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“Uh, thanks,” I smile politely. My gaze drifts to the drink in his hand, and I cock an eyebrow.
“I am not working tonight,” he shrugs.
“You just came out anyway?”
He keeps smiling at me.
Shit.
“Damian, he prefers the bimbos with the big tits and the fake tans. But me?” Dimitri’s grin gets even more salacious as his eyes sweep down over my body. “I think you are the perfect woman.”
I mean, I get that it’s meant to be a compliment, even if his delivery is a little…weird. My brows knit as I take a second to really look at Dimitri.
He’s not a bad looking guy. He’s tall, he’s built, and there’s a sexiness about his dark eyes and lashes. He’s got some cool tattoos, and I’ve noticed the little scar holes before in his ears, lips, and eyebrow from piercings I’m betting the Bratva wasn’t too keen on, so he removed them.
But more than any of that, right now more than ever, it’s clear that Dimitri really does have a thing for me. And for the first time, I’m wondering why I’ve never…
Okay, I know why.
Because I’m damaged. Because I don’t dateanyone, not just men who work for Kir. But in a post-Mal world, has that changed? Have I “gotten over” my hangups enough to be open to casual dating or hookups?
Like, Dimitri isn’t a bad guy. He’s attractive enough. And he’shere, and I can’t deny that it feels good to have someone fawning over me when my mind is so wrapped up in Mal.
Hecouldbe a good distraction.
Could be.
But won’t.
Because even when the image of Mal withthat fucking girlwith her hands all over him roars into my head, I can’t eventryto imagine being with Dimitri. Kissing him, or letting him touch me, or…eww.
No.
I get ripped out of my thoughts when Dimitri pulls close to me and wraps an arm around my waist. His palm runs up my back, then returns to my waist, lingering too low on my hip.
I smile flatly as I gently push his hand away.
Dimitri frowns, clearly not getting the message. “Please, Freya. You and I… We could have a good time.”
“I don’t think so, Dimitri. That’s not a good idea.”
“Why not?”
His hand slips around my waist again, gripping me a little tighter.
This time, I’m much more aggressive when I peel his fingers off me and push his hand away.
“I saidno,” I snap coldly, my voice rising.
Dimitri looks taken aback, his face flushed—whether from embarrassment or alcohol, I don’t know. For a second, I think he’ll back off, but then he grabs my wrist, his grip tight and unrelenting.
“Freya,” he says, his voice lower, more insistent. “Don’t be like that.”
My skin crawls at the way he says my name and his fingers dig into my wrist. I yank my arm away.
“Excuse me,” I mutter, turning and storming off to the bathroom, needing to get away from him and his fucking hands. My heart is pounding, my blood boiling from a mix of alcohol and anger.
The one perk of sitting in the obnoxiously chi-chi “VIP booths” is that you get access to restrooms the rest of the club doesn’t. So I get to skip the line for the ladies’ room and instead slip past the velvet ropes and bouncers back into the uber-pretentious area.
