make me blush. It’s a farce. Marko is good at what he does. He’s good at talking, good at fucking, he’s even good at fabricating emotions, but underneath it all he’s a lot like me.
He’s empty.
“I have to drain the snake,” he says non sequitur an hour after we’ve arrived.
I glare at him over the rim of my third champagne glass. I know what he’s saying, what he’s asking . I can tell him I’ll wait here and he’ll actually strut to the bathroom and pee. Or I can follow him. Protocol states that I never let him out of my sight, so technically my job requires I follow him.
Yeah, that’s why I’m doing this… because it’s part of the job.
I set my glass down on the closest table and wordlessly lead us to the men’s room.
I lean against the door as he checks to make sure we’re alone once we’re inside. He motions me over with a finger, and I lock the door before I join him.
“Have I told you how gorgeous you look tonight, Penelope?”
I roll my eyes. “Flattery doesn’t get you anywhere with me. You bought the damn dress.”
He laughs. It’s a canned sound, like what TV shows use to deliver punch lines.
My hand slips into his easily, and he kisses the back of it. “Well then, have I told you how much you pleased me earlier, Poppy ?”
That word, mixed with a heavy dose of his accent, sends a thrill cascading from the top of my head down my spine. My fingertips tingle as he presses his lips to each.
“How can I repay you for the pleasure you have given me? Hmm?”
His thumb strokes my cheek and my lips part. “Well… I don’t accept cashier checks or American Express.”
His lips twitch. “Oh, I have something better than money that I can give you, my dear.”
I moan when his lips bypass mine and go straight for my jugular. His teeth are sharp as he nips at my skin. Already I’m unwinding, melting, opening myself for him. Only for him. It’s just sex, like it was at his hotel, but this time it’s my game, my play, and Marko knows all the right moves to make me come unhinged.
“You know, I’m not sure if exhibitionism is your fetish or mine,” he says, trailing his fingers up my arms as his tongue traces my collarbones.
“Yours, you goddamn peacock,” I say, my words catching in a gasp as he bites extra hard on my shoulder.
That’s going to leave a mark.
Marko pins me, face-first against the bathroom stall, and I wonder if I’m sick. I have to be, right? Normal people don’t do this. Not the fucking in the bathroom thing. Normal people do that all the time. And if they don’t, they should start. It’s fun.
I mean I’m sick because I don’t feel a damn thing for him. He’s tall. He’s Russian—Siberian in fact. He wears cologne made from the flowers of his home. He’s him . He’s Nikolai. He rolls his Rs like him. He holds me like him.
He parts his lips and whispers warmly in my ear, “ Poppy .”
His accent sounds the same.
I’ve never told anyone else the nickname. It feels sacrilegious to have it in anyone’s mouth except for Nikolai’s. But I’ll burn in Hell if I have to just to pretend I’m hearing him say it again.
I close my eyes and revel in it. For a second, I’m not standing next to a toilet with a Russian aristocrat playboy. I’m in a modest General’s bunk on base. Nikolai is standing behind me, telling me I’m too young to do this, but promising me he’ll be gentle if it's what I want.
I was barely nineteen. Old enough to vote, but not yet old enough to drink. He was five years my senior. He’d been drinking since he was fourteen in his homeland. Somehow I did screwy math to make my argument, and he gave me a gold star.
That night he actually gave me three , but who’s counting?
Marko pulls my dress up, bunching the silky fabric around my waist. I didn’t bother putting on underwear. I wanted this to happen the minute I unlocked his handcuffs in the hotel room.
I’m sick.
But we all have our kinks, don’t we? Marko
He’s empty.
“I have to drain the snake,” he says non sequitur an hour after we’ve arrived.
I glare at him over the rim of my third champagne glass. I know what he’s saying, what he’s asking . I can tell him I’ll wait here and he’ll actually strut to the bathroom and pee. Or I can follow him. Protocol states that I never let him out of my sight, so technically my job requires I follow him.
Yeah, that’s why I’m doing this… because it’s part of the job.
I set my glass down on the closest table and wordlessly lead us to the men’s room.
I lean against the door as he checks to make sure we’re alone once we’re inside. He motions me over with a finger, and I lock the door before I join him.
“Have I told you how gorgeous you look tonight, Penelope?”
I roll my eyes. “Flattery doesn’t get you anywhere with me. You bought the damn dress.”
He laughs. It’s a canned sound, like what TV shows use to deliver punch lines.
My hand slips into his easily, and he kisses the back of it. “Well then, have I told you how much you pleased me earlier, Poppy ?”
That word, mixed with a heavy dose of his accent, sends a thrill cascading from the top of my head down my spine. My fingertips tingle as he presses his lips to each.
“How can I repay you for the pleasure you have given me? Hmm?”
His thumb strokes my cheek and my lips part. “Well… I don’t accept cashier checks or American Express.”
His lips twitch. “Oh, I have something better than money that I can give you, my dear.”
I moan when his lips bypass mine and go straight for my jugular. His teeth are sharp as he nips at my skin. Already I’m unwinding, melting, opening myself for him. Only for him. It’s just sex, like it was at his hotel, but this time it’s my game, my play, and Marko knows all the right moves to make me come unhinged.
“You know, I’m not sure if exhibitionism is your fetish or mine,” he says, trailing his fingers up my arms as his tongue traces my collarbones.
“Yours, you goddamn peacock,” I say, my words catching in a gasp as he bites extra hard on my shoulder.
That’s going to leave a mark.
Marko pins me, face-first against the bathroom stall, and I wonder if I’m sick. I have to be, right? Normal people don’t do this. Not the fucking in the bathroom thing. Normal people do that all the time. And if they don’t, they should start. It’s fun.
I mean I’m sick because I don’t feel a damn thing for him. He’s tall. He’s Russian—Siberian in fact. He wears cologne made from the flowers of his home. He’s him . He’s Nikolai. He rolls his Rs like him. He holds me like him.
He parts his lips and whispers warmly in my ear, “ Poppy .”
His accent sounds the same.
I’ve never told anyone else the nickname. It feels sacrilegious to have it in anyone’s mouth except for Nikolai’s. But I’ll burn in Hell if I have to just to pretend I’m hearing him say it again.
I close my eyes and revel in it. For a second, I’m not standing next to a toilet with a Russian aristocrat playboy. I’m in a modest General’s bunk on base. Nikolai is standing behind me, telling me I’m too young to do this, but promising me he’ll be gentle if it's what I want.
I was barely nineteen. Old enough to vote, but not yet old enough to drink. He was five years my senior. He’d been drinking since he was fourteen in his homeland. Somehow I did screwy math to make my argument, and he gave me a gold star.
That night he actually gave me three , but who’s counting?
Marko pulls my dress up, bunching the silky fabric around my waist. I didn’t bother putting on underwear. I wanted this to happen the minute I unlocked his handcuffs in the hotel room.
I’m sick.
But we all have our kinks, don’t we? Marko
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