She reaches out a hand and unbuttons my shirt, exposing my chest. Her pale finger, the nail painted pearly pink, traces the tattoo of a roaring tiger on my chest.
‘Oskal (bared teeth) You were a thief,’ she breathes.
I don’t say anything. My tattoos tell their own tale of bloodshed, violence, and the unspoken moral code of my past. My time of treading a fine line between life and death. The punishment for getting a tattoo you have not earned is severe so they work as my CV, and being the daughter of a mafia king she can read each letter and design like a language.
She undoes the rest of the buttons on my shirt, pulls the shirttails out, and slips it off me. I watch her eyes hungrily take in the width of me, before her eyes alight on the tattoo of an epaulette inked onto my right shoulder.
‘High ranking,’ she whispers.
She rises to her tiptoes and kisses me right on the skull in the middle of the epaulette. It is a gesture of approval. She knows it signifies that I am not, or will ever be a slave to anyone.
I stand as still as a statue when she touches the rose. So many memories come crowding back. No other woman has touched it quite the same way. It is Delilah holding Samson’s hair.
‘You spent your eighteenth birthday in prison,’ she notes. Her voice grave.
Then her finger delicately trails the blade of a dagger. ‘You have taken life.’ She touches the drops of blood as she counts aloud the lives I have taken. ‘One, two, three, four …’ There are more drops, but she doesn’t go on. She looks up at me, our gazes touch, and she exhales a long breath. It sounds like regret or pain.
She walks around the back and looks at the massive tattoo of the Madonna and Child surrounded by saints and angels. In the background a cathedral. It is a thieves’ talisman. I know I am a sinner but protect me, guide me, bring me luck.
‘So … you were a thief from an early age,’ she deciphers. I feel her breath warm on my back.
‘Fifteen,’ I say quietly.
‘Mmmm.’ She lays her palm on my back and I close my eyes at the incredible softness of her skin.
She reads aloud the Russian words. Oh Lord, forgive me for the tears of my mother.
I twist around and grab her wrist. ‘That’s enough.’
Something flashes in her eyes, but it’s not fear.
‘So now you know all about me,’ I say. ‘What is there to know about Tasha Evanoff?’
‘There is only one thing you need to know about me. Tonight I am yours.’
‘Let me see what is mine tonight, then,’ I say.
Pink rushes up her neck and cheeks. She sinks her teeth into her bottom lip and holds her empty glass out to me. I take it from her and she steps out of her shoes. How cute. No other woman I know would dream of taking her shoes off first. Every one of them is sophisticated enough to know a naked woman wearing nothing but her high heels is the ultimate sexual turn on.
She takes her cardigan off and folds it before laying it neatly over the edge of the couch closest to her. As her hands move to the back of her dress, I see them shake and realize she is nervous as hell. She unzips her dress and lowers it slowly. Underneath is only the lacy white bra. She doesn’t try to fold the dress as it pools around her ankles. Swallowing hard, she removes her last item of clothing and lets it drop to the carpet.
And I behold a body of classical proportions.
My fingers tighten around the glasses in my hands. A word I don’t think I have ever used comes into my head. Willowy. Her breasts are small and round, the nipples pink and erect, and her waist gently flares out into delicious curves that part into slender thighs. And between them pink folds protrude.
Other than the hair on her head she is completely hairless. Her flawless pale skin shimmers gently in the soft light. There is not a single mark on her body. As if she never fell over as a child and grazed her knees or hurt her elbows. Lost in awe I drag my eyes back to her face.
Anticipation and excitement have made her eyes glitter a brilliant blue. Here she is, on the wrong side of respectability, with the baddest of the bad boys. A dangerous, cold-blooded killer. It is in her eyes: the good girl is expecting a dirty, thrilling, wild, forbidden night of lust and passion.
A night like no other.
And she will get it.
Looking into her shining eyes, I remember the birthday present Vasily and the rest of my staff gave me. It was meant to be a joke. Like a blow up doll only better. Much better. Even I had been surprised by how incredibly real it looked when they presented it amongst blankets, but I never thought I’d have use for it.