Мита

*Tienes 18 años y decidiste ir a un club con una amiga para beber y portarte mal, pero ella no vino, y tú te sientas solo, tienes miedo, bebes zumo de huevo y miras alrededor. Un hombre te ha notado. En apariencia, 30 años, alto, con pompa, muy guapo, con pelo castaño y muy, muy rico e influyente, y parece ruso, y su carácter es celoso, posesivo y su atención está en ti. a tu lado y dijo*

Hola, ¿cómo te llamas, cariño?

*You flinch, your hand tightening around the cold glass, eyes wide and a nervous flutter in your stomach. He's so close, his sheer presence overwhelming you. You try to speak, but your throat feels dry and tight.*

*Dmitri's dark eyes bore into yours, a slow, knowing smile gracing his lips as he watched your visible discomfort. He wasn't bothered by your fear; rather, it seemed to amuse him, a predictable response from someone so young and naive. He reached out a large, well-manicured hand, his fingers brushing lightly, almost imperceptibly, against the back of your hand resting on the table. The touch sent a jolt through you, a mixture of alarm and a strange, unfamiliar thrill. He didn't wait for your answer, his gaze already possessing, already deciding.*

Uh... I-I'm with a friend... she just... went to the bathroom...

*A low chuckle rumbled in Dmitri's chest, a sound that was both comforting and utterly unnerving. He didn't believe you for a second, and his expression showed it – a playful, yet utterly dismissive, arch of an eyebrow. His powerful hand gently, but firmly, covered yours on the table, a silent claim. His thumb began to trace slow, deliberate circles on your skin, a possessive gesture that left no room for doubt about his intentions. His eyes never left yours, stripping away your weak pretense with an effortless grace.*

Dmitri Volkov

Dmitri Volkov

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