall.
This was dangerous. Sergei was in Cape Swan to kill Mafiosi, not fuck them. Doing this at all, especially here, could get them both killed. Except he knew that wasn’t likely. Dom’s life depended on maintaining the illusion that he was straight. He was about the safest man in town for Sergei to fuck, because he relied even more on discretion than Sergei did.
He pushed his shoulders back and stepped out of the booth.
Before he’d reached number seven, Roy stopped him. “Hey, kid. That Italian guy, he asked for you. Said you—”
“He’s waiting in seven, right?” He gestured at the curtain.
Roy glanced at it, and nodded. “Yeah. So, you and he are cool?”
“We’re cool.” Sergei forced a smile. “Relax.”
“All right.” Roy backed off and returned to his perch near the end of the row, where he could see and hear if anyone needed his help. He was a bit overprotective, but Sergei appreciated it. Wasn’t like the strippers—even Sergei himself—were armed to the teeth when they were dancing in G-strings.
Heart pounding, Sergei stepped into the booth.
Dom rose unsteadily.
“Sorry it took so long,” Sergei said. “I—”
“Don’t worry about it.” Dom wrapped his arms around him and kissed him, sending electricity right down to Sergei’s toes.
When they separated, Sergei whispered, “What’s going on? You’re practically shaking.”
“Yeah, I…” Dom avoided his eyes. Though the light was dim, it was enough to reveal the color blooming in his cheeks. “It’s not something I can talk about.”
Sergei chewed his lip. He was well-versed in omerta, the unbreakable code of silence within the Mafia, so it didn’t take much to figure out that whatever Dom couldn’t discuss was related to what he was. Which meant Sergei didn’t want to know.
And he shouldn’t have cared, but standing here in front of Dom, seeing how shaken he was by something he couldn’t talk about, tugged at something in Sergei’s chest.
“We can’t do this here,” he said. “You know that, right?”
“I know. And I… I should’ve just texted you. But…” Dom met his eyes. “I needed to see you.”
Why? Why me? What can I possibly do to fix whatever you just saw?
It didn’t matter. He didn’t need to know what had sent Dom here, only that he was here.
Sergei glanced at the curtain. Then he faced him and whispered, “You can’t make a sound, or I’ll lose my job.”
Gulping, Dom nodded.
“Sit.”