by Lana Sky
That’s why I woke up. I’m so damn horny that my brain couldn’t cope, instinctively knowing that something is horribly wrong. Because the hand is very real, I realize as I tentatively arch my back and said fingers grope me in response. Not to mention that the owner’s smell is so damn signature that there is no mistaking his identity.
It’s Vadim’s hand.
Crap. I blink my eyes open to the darkened hotel room. Someone drew the courtesy blinds closed after I went to bed. That same person, no doubt, rearranged the pillows and neatly tucked the blankets over us both. My mouth drops open. The bastard had the sheer gall to climb beneath them with me as if we were a normal couple after a normal night of normal sex.
The worst part is how damn beautiful he looks. Watching him deeply asleep should be a crime against humanity. He looks so…vulnerable for once, with his dark lashes fanning his cheekbones and his curls framing his face like a corrupted halo. But that vulnerability lasts up until the moment my gaze falls over his mouth, still fixed in that surly, mistrustful line. Even in his sleep, the man has his wall up.
Get out of here, Tiffy. I tear my gaze away from him and creep into the bathroom. There I take the quickest whore bath imaginable, and then I find my way through the dark to fish out the one outfit I refuse to leave behind—a black, red, and white checkered tweed suit and skirt ensemble with a frothy white blouse to go underneath. For good measure, I find a beautiful black clutch too incredible to risk abandoning. Then I tiptoe toward the door of the suite in a pair of black block heels.
A sigh of relief escapes me once I clear the minefield of clothing boxes. Paces from the door, I eagerly reach out for the handle, and I’m home free.
Until a deep, sexily husky voice rings out, “I’m afraid to inform you that your flight has been canceled.”
I whirl around to find Vadim still in bed, a lazy smirk playing over his lips, visible even in the dark. His eyes practically glow with amusement, and I flick the nearest light switch, robbing him of the mystery of shadow to hide behind. The action backfires—gosh, he looks more mouthwatering in the dim glow cast by one of the bedside lamps. The sight of his bare chest makes me groan—the gleaming, chiseled panes practically demand further exploration. With my fingers. With my mouth.
I shake my head to clear the thoughts, blinking to refocus. “W-Why? I mean, how do you even know that?”
He extends his arms and casually laces his fingers together behind his head, leaning back against the pillows. “Because I took the liberty of canceling it.”
Shock makes me sway, all tension of my potential escape dashed. I feel along the wall until I reach a leather-backed chair and collapse onto it.
“Why?”
“Why?” He inclines his head, an eyebrow raised. “I don’t typically allow people to steal from me.”
I scoff. “You don’t own me.” But he does own this dress. And this purse. And these shoes… Clearing my throat, I rush to add, “And you can bill me for the clothing. I’ll pay it off.”
Internally, I’m screaming. Realistically I could pay it off…if I sold my body for a few years into sexual slavery. Even my trust fund wouldn’t cut it, nor my alimony. Theoretically, I could always ask my parents to cover maybe a teensy, weensy fraction—a few grand at least. But the guilt would eat me alive, so that’s a no.
Sexual slavery it is.
“Money was not the agreed upon price,” Vadim says, his tone scolding. My ass smarts in memory of his “punishment,” and I hate myself. How is it possible for someone to switch from icy cool to sexy dark so easily? “I will take my payment in full,” he adds as if aware of his effect on me.
“Payment,” I grouse. “Dinner with your brother? Are you that afraid of going alone?”
What I intend to sound taunting lands with a thud when he nods.
“Yes,” he says unapologetically. “I am. Maxim and I can rarely occupy the same space without…unpleasantries.”
Minus the one night I accompanied him, and we scored two presents out of it. Sighing, I lean forward and tap my chin as if mulling over the prospect—which I’m not. A week is far too long to stay here, away from home. Far too long to stay within the orbit of such a dangerous man. I’ve already lost my brain around him—twice. No siree can that happen again.
“You’re considering,” he remarks as if reading my mind. “Tell me what will put you over the edge.”
I grit my teeth, still contemplating the idea of running down to the front lobby and begging the concierge to find me any flight leaving within the hour to anywhere but here. If only his voice didn’t make the demand sound so damn tempting.
“I’ll need underwear,” I point out. “I mean, I would, if I were staying—which I’m not.”
He nods. “Fair enough.”
“But not just any underwear… Lingerie. French-style from Atelier Noir. An assortment of course. Bras, panties, and full sets.” Gosh, I can barely keep the excited squeal from my voice. Designer to the rich and famous, the items from Atelier Noir are legendary in both style and price. I once made the mistake of looking up the cost of a bra and panty set I’d admired in a magazine and promptly fell into a weeklong despair at the price.
“Done,” he says. A devious part of me wants to drop an average price point of the garments and watch him squirm—but the longer I observe him, the more I suspect that he already knows the cost and then some. Either way, he’s prepared to pay it.
“You drop obscene amounts of money on your one-night stand, and yet you clam up the second she says anything nice about you.” I raise a skeptical eyebrow, crossing my legs.
“Clothing, money, and even lingerie is a physical exchange,” he explains, sounding like some stuffy professor—not that I had ever gone to one college class to know the difference. “Compliments, on the other hand? Praise? Those are delivered with only one goal in mind. Manipulation.” He’s staring off into space, no doubt glowering at the memory of all the prior women who dared to compliment him.
