Nikolai effortlessly returns to his feet, and he takes the applause with less self-gratification than I thought he would. No blinding grin or smirk. It’s not about the win, then. He likes this part, maybe. Where he pushes someone out of their comfort zone.
He squats right in front of me, almost eye-level. I watch him comb a hand through his dark brown hair, the strands out of his face, but pieces still brush his ears and neck. Then he says in that low, husky voice, “I won’t lie to you. This is going to hurt.”
My nose flares as I restrain more emotion. I can do this. “Okay.”
He clasps my forearm and literally pulls me to my feet in one swift motion. The air plunges out of my lungs. His hand lingers on my hip. “Follow me,” he says, heading to the empty chair.
I do. He leads me there, and someone hands him a piercing gun.
“Sit,” he commands.
I cautiously lower my ass onto the seat, wondering which body part he’ll puncture with a needle. My ear, I hope.
The silence between us pounds my heart. I’m left with those gray eyes, that strong jaw, and the red devilish hue that casts down on us. I’m breathing too heavily, and since he’s so perceptive, he calls me out on it.
“Relax,” he says, resting a hand on the frame of the chair.
How can I relax? He’s a foot from my body, and he’s holding a giant needle. I can’t do anything other than pant like an out-of-shape linebacker.
“Breathe,” he instructs, waiting for me to calm down. Though his eyes flit around me, trying to determine what to pierce.
“I am breathing.”
He shoots me a look. “Breathe normally,” he clarifies. He places a hand right below my collarbones. His palm feels heavy, weighted, but it carries an electric current that zips through my nerves. “Match me, myshka.”
He takes my hand and places it on his bare chest, his muscles unintentionally flexing beneath, warm on my skin. My ribs want to padlock my lungs. I swear.
But I try to exhale and inhale, trained breaths this time. And his hand falls lower, towards my heart. His brows rise at me, and I realize he must feel my heart hammering, pulsing in a sporadic way.
I sink lower in the chair, and he lifts me up with his free hand, grabbing my waist. He says a couple words in Russian that I don’t understand.
I shake my head at him.
“You’re cute,” he translates vaguely. Unsexy friend. “But you need to stay still.”
I nod. “I can do that.”
“Good.” Then he uses his foot to push mine aside, abruptly breaking my legs apart. What… I open my mouth to ask what’s happening, but he sits on the edge of the seat, facing me. He swiftly lifts me by the hips, setting me on his lap.
I’m straddling a Russian man. I can’t tell if my eyes are about to pop out or if I’m scowling again. I’m rigid. Like he said I’d be. A straight-laced gymnast.
“Deep breaths,” he coaches. A fraction of a smile peeks at his lips. He knows that he’s driving me to an edge. A sexual, exhilarating one that I can’t compute. My brain is frying too fast.
I don’t know where to put my hands. “I don’t…” I start. But I can’t finish because he takes my hands in his and puts them on his shoulders. My arms must’ve been hesitating midair.
“Thora,” he says, training my focus on his eyes. “You have a choice. I’m going to tell you what I’m piercing. If you want out, there’s the exit.” He motions to the literal club exit, a door in the far-right corner.
“What are you piercing?” I ask, not letting my mind mull over quitting. I’ve come this far. Right?
Without balking or breaking eye contact, he says, “Your nipple.”
I gape. What? “What?” I think I’ve heard him wrong. My voice is lost in the shouts of glee from the guys around the club. Some even high-five and slosh their liquor.
“Thora,” Nikolai says again. “Focus.”
What? I pull my gaze off the surrounding people and back on him. “You said my nose,” I say, wishful thinking, I guess.
He laughs. “No, myshka. I said your nipple.” Again, he’s unflinching. Like he’s done this before.
“Have you done this before?” I question. “Pierced a nipple, I mean.” I grimace at my own words. Why am I grimacing? He said nipple without flinching. I should be able to too. It’s on my body.
“On men, yes. On women, no.” He says, “You’ll be my first.” This lessens what little to no excitement I had. But he seems okay with the idea. “Most of my firsts are crossed off, so you’re lucky.”
Lucky. “I think…that’s a strong word.”
He rephrases, “I may remember you for a while, Thora.” As though that’s a prize people seek with him. Maybe they do. He’s a performer—someone people observe from a distance. To be on his mind for even an ounce of time, that must be special to fans.
“Why my…nipple?” I ask, trying not to scowl or wince or cringe. None of the above.
“You tucked in your shirt before doing a handstand,” he explains. “You didn’t want to flash the crowds. I always choose the hardest consequences, the things people fear. You should know this.”
Because I stalked him and wore sneakers, just so he’d choose me tonight? He’s so off-base, but he never asks. He just assumes everything.
Waiting for my answer, guys start yelling at me to not pussy out and to grow a pair of balls. It makes me mad and angers me enough that my chest puffs out.
I nod to Nikolai, my mind spinning at this agreement. Standing up and leaving in front of this crowd would take more strength than I have right now. It may be the gutsier move than staying here, half-under peer pressure, half-under my own stubbornness.
“Sports bra,” Nikolai guesses.
I inhale. “Maybe.” Yes.
“I’m about to find out,” he tells me, “so there won’t be any maybes between us.”
I’m keenly aware that his hand is on my thigh while the other holds the piercing gun. My legs hang loose around him.
“One piercing,” he says deeply. “If you’re frightened, leave now. I don’t want you crying or suing me or the bar or Aerial Ethereal. We have a verbal contract that you’re consenting to this, yes?” This sounds rehearsed, like he’s said this plenty of times before to other girls and guys.
“Yes,” I nod.
And then he removes his hand off my thigh, slipping it underneath the cotton of my tee. My breath hitches, his fingers skimming the smoothness of my bare skin, up to the line of my tight sports bra.
Without removing my shirt, he rolls up the bra to my collarbone. Okay, I can do this. He moves inconspicuously—thankfully. The sandalwood scent of his cologne dizzies my head.
He searches my eyes for reactions, reading me like an unraveling book. He hesitates for a prolonged second, and his eyes narrow at my blue glow necklace. “You’re single.”
It clicks. It should’ve clicked way before now, but I must’ve had sensory overload to compute the necklaces to relationship statuses.
Blue = single.
Green = ?
Red = ??
I glance at his red necklace, more curious. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m making sure you didn’t lie,” he tells me. “I don’t want an angry boyfriend in my face tonight.”