Seven Nights of Sin

The club pulses around me, a heartbeat of neon and sweat. The air is thick with cologne and cigarette smoke.

I take another sip of my scotch—thirty-year Macallan, because I refuse to drink the swill they serve here—and watch with detached amusement as Petros hollers at a blonde twirling around a pole.

“This is the life, Michail!” Petros Papadopoulos slaps my shoulder, sloshing his drink. His Greek accent, like mine, thickens when he drinks. “Your two weeks of freedom! We must celebrate properly!”

I force a smile. In two weeks, I would marry Irida Christakis, merging two of Greece’s wealthiest families. It was a union made in business heaven.

“Drink up!” Petros pushes another glass toward me. “There are beautiful women everywhere!”

“Gamóto,” I mutter under my breath. Damn it.

I scan the room, bored. The women are silicon, spray tans, fake smiles. Nothing I haven’t seen a thousand times before.

Then the music changes. The lights dim.

She walks onto the smaller stage in the corner. Not the main attraction, but somehow, immediately, she’s all I can see.

“Thée mou,” I murmur, sitting up straighter. My God.

Her skin is deep brown, flawless in the soft light. She moves like water. No plastic surgery, just raw, feminine power.

Unlike the other dancers, her routine isn’t a choreographed series of moves designed to extract money. She’s dancing for herself, lost in the music.

I lean forward, transfixed. My body responds instantly, hardening painfully against my tailored pants.

“Who is that?” I ask, not taking my eyes off her.

Petros follows my gaze. “Ah, that’s Jade. They say she’s the best dancer here, but she doesn’t do private rooms.”

Jade.

Her body moves sinuously under a sheer purple bodysuit that highlights every curve. Her hair is pulled into an updo with little curls escaping around her face. When she turns, her ass is a perfect heart shape making my palms itch to grab it.

“Tin thelo,” I say simply, because that’s how my world works. I want her. I see. I want. I take.

“Of course you do.” Petros laughs. “Have fun now before you’re leg shackled!”

His words are unsurprising. Petros’ arranged marriage to Sophia has been a cold business transaction from the start.

They have separate bedrooms, separate lives and united only by their young son, Yiorgos. Unlike Periklis Christakis, my other best friend who somehow found love in his arranged match and now has three boys.

Would that be my fate with Irida? Our one encounter was pleasant but passionless.

My thoughts of my fiancée evaporate when Jade suddenly drops into a perfect split on the stage. The crowd roars its approval, but she doesn’t acknowledge them.

I can’t tear my eyes away as she rises while rolling her hips. She wraps one long leg around the pole, arching backward until her head nearly touches the floor. The position thrusts her breasts upward against the thin fabric of her bodysuit, and my mind conjures the image of myself above her; her body bent exactly like that beneath me.

Five minutes later, I’m seated five feet from her, close enough to see the beads of sweat gathering between her tits. Close enough to notice that her eyes, when they briefly meet mine, are a deep, rich brown.

Our gazes lock, and for just a heartbeat, her movement falters. She recovers instantly, but the break in her perfect rhythm tells me she’s as affected by me as I am of her.

When men wave bills, she doesn’t crawl over to let them tuck cash into her g-string. Her dancing remains focused, artistic even, though undeniably erotic. Her eyes flick back to me several times before she turns away.

“Gamóto,” I whisper. The thought of her wanting me makes me harder.

When she finishes her set, I stand. “I’m going to talk to her.”

Petros grabs my arm. “Michail, be careful. We are not in Greece. Americans have different rules.”

I shake him off. “Min anisycheis. I’m not going to cause trouble.” Don’t worry.

I make my way backstage, slipping the bouncer enough cash to ensure he suddenly develops vision problems. The back hallway is dingy and lined with dressing rooms.

“I told you, Tony, I’m not doing any private parties. I don’t care how much they’re offering,” a female voice with a husky and musical quality says.

“Just this once,” A male voice pleads. “The guy specifically asked for you. Said he wouldn’t take anyone else.”

“Then he goes home disappointed. Not my problem.” Her voice is unyielding.

I round the bend just as a short, balding man in an ill-fitting suit storms out of the dressing room, muttering under his breath about “moral dancers.”

