I follow her in, whistling when I see the view from the floor-to-ceiling windows. “Damn, this place is fine.” I look around as I take off my leather jacket and drape it over the back of the sofa. I’ve seen Story’s place, which is just a bedroom connected to the top floor penthouse where a bunch of the head bratva live. It has every luxury, but I figured it was because the building’s owner lives there. Now I’m thinking every apartment in the building must be pimped out. The apartment isn’t huge, but it has a large, open living area with a kitchen to the left and the living room straight ahead. The kitchen features granite countertops and expensive cabinets. “The rent here must cost a fortune.” I can’t even guess how much–ten grand a month for a Chicago high rise with Lake Michigan views?
“We don’t pay anything,” Nadia says. “Ravil gave Adrian this place when he joined the bratva.”
“Wow.” I don’t even want to think what that means Adrian must do for the guy. His soul has definitely been sold. “Ravil takes good care of his people.”
“Yes.” She drops her jacket and hat beside mine. “Want to see my room?”
I catch that hint of naughtiness in her again, and it makes me smile as I follow her into a large bedroom. It seems to have huge windows as well, but the shades are completely closed. The room is filled with fabric and a sewing machine stands on the desk.
“You sew?”
It suddenly makes sense–a lot of her clothing has that one-of-a-kind look–with special cuts or added fabric pieces. Like the leggings she’s wearing today–she probably cut the slits in them herself.
“Yes. I studied fashion design in Russia, and I used to do alterations for wedding gowns.”
I scan the bulletin board which has dozens of pictures ripped from fashion magazines, along with hand-sketched items.
My eye’s caught by a guy with a guitar. “Is that me?” I unpin the drawing to inspect it. Instead of my usual hipster casual clothing, the guy is wearing a slightly punk look–more like what Story sports to the shows. Skinny black jeans and a red sleeveless collared shirt with the collar turned up.
“Oh! Um, yes.” She snatches the drawing and crumples it up.
“Hey,” I protest.
“I want to style the band if you do another video,” she blurts, tossing the drawing in the trash. “I have ideas.”
“Yeah,” I say.
She goes still, like she hadn’t been expecting me to agree so easily. “Yes? I can?”
I shrug. “Sure. Yeah. I mean, I don’t know how much we can pay you. We’re only just starting to make a living from the shows.”
“No, nyet. You don’t pay me. I want to do it. You will let me?”
I make a scoffing sound. “Of course.” I shrug. “I don’t know when we’re doing another video, though.”
She blinks at me. “Would you wear them for a show?”
“Maybe? I don’t know–our shows are pretty casual.”
She gnaws on her lower lip, and I feel like an asshole.
“You know who always needs new costumes, though?”
“Who?”
“The burlesque dancers–Black Velvet Burlesque. They perform at Rue’s Lounge on Friday nights–no, it’s Thursdays now–it used to be Fridays. Have you ever been?”
“I don’t know what this is.”
“Burlesque? It’s cool. I would say it’s like a cross between performance art and stripping. Tastefully bawdy. Sometimes funny. Always entertaining.” When Nadia stares at me blankly, I say, “You have to see for yourself. I’ll take you this week, okay?”
She nods, eagerly. “Yes, I would like that.”
Huh. That feels like a date. Not that getting coffee this morning and walking to the lake didn’t. I’m a guy who literally never dates. It’s one of the lines in the sand I won’t cross. I don’t lead girls on, which means sex is for sex only. There’s no dating as foreplay or any other make-believe relationship shit.
I’m not cut out for relationships, so I don’t give women the impression that I’d ever stick around.
But Nadia and I are friends. Friends with benefits.
I’d get coffee or see a show with Ty or Lake. So there’s nothing wrong with taking Nadia to see a burlesque show.
Still, I get those warning bells–the same ones I got when I agreed to this whole friends-with-benefits plan. Like there’s a catch somewhere that I’m not seeing. Something’s going to stick me, and I’ll realize I fucked up.
For the moment, though, I can’t see it. All I see is beautiful Nadia, taking off her boots, wanting my help in finding her pleasure.
And I intend to make sure she finds it.
I toe off my Converse high tops and open the shades a crack to let in the light.
“You don’t want it dark?” Nadia’s hands tangle in front of her waist, making me reach for them.
“I want to see you, but do you want it dark?”
“No,” she says quickly. “No. I hate the dark. I–”
Seeing she’s going someplace unpleasant, I pull her against my body and kiss her again. I could kiss this girl all day and all night.
With some women, I skip the kissing completely or pass through it quickly–and just get straight to the main event. But with Nadia, it still feels like there’s so much left to discover.
Like I’m that middle-schooler again, just learning what it means to kiss. Marveling at the softness of her lips, the responsiveness. Drinking in her mocha taste, stunned by the honor of having her body up against mine.
She returns the kisses, standing on her tiptoes, getting more animated. She starts making little sounds–like she’s excited or impatient. I pull her sweater off over her head and toss it to the floor. Her bra is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen–pale peach cups covered with see-through black lace and a little satin bow at the base between her breasts.