THE FIXER

When he finally stops, I spit the lime onto the table and gasp for breath.

Kayla fans herself. “Oh my gawd. So that’s how it’s done.”

“Your turn.” Maxim winks, and my friends salt their own thumbs and down their shot.Nôvel/Dr(a)ma.Org - Content owner.

A round of bottled waters magically appears-Maxim must’ve ordered them before the cocktail waitress left the last time.

“Let’s go dance,” I suggest, somewhat drunkenly after I’ve downed half my water.

Maxim stands to let me out. “You want me to go with you or stay here and hold the table?”

I put my hands on his chest, accidentally bumping right up against him when I lose my balance. Why was he being so dang nice to me?

Oh damn, I asked that out loud. I definitely need to dance off that tequila shot.

I go up on my tiptoes and press a sloppy kiss on his lips. “Thank you for saving our table,” I say and weave onto the floor with Kayla and Ashley. The other two stay behind with Maxim. I whirl when I get a few steps away and point between them. “No body shots on him while I’m away. He’s mine.”

Maxim’s amused smile sends cascades of warmth into my belly and down my inner thighs.

Handsome husband.

Maxim

MY BRIDE and her friends like the attention they garner on the dance floor. I’m a possessive man-extremely possessive. And when that mudak had his hands on her, I was jealous as hell. But I’m not one of those guys who needs his woman to cover up and not show off the gifts God gave her. Especially not if it gets her horny flaunting it.

The women dance and return. I push water, then order another round of cocktails, which they don’t finish. The next time they go out to dance I go with them. There are two-foot platforms people can climb onto to dance against the wall, and I lead the group back there. I hold Sasha’s hand to steady her and lift my chin toward the platform. There are people dancing on it, but I project enough authority-like I own the place, and I decide who gets to dance on the mini stages-that the people on it decide to hop down.

Sasha loves it. She climbs on and pulls her friends up. Twirling and bouncing with pleasure. She looks down at me with the heat of alcohol-induced lust and exhibitionism in her eyes. “Are you coming up?” she calls down over the music.

I shake my head. “I’m standing guard.”

Her friends love that. They whoop and ooh. I didn’t say it for effect, though. I am literally standing guard. From where I dance, I get flashes of panty beneath their short skirts, and any guy who takes that as a green light to approach is going to catch my knuckles in his gut.

There’s an art to knowing when to leave a party when alcohol is involved. You want to leave just past its peak, while everything is still perfect and fun, but you’re not too inebriated.

I watch until their exuberance starts to wilt, and then I swoop them down off the platform and outside to get some fresh air. Once they cool off, I suggest it’s time to go.

Sasha collects her big purse from the coat check, and I put her friends in the first cab waiting in front of the elite club. I walk around to the driver’s window and hand him a hundred dollar bill. “This is for their ride. If they don’t get home safely, I will hunt you down and kill you.”

Sasha smacks my arm as the cab driver bobs his head and accepts the cash.

“You can’t say that.”

“I can,” I counter. “I did.” I claim a second cab for us.

Sasha shakes her head. She’s somewhere between tipsy and sloshed, so all her movements are exaggerated and slow. “Because you’re a man you can throw your weight around like that. There’s no way I could ever r-reenact that scene and have the cabbie take me seriously.” I catch her elbow as she wobbles on the pavement, then hand her into the back of the cab and follow her in.

“Chateau Marmont,” I tell the driver.

Sasha’s still chewing on the injustice. “I don’t think I could even get that cocktail waitress to give me decent service. And it’s my money you’re throwing around.”

“It was my own,” I correct her.

“Either way, you still have all the power. I have none.”

Getting into a philosophical discussion with her in this state is probably a bad idea, but I do, anyway. She’s right-playing alpha male is easy when you are one, but she sees herself as far more weak than she is. “Power isn’t just something divvied out by gender. And it’s definitely not something that’s bestowed on you by others. It’s a choice you make for yourself. Either you react to everyone else, or you claim your own power.”

“Right. How do you think I should’ve taken my own power when my dad called me in to tell me to marry you or lose my inheritance? Hmm? Should I have told him to go fuck himself? Is that what you would’ve done?”

She has a point.

But so do I.

“No, Sasha. But you’re married to me now, and you have a choice. You can keep pushing and prodding me-running away and making me chase-to try to get the power from me. Or you can decide you’re my equal and make your demands. Tell me what you need from me to make this work.”

She blinks at me, wide-eyed, silent for a moment. Then she says, “But I don’t want it to work.”

Her words hit me like a cement block to my head.

“What’s the alternative, caxapok? We divorce, and the money goes to Vladimir? Or we separate, and one of your father’s men either kidnaps or kills you for your fortune?”