Clubs: The Suit’s Book 2

Loud, obnoxious beeps sound through one ear and out the other as my eyes flutter open. Tubes are taped to my arms, and I feel weak. I don’t remember what happened. I was going to breakfast—that’s all I can recall.

Mikhail sits in a chair pulled up to the edge of the bed. His bed. I’m in his room for some reason.

“Sloane,” he whispers. It’s not sweet. It’s not angry. It’s a dreadful sound.

I follow the cords attaching my body to an IV bag. I don’t want to look at Mikhail.

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”

There it is. There’s the anger. I take in a deep breath, trying to calm myself down.

“Tell you what?” I ask as if I’m clueless.

“Don’t fucking do that. Why didn’t you tell me you’re diabetic?”

“You would have found some way to use it against me.”

He clenches his jaw and stands up from his chair. His arms hold the back of his head while he paces the room. “Why the fuck would I do that? You could have died,” he says with fire in his lungs.

“Do you have any other swear words in your vocabulary?” I ask, genuinely curious. He says “fuck” in every sentence. “I’m a dead woman anyway—it doesn’t matter.”

He turns away from me and slams the door shut.

“Good talk,” I mutter. I look down and notice my index finger has a plastic bit on it, weighing it down.

Moving my body up, I notice the blanket is warm. There’s a cord at the bottom of it. Did he get me a heated blanket?

“Good. You’re awake,” a man says, entering the room. He looks older. My best bet would be that he’s in his sixties. His mustache is gray, and his black hair has silver streaks in it.

“What is all this?” I ask, pulling on the tubes.

“Ah, yes. You’re type one diabetic, Sloane. Why wouldn’t you give yourself insulin?”

“I ran out,” I admit.

“I can see that. The fluid in the bag is to rehydrate you, give your body some electrolytes. I’m also monitoring your heart. It’s weak. You’ll need supplements as well. You’ve starved your body of many things and it has no fat to break down.”

I slouch back under the warm covers. “I see.”

“I’ll keep an eye on you and make sure you’re getting everything you need. You also have this.” He brings his hands to my stomach and lifts up my shirt, showing me a patch stuck to my skin. “It’ll track your glucose levels day and night. It can last up to ten days. I’ve shown Mikhail how to change it. He will take care of you.”

A part of me wants to laugh at the last bit of his sentence. Mikhail will take care of me?

I’ve never had anything this high tech on me before. My father always said it’s good to use the pen so I remember my doses. He never wanted me to get too comfortable.

“This is great. Thank you.”

“My name is Knox, by the way.”

“Sloane, but you know that already,” I say with a pitiful laugh.

“I do.” He smiles. “You need to be careful with this—you can’t just skip insulin. Your body literally cannot produce it.”

“I know.”

“Okay, I’ll give you some time to rest.”

I watch him turn to leave and spend the rest of my day in bed resting and flipping through channels on the flat-screen. Knox comes back in after a couple of hours to check in on me. He takes the cords off my skin and tells me to keep up my water intake.

Sitting here all day is great, but I slowly start to get bored.

I get out of bed and walk down the stairs. I don’t mean to end up in front of Mikhail’s office door, but here I am. I knock and walk in without waiting for a response.

He’s sitting in his chair looking down at his phone. He doesn’t acknowledge me. His thumbs scroll through the glass screen while he ignores me.

“I wanted to thank you for getting me help,” I tell him as I walk closer.

His jaw hardens, his attention still fixed on his phone. “I’m standing right here, aren’t I?”

It’s as if he’s using every atom in his body to ignore me. What the hell is his problem?

“Did I do something to you? Because unless you plan on texting your response, you’re being incredibly rude to me right now.”

He stands up from his chair and walks toward me, his eyes still glued to his phone. I watch him stop right in front of me and take his eyes off the screen. “If you think for a goddamn second I don’t listen to every last syllable that falls from your lips, you’re mistaken.”

“Then why did—?” I start to complain, but I’m quickly interrupted.

“Could you just be quiet?” He slides his phone into his pocket. “You will not keep things from me anymore. You will tell me if anything is wrong, and I will listen.”

Stunned, I can’t do anything but look at him. He looks hurt, but I can’t figure out why.

His fingers brush my arm then down the side of my torso. “Tell me what you need,” he says in a deep voice.

Normally, I could think of a million things I need, but his touch is the only thing going through my mind right now. The way his calloused fingers threaten to tear through my skin, his eyes filled with purpose and his lips begging to be touched by mine. I shake my head. I don’t want to admit that what I need is him.

