Page 17 of Silken Chains
He leans in, his lips brushing my ear as he shouts over the pulsing beat. “Victor,” he says, and something in his accent makes it sound like he’s not just saying his name but casting a spell—Vik-torr.
My G-string is so wet it feels like a flood between my legs. Heat radiates from my core, and I can feel his gaze on my skin.
Ohmygod.
Ohmyfuckinggod.
What is he doing to me?
I pretend to stifle a laugh. “What was that? Vodka?” I shout back because it sounds like he’s straight out of a Russian spy novel.
I want to run my hands all over him, feel the heat radiating from his body.
Stop it. Laura.
Go home. Laura.
“Stay, Laura,” he purrs. He looks like he’s used to getting his way, muscles bulging like he bench-presses boulders for fun, clearing the room with just a stare.
For a split second, my brain stops working.
“Wait, how do you even know my name?” My insides are in tumult, and there’s a strong urge to just surrender.
“I know everything, Laura,” he retorts, a dark promise in his voice.
Summoning all the sass I can muster, I fire back, “Including about the pathetic husband who ditched me for my so-called friend and took all my savings?” I confess before I can catch myself.
Why are you acting like this?
I don’t know why I’m telling him this. Maybe I’m just tired of holding it all in.
He remains unfazed. Those intense eyes never waver, making me want to squirm.
“Guess what? I don’t care who you are and what you know. I am leaving.” Without another word, I make my exit.
It’s a shame this is the last time I’ll see Mr. Cocky Alpha.
Stumbling slightly, I beeline for the elevator, cursing that, in my quick exit, I left my sweater behind. The street’s chill lashes at me, a sobering slap after the club’s heat. Desperate, I wave for a cab with numbing fingers.
Luck isn’t on my side tonight. It never is. They just rush past me like I’m invisible.
My vision’s a blurry mess, each streetlight stretching into streaks. Since 3 a.m., my world’s been burning down, literally, and now my body’s joining my mind in the rebellion.
Another cab comes into sight. I urge the approaching lights, “C’mon, give a break to a girl who’s down on her luck.”
I make a wild dash for it, arms flailing like I’m signaling a plane. My heart jumps as the cab slows down, the squeal of brakes sounding like hallelujah. “About time,” I say to myself.
But who am I kidding?
As if sensing that my life’s a mess, it guns the engine and takes off, leaving me in a cloud of dust.
“Seriously?!” My frustration boils over. “Fuck. You!” My voice echoes down the street.
Then, out of nowhere, warmth drapes over me—a coat, heavy and scented with that unmistakable musk… his musk.
Chapter 7
Laura