And then I see her, still in the purple bodysuit clinging to every curve, now partially covered by a sheer black robe doing nothing to diminish her impact. Up close, she’s even more magnificent. Her dark skin gleams under the lights, and tiny beads of sweat still glisten along chest.

“I might be able to change your mind,” I say, stepping forward.

She turns, annoyed at the interruption. Her eyes narrow as she takes me in. I don’t miss her gaze lingering on my shoulders before traveling down my body, or the way she unconsciously wets her lips before her expression hardens.

“Who are you? How did you get back here?” She looks past me. “Tyrone!”

“Your security is taking a break.” I smile, moving closer. “I’m Michail Athanasiou.”

Her expression doesn’t change. My name, which opens doors throughout Europe, means nothing to her.

“Well, Mr. Athanasiou, this area is for employees only. You need to leave.”

Theé mou, that voice. I want to hear that voice moaning my name.

“I’d like to take you to dinner.”

“No, thanks.”

“I’m staying at the Plaza. The presidential suite.” I step closer. “We could order room service.”

The air between us charges with electricity. She’s close enough that I can smell her jasmine and amber scent.

“Does that line usually work for you?” She gathers some items from a small vanity, her movements rushed. “Because it’s not working for me.”

No woman has ever dismissed me so completely. “Malaka,” I mutter to myself. The novelty is intoxicating.

“Ten thousand dollars,” I say abruptly. “For one night.”

She freezes, then turns slowly to face me, her expression hardening. “I’m a dancer, not a prostitute. There’s not enough money in the world.”

“I apologize. That came out wrong.”

“Did it? Seemed pretty straightforward to me.” She brushes past me, her shoulder deliberately bumping mine. “Now get out of my dressing room before I call security for real.”

I catch her arm. Her skin is warm and impossibly soft beneath my fingers. A small gasp escapes her lips, and I feel her pulse jump beneath my thumb.

“Perimene. Wait. Please.”

She looks pointedly at my hand until I release her, but not before I notice the goosebumps rising on her arm where I touched her.

“I’m intrigued by you,” I admit. “You’re different from any woman I’ve met.”

“That’s a low bar, considering you’re the type of man to solicit prostitutes.”

I deserve that. “Have dinner with me. Just dinner. In public. Anywhere you choose.”

She studies me for a long moment. Something flickers in her eyes, then she shakes her head, taking a small step back.

“I’m working every night this week. And I don’t date customers.” She grabs a bag and heads for the door. “Goodbye, Mr. Athanasiou.”

I follow her out into the alley behind the club. The night air is warm, carrying the distinctive smell of Manhattan. “Ela edo. At least let me drive you home. It’s late.”

She laughs again. “I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time. I don’t need your help.”

A yellow cab pulls up, and she steps toward it. The dismissal stings my pride in a way I’m not accustomed to.

“Tha epistrepso. I’ll be back tomorrow night,” I call after her.

She pauses with the cab door open, looking back at me. I see naked interest flash across her face before she catches herself.

“Don’t waste your time.”

“Ego apofasizo. I decide what’s worth my time.”

She bites her lower lip, her eyes traveling over me one last time. “Goodnight, Mr. Athanasiou.”

The cab pulls away, and I stand there in the alley, more aroused and frustrated than I’ve been in years.

Petros finds me moments later. “There you are! Did you find your dancer?”

“Yes.” I straighten my tie, decision made. “Change of plans. We’re coming back here tomorrow night.”

“But we have reservations at—”

“Cancel them.” I pull out my Nokia. “We’re coming back.”

Petros sighs. “She turned you down, didn’t she?”

I smile, feeling the thrill of pursuit for the first time in too long. “For now.”

As we walk to my black Olympus Phoenix that purrs like a satisfied woman, I can still smell her perfume on my fingers where I touched her arm.

I haven’t wanted anyone or anything this badly in years. My impending marriage, my father’s expectations and the weight of the Athanasiou legacy all fade to background noise.

There is only Jade.

I slide into the driver’s seat, already planning my return. Tomorrow, she won’t dismiss me so easily. Kaneis den lei ochi ston Michail Athanasiou dyo fores.

No one says no to Michail Athanasiou twice.