by Lana Sky
Vadim takes those mild expectations and crushes them.
“Beautiful?” Something in his tone makes me glance away with difficulty from his hips to his face. A fleeting expression shapes his features, resembling anger more than appreciation. He purses his lips a heartbeat later as if to disguise the reaction. “I’d love for you to explain, pretty girl.”
My brain spins at the heated way he says that nickname. His voice drops to a lower octave, enhancing the mysterious notes of his accent. It. Is. Beyond. Sexy.
My eyelids flutter as I settle onto my knees and approach him with a single outstretched finger. When he doesn’t recoil, I brush the uppermost edge of the thatch of dark curls shielding the main prize like some glorious curtain.
“It’s so long,” I say huskily, surprised that my voice actually sounds sexy this time. Not faked. “And…perfect,” I add, inching a fraction lower. “And pierced.”
A metal barbell goes right through the crown, topped on either end by a round bead just large enough to seem more tempting than intimidating. It’s so deliciously sinful. So kinky.
I almost can’t handle it.
“A modified Prince Albert,” he explains in response to my unanswered question. “And no, it won’t hurt you. That seems to be commonly asked in this situation.”
By pansy fools, I decide. My only driving thought is curiosity as to how he’ll feel inside me. “I’ve thought about getting pierced before,” I tell him absently—a secret I’ve never spilled to anyone. Ever. “It’s so pretty.”
This is the extent of my vocabulary at this moment. Because all I really want to do is taste him. Part my lips around him. See how deep down I can let him go. Things I have never thought about a bodily appendage before—not even Jim’s.
My eyelids get heavy, and I lick my lower lip, mulling over an angle of attack.
“I wonder what you taste like,” I whisper, and I swear I see him jerk, a web of veins becoming more pronounced throughout his length. The reaction sends up a ping of alarm—does he not want me to suck him off?
“Up.” He crooks a finger beneath my nose, startling me with the authority in his voice. My gaze darts to him, and I nearly sigh in relief when I catch that slow, lazy grin shaping his mouth. Not anger this time. “I’ve shown you mine,” he explains. “Now you show me yours.”
“Oh!” My brain switches gears, happily turning to something that might excite me almost as much as fellating him. Exhibiting myself for him. I lurch to my feet so quickly that I trip, and he has to grip my waist to steady me.
“Easy does it.” His voice… It’s so pretty when heard up close. His baritone inspires shivers that dance down my spine and shimmy in my belly. So very nice. I lean against him, straining on tiptoe to bring my nose near the crook of his shoulder. He stiffens again, but lets me inhale a whiff of him.
And it’s like someone lights a match right between my legs. A noise rips from me I’ve never heard myself make before, and I wiggle free from him just enough to tug at the skirt of my dress.
“Allow me.” He spins me around and finds the zipper nestled within my freshly blown-out hair. One tug and the fabric gives enough for me to scramble from it. I barely get my arm free of a single spaghetti-strap sleeve when a sudden tension on my hair makes me stiffen, my lips parting, spine arched. He’s grabbed a handful, it seems, using his grasp to control my movements.
Like some sexy sort of leash.
“Stop,” he commands in a voice so rasping my bones quiver as if made of jelly. “Allow me.”
With effort, I force my hands to my side, painfully aware of his presence. My lungs ache, infected by his heady scent. His fingers are so, so soft, tracing a path from my shoulder, down the center of my back to find the zipper again.
“You have beautiful skin,” he praises, sounding surprised by the fact. But his fingers brush a raised scar along my lower back, and I’m the one cringing from him this time.
“Beautiful? I’ve just had amazing surgeons,” I insist. “It’s from a boating accident and was nowhere near as painful as it looks.”
But that’s a dangerous topic, far too serious for my brain to comprehend.
“I have even better tits,” I tell him, jutting my chest. “Not surgically enhanced, mind you.”
He chuckles, and I relax into him again. Taking the hint, he slips his fingers beneath the fabric of my dress, discovering the secret that I’m not wearing a bra underneath. Or underwear.
A devious idea sneaks into my brain, and I’m too reckless to resist. As my dress falls low enough to expose the top of my butt, I inch into him just a fraction. Enough to catch his startled grunt.
