Page 2 of The Pakhan's Secret Baby

"God, but what do I say?" I feel totally out of my comfort zone. This isn't at all like me. I don't do this sort of thing. This is what Irina is like, though now that she's getting married I'm sure she'll calm down.

"Just say thanks for the drink?" she slurs. "Go on, Em. You deserve some fun tonight." When she winks at me and gives me another shove, I get the point. I take one of the glasses from the tray, nodding at the waitress, and Irina takes the other. Then I drift that direction, into the darkness.

The crowd thins as I get closer to his table.

The men on either side of him don't move, but their eyes track me the whole way over. Up close my nerves only get worse.

The man isn't just good-looking; he's the sort of guy who makes you forget your own name.

The tattoos on his hands crawl up past his wrists and disappear under dark, rolled sleeves. His eyes are nearly black and hungry with lust.

And with a flick of the wrist, his men step back several feet, giving us privacy.

"Thank you for the drinks," I say, leaning in a little to be heard over the bass. I don't realize it until I watch his eyes, but it gives him a great view of my tits, which makes my cheeks burn even hotter. "That was generous of you."

He tilts his glass and swirls whatever's left in it without taking his eyes off me. "It was selfish," he says in a voice so creamy I want a drink of it. "I wanted you to come over." The way his eyes flow down over my body and back up to my face makes me lean in further, wanting him to speak again.

"Well, it worked." I tuck a curl behind my ear and smile. "You want to dance?"

He smirks. "I don't dance." Then he taps the seat across from him. "Sit."

My body shudders and obeys him without hesitation.

My knees go weak, and I lower onto the leather bench beside him, setting my glass on the table. It feels like it just got a thousand degrees hotter in here.

I flick my hair over my shoulder, and the man's eyes shift, eyebrows rising slowly.

When his hand lifts and brushes hair away from my neck I turn instinctively. He's spotted my tattoo—the only one I have—and he's admiring it.

"Krasivaya," he says, lightly tracing the ink. I can't see what he's doing, but I can feel his light touch, and it makes goosebumps rise on my arms. He's so gentle and so complimentary. "Just like your body..." He pauses, like he's waiting for my name. I flicka nervous glance at Irina, but she's busy laughing and dancing, ignoring me completely now.

"Emory," I manage, forcing a nervous smile. God, I've never done something so bold in my life, but it's a rush.

"It's beautiful, Emory. Just like you." He leans back, letting his fingertip trail over my shoulder and down my arm.

"Thank you," I mumble, not sure how to respond to that.

To me, beauty isn't what's outside; it's what happens inside of a person, how they treat others, how they express themselves.

My lips are tingling now, body still blazing, and I smile genuinely at him.

He's so gorgeous, and when a gorgeous person says someone is beautiful, people believe them.

"You're a good dancer, Emory. Your body moves like sin." When he scoots closer my heart kicks against my ribs. "Do you come to this club often? I've never seen you."

My heart is hammering as I lick my lips nervously.

This is the reason my father told me not to come here, but so far I don't feel scared or like I'm in any danger.

I feel like my father is trying to hover too much, play helicopter when I'm trying to have some fun.

His warning goes right out the window as I pick up my glass and down the third drink of the night before I smile and set it back on the table.

"This is my first time..." I wait, but he says nothing, so I ask, "What's your name?"

"My name is Rashid," he purrs, in a voice so velvety smooth I would probably follow him right into a den of lions to be devoured alive. God he's hot. I don’t even care that he's twice my age now.

The whiskey probably has more to do with that than anything else, but for once I want to take a risk and live a little, like Irina said.