by Lana Sky
Finished, he sets the phone down and then inclines his head as if I’m the one intruding upon his stolen room. “You were saying?”
I want to be angry. Deviously, spitefully angry. Something about him makes me more reckless instead. So it’s mind games he wants to play?
I shuffle toward him, still on my knees, and then I shamelessly drape myself over him from behind, bringing my mouth near his ear. He stiffens predictably—score one for me—but an answering shiver ripples down my spine, and the score evens out. I love how solid he feels against me. So strong. I can lean all my weight against him, and I have no doubt that he can handle it.
Snap out of it, Tiffy.
“Baby,” I murmur, adopting my ditzy wifey drawl from earlier. “I might consider staying if you tell me all of your deepest, darkest secrets.”
“Like?” he wonders.
I swallow. Ask him something profound and personal? My tongue has a different aim in mind. “Why do you have your penis pierced?”
We both glance down to the center of his slacks. Is that a slight bulge I see? My cheeks heat, and I’m not sure if I enjoy the idea that he may like feeling me against him as much as I do. Or, it could be a trick of the light.
“Why? Control,” he says simply. “To prove that I alone can exert ownership over my body.”
I frown. It’s a surprisingly deep and profound answer. I figure most men in the same position would mention something about wanting better orgasms. Intrigued, I shift around him to straddle his lap, spreading my legs directly over that suspicious bulge. Persistent heat firmly nudges my core, and I flinch in response. Not a trick of the light, after all.
Fighting to stay focused, I rise up just enough so that I can look down on him, and I quirk my lips into my own mischievous smile. “Do you think I should get my clit pierced, baby? I, too, am known for my exemplary self-control.”
A muscle in his jaw twitches even as his dark eyes remain carefully blank. “I don’t think you could handle the pain, baby.”
“Oh?” Bastard. I lower myself hard, relishing in the low grunt that rips from his throat. His hands capture my hips automatically though he doesn’t guide my movements—deliberately, I suspect with an internal giggle. My first aim is to change that. “I can handle anything,” I insist while rocking my hips to tease that bulge further.
Within seconds, however, the tables turn. Needling him becomes less important than feeling him. Moisture dampens my inner thighs and at the back of my mind, I know it’s shameless to tease him, when I could wind up ruining his expensive clothes in the process. But logic melts away like tissue paper against the waves of pleasure just grinding on him inspires. If I shift in the right direction, the friction of his pants scrapes over my clit. It’s brief, fiery bliss. A little wiggle in the other direction, and the sensation is enhanced tenfold.
And I’m not the only one loving this, it seems.
His eyelids flutter, his jaw tightening by the second. A hint of something dangerous flickers across his irises, gone before I even have the sense to fear it. Sense being the operative word.
He feels so damn good. My thoughts dissipate, and what little remain turn to sex. What it would feel like if he fucked me from this position. How his piercing would feel pressing against the innermost parts of me. Each devious thought seems to take control of my hips, making them move faster. Slower.
As if from far away, I register a sudden knock on the door of the suite, followed by Vadim’s surprisingly guttural command, “Come in.”
“H-Huh?” I vaguely register the door opening before a tall man in a suit strolls in, a silver tray balanced on one hand while he holds a bottle of wine in the other. Our unfortunate room service deliverer.
He takes one look at me—straddling Vadim completely naked—and nearly drops both items onto the damn floor. Not to mention that the sea of partially opened Chanel boxes makes the room a hell he’s forced to navigate like some weird, fashion-focused game of twister. Finally, he makes it to the dining table and unloads his burden before he practically hops back to the entrance of the suite.
“Add a grand to the tab for the gratuity,” Vadim says as the man bows and closes the door.
“Mean!” I grind on him mercilessly, desperate to ruin his fancy smanshy pants by way of payback. My traitorous body makes that task ten times easier to accomplish—the tailor-made fabric is already soaked. My brain is in la-la land, and I’m too far gone to stop. I could come like this, I realize happily. I wiggle my hips in the hopes of spurring that inevitability on faster. He might have the last laugh, but at least I’d salvage something from this. Something I suspect will be well worth the hassle. Tempting heat creeps through my belly, spurring me on. I’m so close already…
And right when I’m on the very edge, he grips my hips, wrenching me off of him.