“Again, I’m waffling on whether or not you truly are an escort,” he grates. Gosh, I love the sound of his voice. It’s like music. Sexy, disorienting music so unique it transcends any genre. “It seems you’ve come more than prepared.”
“I’m just super horny,” I confess, my breaths quickening. Something about him inspires honesty from me I’d never explore around anyone else. “Super super horny.”
The sexy voice is back, practically vibrating from my throat. His slow-moving fingers finally reach my belly, and I can no longer be patient.
“I’d love for you to touch me,” I whisper, grinding on him more. The pathetic amount of friction is like gasoline to my sex-starved brain. I want more. More more more.
“And yet another strike in the ‘not an escort’ column,” he muses. “You, pretty girl, are far too disobedient.”
“Disobedient.” I toy with the word between my tongue and giggle at how silly it sounds—considering that the opposite term had been my sole defining attribute for the better part of the past decade. The good obedient housewife. Good, obedient Tiffy. Subservient, oh so likable and so depressed, she contemplated suicide at least once per week—screw obedience.
“I’ve upset you.” Vadim snatches on my hips, turning me to face him. His dark eyes skim over me, but a part of me buzzes faintly in alarm. His expression doesn’t match the concern in his voice one damn bit. He looks too…excited. Like discovering my ticks is a fun, thrilling game.
So I rake my fingers down the front of his chest and lower my gaze to his cock. It’s slightly more erect, thicker than before, those veins even more pronounced. He’s aroused by this. Giddy triumph surges straight to my brain. I’d clap my hands if they weren’t too busy relishing the feel of him. So sturdy. So very solid.
“I want you to finger me, please,” I tell him, barely able to keep my eyes open. “Pretty please. I’ve been dying for it.”
Another low, amused chuckle. I’m entertaining him. But a part of me loves the thrill of being on display—no cares given.
“Touch me,” I beg, taking it a step further. “I bet your fingers feel amazing.”
“Show me how, pretty girl.” He shoves me back, and I have no chance in hell of preventing the fall. Luckily, I land on something soft that conforms to my shape—a leather couch. With enviable grace, Vadim steps forward, forcing my legs to part to give him room. With him looming above me, I feel smaller than ever. Something delicate at his mercy. Or disposal.
“Show me,” he repeats, grabbing my wrist.
I gasp as he guides my hand between my legs and my thighs part on command. Years of both secret and more recently, regular masturbation have made me an expert at it. With the right mood and setting, I can get myself off in no time flat. In some ways, it’s become a chore. Flick, flick. Twist, twist. Boom, there goes Tiffy.
But this…
Having a beautiful man’s dark, beautiful eyes track my every move is an experience unto itself. Already soaked, my folds part easily with one brush of my forefinger. But the sensation—it’s lightning. My head rears back as my teeth skewer my lower lip, trapping a moan inside.
A new record. No amount of porno or dirty reading material has ever gotten me this close, this fast. My fingers still, and I’m almost terrified to move. How pathetic would it be to get myself off so quickly?
&nbs
p; But if anything, Vadim doesn’t look disappointed. His eyes gleam as I part my legs and risk slipping one finger inside me. My body convulses as nerves explode despite my attempts to stave off the pleasure. But I fight the spasms just to watch him.
Holy hell. No man should be able to look like this. Aloof, and yet at the same time ravenous. Like a vulture who knows that the antelope writhing in agony before him is almost ready to feast upon. Almost.
He just needs to let it die first.
“Please touch me.” I’m whining as I inch my finger deeper inside me while stroking my clit with my thumb. Usually, it takes a few good strokes to get me going. Now? “Oh gosh—”
Vadim moves with a calculated focus. One of his hands grabs my thigh, wrenching it higher as he palms his cock with the other. It’s a sight unlike any other—his piercing glows, electric amid the swollen crown. No porno could ever compare to this, watching him angle himself against me.
My eyes roll as he slams forward, thrusting inside me with no preamble.
