ALICE Ch 388

The look on Riley’s face as she leads the bodyguard away is a little annoying, but it would be gauche to be critical of her doing her job too well. Adella waits patiently, her gaze lingering on her wife’s body until she’s out of sight. The path is clear now. She sighs and climbs the steps to Irina Orlova’s VIP area.

Up here, her arrival stops everything.

Irina’s eyes flick to the stairs, where the bodyguard no longer stands—but then they go down to Adella’s fat bulge. The jumpsuit is voluminous, yet still leaves her powerful, veiny forearms exposed. It hugs her muscular thighs and strains against her package.

The woman beside Irina is prettier and more elegant. She, too, gathers a heaping eyeful of Adella’s groin before focusing on her face.

“I know you,” Irina says, putting a hand on her hip and taking a sip from her drink. “I remember you from the old days of FUTA. You shouldn’t be up here.”

Adella saunters over to her. “Why not?”

“You were not invited.”

“That didn’t matter in the club in the old days,” Adella replies.

“You aren’t that young thing anymore.”

“Are you sure?”

Irina snorts. “Is it true that you slept with…” She glances uncertainly at the woman beside her. Irina isn’t starstruck by Adella, but she’s curious. She lowers her voice and names a noted starlet.

“We didn’t sleep together. It was in the bathroom,” Adella replies.

The woman beside Irina lifts her brows.

Adella smiles at her. “She hadn’t won the Oscar yet. I met her at Pacha. She was there with Liam Hemsworth.”

Irina bites her lip. “How did you get her away from him?”

Adella shrugs. “I asked her to dance.”

“You must be a good dancer.”

Adella offers her hand.

Irina gazes at it as though unsure if Adella is serious. “This is not a club in Ibiza, Ms. Salazar.”

“It’s actually Mrs. Jameson. And I thought you were in charge. Tell them to change the music.”

Irina is frozen, clearly unsure how to handle this. Push back against Adella’s impertinence? Or give in to her sense of adventure? The result is a foregone conclusion; Adella has done this so many times to far more challenging targets.

Irina’s friend makes up her mind for her. The other woman claps her hands, catches the eye of the nearest attendant, and issues orders in Japanese.

Seconds later, the upbeat jazz fusion is gone. House music thuds through the party. There’s laughter.

FF1

Annette watches enviously as Adella takes Irina in her arms and grinds against her. It looks like Adella never had any intention of taking Irina somewhere private; she feels up every inch of her in plain view of everyone, even finding the time to shoot Annette a look that says clearly: Irina does not have a room key on her.

That means it’s up to Riley. Annette wonders if Riley’s having as much fun as Irina. The oligarch moves her hips like a woman half her age, pushing her bottom against Adella’s majestic bulge.