“I need to go home.”

“Tough.”

I roll my eyes. I knew this would happen. Around Mikhail, no one is able to make decisions for themselves. His temper is as sensitive as a grenade.

“Don’t ask me questions you don’t want the answer to,” I tell him.

“Are you finished?”

“Finished with what?” I ask.

“Bothering me.”

My mouth drops slightly as I stumble away from him. “That was rude.”

“Sorry, I forgot your heart was fragile.”

Stepping back up to him, I can’t help but shove him, pushing on his muscular chest. “I’m not fragile!” I shout louder than I thought I could.

Mikhail’s thumb brushes over his lips, which lift with amusement. “You are. You just tried to hit me, and I went nowhere. Extra credit for the effort though.”

I roll my eyes and turn to walk out the room, but the sound of him clearing his throat stops me.

“You need to toughen up.”

“You’re right. How did it take me so long to realize that? I am so sorry I’m not checking all the boxes on your ‘good little hostage’ checklist.”

“I bet you’re a joy in bed,” he says arrogantly.

I scoff. “Probably, ’cause you get off on violence.”

This gets his attention. “I don’t, but there are many other women you can ask if you’d like some reassurance.”

I cross my arms. “Charming. Was this one of your many quick fucks?”

“They’re not quick, but if you’re willing to find out . . .” he says glibly.

“God, you are insufferable!” I scream.

“And yet here you stand, talking to me.”

My arms fall down to my sides and I let out a wearied breath, curling my fingers into a fist. “Ego is one hell of a drug, Mikhail.”

“I’m sure it is. That’s how I got so far in life. What do you have to show? Nothing.”

He uses my lifestyle against me as if I could do anything to help it. “And what do you have to show, Mikhail? Dead bodies? Fake cash because you can’t get the real stuff?”

“Stop,” he demands. Looks like I’ve hit an open wound.

I don’t stop. “You know, you fear success, but you really have nothing to worry about.”

“Stop before I say something I can’t take back.”

“Aw, what? You want to wound me with your words?”

He grabs me by the shoulders and grips me tightly, but not in a way that could hurt me. “I have things to show for my success. I do it for my family. But you couldn’t relate to that, could you? No, because you were adopted.” He speaks the word “adopted” as if it carried darkness. He might have gotten too caught up in the argument and skipped the part where he was taken in as well. Does he think I don’t know I was adopted?

I lift my chin up and say, “At least I was wanted, you dumb fuck.”

His head tilts in disappointment. “See, now that’s the issue with open-minded people like you. They just don’t know when to keep their mouths shut.”

Before I can stop myself, my hand lands across his face with a loud crack.

Mikhail bites down on his lip and nods slowly. Stunned by my own actions, I back away from him.

“You have five fucking seconds.” He stares me down while my back finds the wall. “One.”

My breathing quickens, and I bolt out of the room. Running down the hallway, I pass by the living room and take the stairs two at a time. I question if I should run to my room, but he knows that’s the room I’d go for.

Instead, I go to his.

All my things are still in here. The sheets are bundled together, exactly how I left them only a half hour ago. My heart is pounding so fast I can hear it in my head. I turn to look at the door and then rush to lock it shut.

“Oh God,” I mutter to myself. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”

I turn quickly, making myself lightheaded. Where the hell am I supposed to hide? Moving quickly to the bathroom, I search the drawers for something to protect myself with. Luckily enough, there’s a knife. Leave it to Mikhail to have a weapon hidden in every square foot of the house.

When I hear the bedroom door unlock, I throw myself against the wall, forcing my hand over my mouth the keep my noise to a minimum. I can hear his footsteps getting closer.

“You should learn to hide better.”

The bathroom lights are off, but I can see him in the reflection of the mirror. Right as he’s about to walk away, he turns slowly in my direction.

“Stars can’t hide in the dark.”

I take the knife and hold it steady in my hand. He walks away, and I hear the door close shut.

Tearing my hand from my mouth, I let out the breaths of air I needed. I thought he knew I was in here. Or maybe he’s all talk.

I allow myself to relax and step out of the bathroom, but I slam right into him. Clenching my teeth together, I hold out my knife.

“Do you honestly think that will save you?” he asks darkly.

My eyes widen as he walks right into the knife, drawing blood. I gasp, throwing it to the ground. “You’re so—”

“Fucked-up?” His blood slowly begins to seep through his shirt.

“More than that.”