And I nearly come off the couch. He’s so big. One thrust takes him deep, so deep. I cry out as my body grips him so hard I swear I can feel the outline of each one of those pulsating veins—every curve of his piercing.
And it feels beyond good.
My brain boils more with every thrust. Any semblance of coherence my thoughts possessed dissolves. I claw at him, nails drawn, urging him deeper, harder—to give me everything.
But when glimpsed through my heavy eyelids, he looks more determined than ever. Like a doctor carefully doling out an allotment of medicine. Just enough to do the trick.
But never enough to overload.
Never enough to lose control.
I’m aware of it—the boundary he maintains even as I tremble around him, gasping for breath. How he grips the back of the couch as if to maintain the same, consistent rhythm as he thickens inside me, demanding more…
That he denies himself of claiming.
And when he growls through his own release, he doesn’t throw his head back in triumph. Instead, he grits his teeth, cutting off the noise. Closes his eyes, cutting me off.
“N-No!” I arch into him, letting my body grip him so ravenously we both cry out. “I want to see you. Please…”
His eyes reopen, but they’re dark. Detached. Disconnected.
He withdraws abruptly, letting me slump against the couch. A lazy smile shapes his lips before panic can even set in fully—but it persists, nonetheless. This horrible sense that I’ve done something wrong. Offended him somehow.
Or that for him, real no-holds-barred pleasure was never part of the deal. As if reading my mind, he steps forward, his gaze softer. But his frown persists, ruining the façade he puts up. I’m five seconds from salvaging my pride and leaving altogether when he cups my jaw, tilting my head back to easily meet his gaze.
“Beautiful,” he says, his voice deep.
And I let my brain turn off, ignoring those tiny warning signs urging me to run.
Chapter Four
Somehow, we wind up on the floor with me on top of him, his hands on my waist. I marvel at the beauty of his body, feeling up whatever parts of him I can reach. Even his scar. Despite its jagged appearance, the skin feels surprisingly soft to the touch—like silk.
“You’re so pretty,” I tell him, barely able to feel my tongue.
He found another bottle of wine from somewhere, and it tastes even better than what they served downstairs. Dangerously sweet, enough that I’m already on my second glass.
You’re a mess, Tiffy, a part of me scolds. But being a mess is surprisingly fun. Alcohol enhances every sensation to the nth degree. I giggle, relishing the tingling, tightening feel as my body recovers. But Vadim is watching me, eerily alert. Again, I can’t shake this tiny voice warning me that he’s almost too alert. I don’t remember seeing him drink though he lazily pours more into my glass without bothering to sit up.
Whatever. I’ll worry about that later.
“Tell me something,” I slur to distract from the feeling. “Something you’ve never told anyone ever.” When his brows furrow skeptically, I stroke my finger along his chin and add, “I can assure you that there is a fifty percent chance I won’t remember any of this by tomorrow.”
Another dizzying chuckle escapes him. Gosh, he could drug someone on his voice alone. “Only fifty? I hate to break it to you, Tiffany, but you are thoroughly sloshed.”
I concede to that assumption with a nod. “Yeah. Which makes show and tell even funner!”
“Why don’t you start?” he suggests. Extending his finger, he tucks a stray curl behind my ear, lingering near the lobe.
“Okay…” I suck in a breath and exhale it in an involuntary giggle that ruins the gravity of this moment. Here goes nothing. “I did scope you out on purpose,” I confess. “I’m not a prostitute—but I do want something from you.”
His eyes practically glow, smug. As if he knew as much all along. “Money?” he guesses. “Clout? Protection from an abusive spouse that has you on the run?”
I snicker and raise my hand to tick off each debunked assumption one by one. “First, the abusive spouse is long since divorced. Second, I have all the money I need. And clout—” I burst into cackling laughter and lose track of which finger I was on. “What does that even mean?”
“Power,” he says seriously. “Men in my position possess plenty of power. Some seek to manipulate it for themselves.”
“Hmm.” I hum, brushing my lips along his throat. His scar is surprisingly the softest part of him, and I linger over the contours of it, daring to sneak a taste with a flick of my tongue. “I love how power sounds when you say it. Your voice is so sexy—”
“You are overly affectionate when you’re drunk.” I frown at the obvious distaste in his voice, but when I scan his expression, I don’t find anything but a humored smirk. He’s so good at hiding himself.