“No!” I claw at his shoulders, trying to find my way back onto his lap.
I’m no match. Utilizing effortless strength, he stands, keeping me at bay with a single grip on my arm. Then he pivots. I land on my back, staring up at him stunned as he rips the belt from his slacks and tosses it aside. My mouth waters when he unfastens his pants next, freeing his cock. It’s more than just a little hard now, pulsing and erect, his piercing gleaming.
I spread my legs, alarmed by how his eyes fixate on me in response. He’s anything but disinterested. Even the thought of having him touch me makes all of my logical brain malfunction. The needy whore takes over.
“Please…” I arch my hips, presenting myself to him. “Please. Please—”
An uncharacteristic grunt rips from him. Tearing off his suit jacket, he mounts the bed and grabs my thigh, yanking me closer. My heart pounds as my ass comes precariously close to slipping off the edge of the bed.
Before I can even fall, he catches me, positioning himself against me. Those dark eyes find mine, flashing and furious. Have I pushed poor Vadim to his limits again?
Good. I writhe, stroking myself up and down his length, feeling him strain even as he grits his teeth. The reigns of his restraint are stretched thin, I suspect. Seconds from snapping entirely.
So I do the good, respectful thing and palm his hips, sinking my nails in.
“Merde!” He bucks, entering me so mindlessly deep that I lose track of everything but the need to drive him deeper. Take more.
I beg for him, slurring each request in increasingly explicit tones that would make me blush in my right mind. “Fuck me. Yes. So deep. Please!”
I come off the mattress, nearly climbing up his body just to enhance every thrust. My moans drip into his ear, my nails grazing whatever parts of him I can reach.
“So good. So good. So good—”
Suddenly, he rears back and feels along the mattress until he finds something long… His belt. I stiffen, alarm battling the lust turning my brain to mush. “W-What are you…”
He takes my hands, bringing them together. Then he wraps the length of the belt around them both and ties it tight, binding me. Restraining me.
And the fact of him robbing me of the ability to even touch him does something weird to my head. I’m boiling. He grates out another foreign curse, rocking his hips as if to stave off his release—but he can’t. He’s thickening inside me, setting off a chain reaction that boils my blood and has me screaming. Never have I ever come so hard in my life. My toes curl, my back arching off the bed, my body rippling around him like a vice.
It goes on and on and on. When I finally come down, I’m murmuring senseless praise that makes him shudder.
“So good. So good. Please more. Please. Please.”
He withdraws from me so violently it hurts. I moan, struck dumb with shock only to find myself shoved onto my stomach as his weight pins me from behind. Again, he slams in, still rock hard.
But this angle…
Everything feels enhanced to the nth degree, and I cry out throatily in pleasure. It’s like he knows me from the inside out. How to create the most toe-curling friction. What spot
s to press. How to move. How to stop, leaving me quaking on the very edge of sanity.
Just when I’m about to tip over, he hisses out something too grated for me to interpret. A curse? His hand falls over my ass, squeezing hard. Then he withdraws and then rapidly brings his palm down, resulting in a stinging slap.
Again.
Again.
“Never,” he snarls in a tone I’ve yet to hear from him. “Never wanted to chastise a woman. But you…” Another smack makes me writhe into the contours of his hand, extending the contact. “You demand to be punished.”
“So punish me,” I blurt. Or at least, I would if I was in control of my brain enough to adequately transfer the command to my mouth. I moan instead, rocking into his next tentative thrust.
I feel like I’m burning alive.
My only salvation is the relief that comes from release, and I slavishly chase it. Eventually, he regains his brutal rhythm, driving me across the mattress with each wrenching thrust. Ultimately my upper body is left leaning over the edge of the bed, and I’m staring dazedly at the floor as he finally groans and his cock thrums against my battered walls.
