CHAPTER ONE
LIAM
“Welcome to paradise, man.”
My buddy Paul has me in a headlock. I stare out into the nightclub with its lasers, futuristic fashion sense and lollipop music. “Do you mean hell?” I suggest.
Paul sweeps his hand out over the scene. “It’s the unofficial meet-and-greet of the Winter Olympics, brother. Every nation is represented. It’s like an international pussy smorgasbord. Dig the fuck in.”
We stand out like dog’s balls in our bold red, white, and blue Team USA jackets, though the Nigerian bobsled team in the corner seems to be giving us a run for our money.
We’re at, supposedly, the biggest and best nightclub in Seoul. The Games start in Pyeongchang tomorrow, so I’m surprised anyone is out at all, but the place is alive with athletes of all nationalities and colors, everyone mixing with the locals and having a great time.
As the US ice hockey team, and current Gold Medal holders, I’d say we have a bit of clout. Problem is, every guy in here is buff and athletic. There’s a fucking Adonis wherever you turn.
Which just means you have to step up the game.
Paul pushes me forward towards the dance floor. “I don’t know what kind of creepy-ass dance moves they do here North Korea, but you show them what Uncle Sam has to offer. I’ll get the drinks.”
“South Korea,” I correct, watching Paul head off to the bar with the rest of the team. God knows how many times we’ve done this. I sweep the area for potential while Paul gets the ‘liquid lubricant,’ as he calls it.
One thing’s for sure. I need to get laid and let off some steam, balls deep in some hot Scandinavian downhill skier. I skate better coming off sex. I always do.
With the rock-concert lighting and general craziness, it’s hard to tell what’s going on… until I spot her.
She’s in the middle of the dance floor in a tight red bodycon, her dark hair sweeping around her shoulders as she dances, and fuck me can she dance. Her moves are sultry and seductive, making the most of her ample assets. She turns and shimmies, her ass nothing short of a masterpiece with the legs to match. In a word, she is the dictionary definition of perfection.
And wingman or not, I’m not sharing her with anyone.
Before I know it I’ve made my way down onto the dance floor, glancing past a cute Australian redhead and making a beeline for Dream Girl. Another girl goes to step in front of me, start something, but I manage to spin around her and keep on, slowly working my way into the center of the dance floor where Dream Girl is dancing, a wide smile on her face, her eyes closed against the music.
I come in front of her and start to move, but compared to her I may as well be a toy soldier.
She opens her eyes—fiery amber—but doesn’t seem surprised to see me.
“Are you Google?” I ask her, raising my voice to be heard over the music.
She draws closer to me, cupping her ear, a sweet, vanilla scent following. “Sorry?”
I can’t place the accent, but she’s definitely European. “Are you Google?” I repeat. “Because you’re everything I’ve been searching for.”
It takes a second before she gets it, smiling again. “Your dancing is better than your pickup lines, Mr. Google, but both need work, I’d say.”
Definitely European.
I extend my hand. “It’s Liam, actually.”
She takes it, her fingers hot and sweaty. “Viktoriya.”
Her fire-born eyes are fucking killing me. I’m going to have a hard-on so severe soon I’ll take this entire dance floor out. “You’re…?”
“Russian,” she fills, continuing to smile. “And you’re American.”
I lean forward for more of that intoxicating scent. “You’re a skier?”
“Figure-skating,” she replies, which, of course, makes all the sense in the world. “And you’re a hockey player.”
“My fame proceeds me.”
She points to my jacket, reading the label on the front. “U-S-A Ice Hockey Team.”
Good one, hot shot.
I look down. “Right.”
I point behind myself. “Can I get you a drink?”
She takes me by the hips and pulls me against her. “First, we dance.”
And dance we do. I know she can feel my hardness, but she sways and shifts all the same. My hands move to her lower back, to the upper swell of her ass cheeks. She doesn’t protest—only smiles and watches me with those golden eyes, her features drawing me deeper and deeper into oblivion.
That’s precisely where I’m headed, because nothing good can come from sleeping with a Russian figure-skater. Our countries are basically at war. We received strict instructions not to fraternize with any Russian athlete, yet here I am, my hands glued to the ass of what has to be their best asset.
Viktoriya leans over, her lips brushing the shell of my outer ear, my face caught in her hair. “You shouldn’t touch what you can’t have.”
I pull her closer. “I don’t need my hands to make you c—”
Something slams into my side, driving me to the floor. There’s a scream. I duck to miss a flying fist, scuttling back to right myself.
A literal giant has set himself up between Viktoriya and me. He’s wearing a jacket, too—Russian Ice Hockey Team.
“Bogdan!” shouts Viktoriya.
He raises a hand to silence her, watching me. His accent is thick. “You better back off, Yankee Doodle. This one is off limits.”
I straighten myself up. “Says who?”
He notices my jacket. “Ah,” he nods, “I thought you looked familiar. Why don’t you get back on plane, fuck off back to Daddy Trump.”
I’m about to give him a peace of my American fist when I see his teammates coming in from the corner of the club.
An arm starts to tug me away, and another.
It’s Paul. “The fuck, man? We’ve been here five minutes and you’re already trying to pick a fight?”
Viktoriya is speaking to this Bogdan character in rapid-fire Russian, really going at him.
But Bogdan is set on me. “We’ll settle this on the ice, Yankee.”
I try to break free, but the boys hold me firm until we’re outside the club.
Paul’s shaking his head. “Tomorrow we’re in fucking Pyongyang.”
“Pyeongchang,” I correct. “There’s a big-ass difference.”
“Semantics,” he replies. “We’ll be in the fucking countryside with not a drop of alcohol in sight and here you are destroying my one chance at getting wasted before the Games begin, not to mention getting laid.”
He lets go. I pat myself down. “You can’t get laid at the Athlete’s Village?”
He crosses his arms. “You’ve forgotten Sochi, haven’t you? The place was fucking Fort Knox.”
“Yet you still got through most of the women’s slalom field.”
He prods me in the chest. “Your Russian femme fatale in there?”
“What about her?” I sound strangely defensive.
“Don’t do it—for the sake of yourself, the team, and that fire hose you call a dick.”
But all I’m hearing is a challenge.