I should be worried about that, I think.
Or I can take another sip of wine. Smacking my lips, I set my glass down and nearly knock it over.
“I am drunk,” I confess, sadly. “The cat is out of the bag. Such a poor little pussy. It hasn’t been out in ages—”
“So, what was it you wanted from me?”
I shiver, easily distracted. His breath even smells nice, deliciously warm, tinged with whiskey. “I was hoping you were part of a sex club,” I confess against his chest. “Like, the really debauched, really exclusive kind with pillories and such. Super taboo, kinky sex. The kind only rich people can have in utter confidentiality.”
Something weird happens. His face… It’s like he knew exactly what I would say down to the last period. But then drunk Tiffy mixed-up the script, catching him off guard. Even worse, irritating him. My stomach drops to the floor, and I rush to clean-up my own mess.
“I’m sorry—”
“You think you can survive in such a club?” he wonders in a tone that chills me, all ounce of humor gone.
“Maybe,” I say quickly. “But I’ve survived seven years of boring, milk toast sex and utter misery, so I’m ready for a challenge. Joining a place like that is on my list,” I add with solemn seriousness.
“List?” He raises an eyebrow, still so tense. Edgy.
Sighing, I try to find the right words to explain. “My ‘no one owns me, fuck all list.’ It has five items—”
“Just five?” he counters, and I snicker. Is that amusement I detect?
Raising my hand, I start to tick them off. “Yes. Dress how I want. Fuck how I want. Live how I want. Eat what I want. And no relationships.”
That last one is a new addition, but he relaxes beneath me. For whatever reason, I think I’ve given him the right answer. To what question? He’s so mysterious—I wonder if I’ll ever know.
“But I feel bad for profiling you,” I add, tapping his nipple. Mentally, I try to stop myself from using the word “beautiful” to describe the dusky peak. But it is. Gosh, he’s like some alternate version of Adoni
s come to life. “I now think you’re very straight-laced,” I say, treating the term as a compliment. “I don’t think you belong to a kinky, Godless sex club—”
“Oh, but I do.” His upper lip quirks into one of those quick, devious grins. “One of the most debauched in the country, in fact. Though I will admit that I’ve let my membership lapse.”
“R-Really?” My eyes go bug wide, and I scramble into a sitting position, straddling his slender hips. “Do they do orgies?” I wonder, practically squealing with excitement. “Do they do bondage? BDSM? Exhibition? Gang bangs?”
Kid, meet candy store. If I somehow manage to remember this in the morning, I’ll never stop speculating.
“I don’t know the menu offhand,” he admits. “But you never asked me what my confession might be?”
“Oh, yes!” I extend my fist toward him as a makeshift microphone. “Mr. Vadim Gorgoshev, what secrets are you hiding?”
“I’m not on my way to a business meeting,” he says. That’s right—he did mention leaving for a flight soon.
I flutter my eyelashes. “So, where are you going?”
“My brother is throwing a party.” His tone makes it sound about as appealing as an execution mixed with a root canal.
“I take it you two don’t get along?”
His lips twitch into a sly grin. “One could say that.”
“So why go?”
He seems to be pondering that exact question. Whatever answer he decides on, he doesn’t say out loud.
“Well, at least you got to have some fun before you leave.” I shift, shamelessly rubbing my nipples against his chest, loving the sensation that sparks in response.
“Fun?” He raises an eyebrow. “You aren’t going to stroke my ego and tell me it was the most mind-blowing fucking you’ve ever experienced? All in the hopes of weaseling an invitation to the club out of me, of course.”
“It was definitely the best I’ve ever been fucked.” My wistful tone could convince even a blind man that I’m not lying. “But… You held back.” I make my finger dance down his abdomen, able to sense the subtle tensing of his body. He maintains that invisible wall between us, even as we lie drunk on the floor, utterly naked. “It’s fine, though. I’m sure you have some kind of control freak mental hang-up that makes it hard to let loose. I get it. God knows I do. It’s probably for the best.”