“You push every ounce of fucking control that I have.” He steps toward me until I feel the edge of the bed on the backs of my legs.

I lift my head to look him in the eyes. “You have no control.”

“You only have your words.”

“And you only have threats that don’t surprise me.”

Gritting his teeth, he grabs onto my elbow and pulls me close. “If you want to argue with me, take it to the bed.”

My chest rises and falls quickly as I stand on my toes and try to level myself with his height. I don’t know if it’s his words or if I’m just as fucked-up as him, but this is becoming a turn-on.

My eyes fall to his lips.

“What are you doing, Sloane?” he asks, shocked I might be about to take him up on his offer.

Bringing my fingers to his mouth, I trail his bottom lip with the tip of my thumb. Then I lean into him and press my lips down on his. I kiss him a couple of times before he opens his mouth and allows his tongue to find mine.

Mikhail grabs the back of my head and whimpers into my mouth. He kisses me with anger. It’s like he doesn’t want to be kissing me at all.

I reach my hand to his waist and pull on his belt. He buries his head in my neck before throwing me onto the bed, where his hands move onto my thighs, inching up toward my waist. He grabs onto me and lifts me on top of him.

With my legs straddling him, I can’t believe I’m about to do this. My arms rest on his shoulders as he moves his face to my neck. Shivers run through my body when his lips touch me there. I’m overwhelmed, but in a good way. My breathing shallows as his hands drag my body down to his, closing the distance, creating pressure that demands release.

He pulls at the bottom of my hair.

“Mikhail—”

“Mercy.”

I swallow. “What?”

“You say ‘mercy’ if you want me to stop.”

This very well may be the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard in my life.

He pulls away from me, holding my stare. “You understand?” he rasps.

I nod, wanting him to continue. My body aches for him. I can no longer deny what I’ve felt since that night. I knew I felt something toward him at the time. It was hard to decipher what it was because we were so full of hatred for one another, but it was physical and all-consuming.

Something inside me tightens as he throws me off him so I’m lying on my back. Goose bumps cover my skin as he moves his body between my thighs. His large hands cover my stomach, and he places wet kisses all over my skin.

My eyes shut as every nerve sets on fire at his touch. He lifts up my shirt slightly, and it crumples right underneath my breasts. He doesn’t take off my thong—he rips it off. The sound of the lace ripping excites me, much as I don’t want it to.

Pushing my shirt up, he brings his mouth over my nipple and bites down on it gently. I suck in a sharp breath as he brushes his thumb over the other. Mikhail sucks the skin underneath my breast, claiming what’s his. A soft moan falls effortlessly from my mouth.

“You can’t make those fucking sounds, Sloane,” he demands.

His mouth turns me on even more. I’m eager to hear more of it. My body reacts to his dark, demanding commands in ways I’ve never known. His calloused grasp travels down to my thighs. I need to be closer to him. I need him inside me. He’s teasing me, and I can’t keep up.

He lowers his body down mine, nudging his face between my thighs. As his tongue slides over my clit, the feeling makes me throw my head back. My fingers run through his dark hair strands, tugging on them tightly as his tongue moves from side to side, then in circular motions, licking every drop.

I bite down on my lips, trying not to moan because he said not to, but, fuck, I can’t. A shaky sigh falls from my chest, making Mikhail tighten his grip on my thighs, forcing them open wider for him.

Just when I thought he couldn’t give me more satisfaction than he already is, he glides a finger inside me.

It’s overwhelming. It hurts, but it feels too good for him to stop. My back arches off the bed, and he pushes another finger deep into me.

This is too much. My face burns as his tongue laps around my clit, licking and sucking on me. My body feels as if it’s being dipped in a pool of molten lava as my legs begin to shake. He holds them steady, and my hips move as I reach close to the edge. “Mikhail . . .” I shudder his name as my legs lock and an orgasm overcomes me.

A deep groan grumbles in his throat. He lets go of my legs and nips his way up my stomach till his mouth is hovering near my ear. I try to regain control of my breathing. “I love the way you taste,” he breathes. “I love the way you feel coming on my tongue.”

This is so wrong, but it feels so right. I want him to demand everything my body has to offer.

“I want more of you,” I admit, wrapping my legs around his torso.

“You’re maddening. Addicting, Koldunya.”

I cringe at the name. I don’t want to be called that while he holds me like this. “Call me something else,” I tell him.

“I’m sorry.” He pauses for a second to muse on an alternative. And then he says, “Moya Koldunya.”