Somehow, I manage to twist around to watch him, and I promptly rocket to cloud nine all over again. With his head thrown back, throat cording around a groan, he looks so beautiful it hurts. His hooded eyes meet mine, and I’m shocked at what I find swirling within them. Pleasure mixed with hesitant relief.
Like he didn’t think it was possible to feel this good.
This free.
Like sex—despite his obvious prowess—is a novel experience to him, he’s only recently discovered.
In this brief second, he looks at me like he’s never come this hard or for this long…
For anyone.
And I know as a logical part of me reforms and urges a warning that I need to get my ass back to California. As soon as possible.
He is the most dangerous man I’ve ever met—and I’m enjoying that way too much.
Chapter Twelve
“I love this wine!” I brandish my third glass at Vadim and open my mouth for the forkful of pasta he amusedly shoves into it. “And I love this food,” I murmur in ecstasy, my eyes threatening to roll.
We’re in bed again. Together. A bad idea, but I’m drunk, so who cares?
He’s naked, lying beside me with a plate of lukewarm pasta between us, and a bottle of the amazing wine propped up on a pillow nearby. I wiggle my sore limbs, stretching as I watch him sample his own much smaller bite of pasta.
“You have such a beautiful mouth,” I gush mournfully. “What a shame you won’t get to use it on me before I leave.”
I’m surprisingly devastated by the idea. To drown my sorrows, I sip more of my wine and distract myself with the contours of his abs instead.
“You’re perfect,” I tell him, brushing my fingers along his right pec. “It’s unfair you’re so beautiful.”
His eyes cloud over, stormy and distant. “And you are still so affectionate after a glass or two of wine,” he remarks, his annoyance palpable.
“Why do you hate when I praise you?” I drain the rest of my glass and set it aside. Then I prop my chin on my fist and observe him critically. “Every time I say anything nice about you, you get so surly and mean.”
“What is praise, and what is…leverage?” he counters.
“Ah, I get it.” I roll my eyes knowingly. “The big bad rich, handsome billionaire has become so jaded to compliments and the schmoozing of others. He can no longer trust who truly wants him or his money. Am I correct?”
He nods in capitulation. “Though it is not always money.”
“Hmm.” I stroke my chin, mulling over the sheer depths of his paranoia. To live as such with a body like his. It must be hell. “I can’t speak for anyone else, but typically when a woman climaxes on your cock while screaming about how good you feel, she most likely means it.”
It’s the wine making me so tactless. But why stop now? I fumble for the bottle and add pointedly, “Since I’m never going to see you again after tomorrow, allow me to get it all out now. I love how you look. So sexy but so understated, requiring a second glance to register the full effect. And—” I try to pour myself a fresh glass and wind up spilling more wine onto myself than anything. Sighing, he’s forced to assist me, manipulating the bottle with his much steadier touch. In triumph, I take another sip and settle against a mound of displaced pillows. “I love your mouth. I love your eyes, especially—I never know what you’re thinking. I love when you spank me…” I trail off as I notice him staring far more intently than before. “And, I love your voice. I really love your cock. It’s perfection. And I love your piercing—”
“Enough to copy me?” he wonders, swiping his finger along my belly.
I reflexively clamp my knees together at first. Then, emboldened by another sip of wine, I spread them, revealing every inch of the flesh in question. At the back of my mind, I marvel at how comfortable I feel in front of him. I panic at it. I felt dirty in anything less than a conservative negligee around Jim. He made me feel as if his lust was my sin. But Vadim?
He makes lust feel as heady as alcohol, mine alone to enjoy. To get drunk on.
And it feels so good to get drunk.
“You would pierce this?” he wonders, eyeing my anatomy skeptically.
“I would,” I boast. “For a price.”
He frowns, unimpressed. “You would mutilate yourself just to please another?”
“Oh, I’ve been curious about it,” I admit with a shrug. “I’ve heard it can make you orgasm like that—” I snap my fingers for emphasis. “But I’m so horny that I could make myself come while thinking about a wet paper bag. But you? I have a hunch that you would love to see me pierced.”
Not that he ever would because I’m leaving in the morning. He knows I’m going. Even as his eyes take on a thoughtful, dangerous gleam, he knows it…
“I’d let you have a say in every part of it,” I add, casually sipping more wine while playing with fire. “The size. Placement. I’d even let you pick the metal—”
“Silver,” he says absently. “Of the highest quality. And you seem perfectly suited for a VCH.”
“Oh?” I lift an eyebrow and run my tongue along the rim of my glass. So much for his aversion to kink. He sounds fairly knowledgeable in this arena all of a sudden—too knowledgeable. A part of me can’t help wondering if clitoral piercings is a subject he regularly tackles with his one-night stands. Or just me. For instance, if he only started researching the topic not long after our very first meeting when I drunkenly expressed interest in it? A dangerous thought that requires another tasting of wine to wash it down.
“What’s a VCH?” I ask, turning to a much less risky topic.
“A vertical clitoral hood piercing,” he says, his gaze flashing and devious once more. “It’s well known for increasing stimulation during sex.”
I suck in a breath, intrigued. But then I remember the caveat making this entire conversation moot. “What a shame that I’m leaving tomorrow—” In six hours, to be exact, judging from the flashing numbers on the console by the TV. “If only you were nicer to me. We could have had so much fun.” In very real disappointment, I down the rest of my glass in one go.
“Hypothetically speaking, what would your price be?”
“Hmm.” I cast him an appraising glance, though I already know my answer. I’ve been thinking of it obsessively ever since the first damn time he slapped my ass. Even now, I’m growing wet at the prospect of it and just how much I’ll be denied when it comes to him and sex. Therefore, I have no guilt in blurting out the truth. “My price? That would be you, Mr. Vadim. I’d want you to—”
Both of his eyebrows go up in shock as I proceed to lay out a detailed list of all of my fantasies when it comes to kink. All. Of. Them. Bondage. Being pilloried. Much more “chastisement.” I mention the one time I briefly considered nipple clamping but chickened out. Orgies. Exhibition. Being blindfolded and gag
ged. And then a whole list of items so X-rated I immediately block them from my memory the second I utter them.
By the time I finish, Vadim actually looks shocked. Not merely amused. Shook.
Score two for Tiffy. Utterly pleased with myself, I lean back further against the cushions supporting me, displaying the breasts that I just admitted I’d wanted clamped, teased, and tormented.
“We would have to wait to do the really fun stuff until after the piercing healed, of course,” I add, taking this ball and running far with it. “That could take… I don’t know—”
“Four to eight weeks,” he supplies. “About the same length of time it would take to special order the apparatuses you so cleverly described. Even if I paid the rush fee.”
Again, he sounds far too knowledgeable on the subject. Even I know when to back down at the last minute.
“Yes, well, it will never happen.” I lean over to place my glass and plate on the nightstand. Then I proceed to shimmy beneath the luxurious blankets. With my back to him, I yawn for real and make a show of closing my eyes. “Nighty night. See you again, never. Try not to make too much noise on your way out. I’m a very—”
“Light sleeper,” he finishes, but I can’t escape the sense that it sounds more mocking than insightful. Like he knows some delicious secret I don’t regarding my sleep.
Back off, Tiffy.
“Night!” I slam a blanket over my head and settle down in earnest. Before I drift off, I send up a prayer that I’ll wake up in time to catch my flight. Amen.
And that once I land in California, I’ll magically forget all about Vadim and his kink.
Amen, amen.
A girl can dream.
Chapter Thirteen
I wake up with roughly two hours to get dressed and hustle to the airport—which is the good news. The bad news is that I wake up so content that I think I’m in a dream at first. A dream so sensual and relaxing that it couldn’t possibly be real. It stars my naked body and someone’s hand on my ass. A hand composed of slim fingers that involuntarily stroke me every now and again as if its owner can’t keep his hands off me even in his sleep.