“So cynical!” I lean forward and eye him with renewed scrutiny. “I’ve changed my mind. You know what will make me stay? You praise me. Something nice and personal—you’ve called me beautiful before,” I add before he can say as much. “But that doesn’t count.”
“Why not?”
I frown, uncomforted by the answer. “Because it’s not a real compliment,” I say. “It’s an assessment. You can call me beautiful, but it doesn’t require any personal engagement on your part. I want you to dig deep, Vadim. For instance…” Licking my lips, I sweep my gaze along him and settle over his waist. “I’ve told you that you have a beautiful cock, that I enjoy it—but have I told you why? It’s so damn good that I think you’ve adopted it as your primary personality. Dick.”
He chuckles, and I inhale at the genuine sound. “Praise. That is all it will take for you to stay?”
“Well, I do need new underwear.” I glance forlornly at the brand-new, priceless skirt I’m already in danger of ruining. Lately, sex has been on my brain more often than not—making up for lost time and all that—but never to this extent. Being around him has me in a perpetual state of arousal, and I hate myself. “But yes. Offer me a real, heartfelt compliment, and I’ll stay. Until Monday. After that, you’re allowing me the use of your private plane to go back to Cali so that you can’t ‘cancel’ any more commercial flights.”
He frowns, looking surlier than ever.
“I can start, if you want?” I say sweetly. “Watch and learn—I love your cock. I love how you fuck when you lose yourself in the moment. I love it when you slap me on the—”
“The things you say.” His frown deepens, his brow furrowing in aggravation. “Am I really to believe that you were a Sunday school teacher?”
“Amen,” I say solemnly. “But whether you believe me or not doesn’t matter to me. I don’t spend my life concerned with the intentions of others like you do.”
Minus, of course, those of the dangerous, enticing billionaire who toys with me lik
e a bored owner tossing his hyper puppy a bone every now and again.
“Now give me what I want,” I prod. “Or I’ll go to the airport right now and find a pilot to screw. That will get me a ride home, I’m sure—”
“Since you’re already dressed, we’ll do breakfast instead of dinner,” Vadim says. He shoves the covers back and stands.
And my brain short-circuits.
Unsurprisingly, he’s still naked, and my eyes feast upon his body when glimpsed in full. His cock is breathtaking, of course, stiff with morning wood—but his ass. Damn, his ass. I nearly groan out loud as he turns around and bends to pick up his discarded clothing from the floor.
“Is that agreement, I wonder?” he asks without turning around.
“H-Huh?” I blink, struck dumb. The man was crafted by the Devil himself. Slender and lean, the one part of him that isn’t solid muscle, is balanced on top of his muscular thighs. Plump and firm, it looks so damn squeezable that I have to clench my hands into fists just to stop from reaching out.
“I asked if you were going to be agreeable and join me for breakfast or if you were going to insist I jump through some kind of hoop first?” he says, turning to face me, his clothing slung over one arm.
Dick.
“Praise me,” I demand, rising to my feet as well. “Or I’m leaving. I mean it—”
“You…” He eyes me as if hunting for something he can find to compliment me on. When the seconds tick by, heat sears my cheeks.
“Well, don’t try too hard,” I snap. “You might give yourself an aneurysm—”
“Your smile is…decent,” he says finally. “Satisfied?”
“Thanks,” I croon, displaying the smile in question. “With a little bit more training, I’ll have you an expert in bedroom talk.”
For his next conquest, of course. Because by then, I’ll be in Cali crawling under another businessman. Or maybe a doctor.
“I need to change.” He strolls to the door, unabashedly bare. “Preferably before you attempt to sneak away, thus committing theft. Though I am sure you are above such devious actions?”
I shiver as he passes me, and it takes everything I have to keep from ogling his ass a second time.
“I’m not,” I admit. “The second you leave, I’m running headlong to the lobby. Try and stop me.”
“Is that so?” He eyes me from over his shoulder, his smirk firmly in place. Casually he dons his shirt and suit jacket and then slips into his pants. The only missing item is his belt, which I think is lost in the bed somewhere. Rather than hunt for it, he enters the hallway, and I follow him, more than ready to attempt my escape.
I expect him to head for the elevator, or maybe the stairs. Anything but across the hall and casually fish a keycard from his pocket. One swipe, and the door opens.
“You rented out the suite next to mine?” I stammer open-mouthed.
He enters the suite, and his voice reaches back to me. “You mean—I rented out two suites adjacent to each other? Then yes. The fact that you manage to occupy one serves only as a testament to your remarkable ability to take from me what you may.”
“Oh, really?” I storm after him, shocked to find a suite every bit as spacious as mine. The only difference is the obsessive, painful level of neatness that I suspect goes far beyond the hotel cleaning services. There isn’t so much as a used napkin lying around, and all of his clothing appears to be neatly unpacked and stored within the walk-in closet. He enters it and proceeds to undress while eyeing his options.
I shimmy past him and gain an up-close look at what essentials a billionaire might think to pack in his travel wardrobe. Lots of black, for one. A multitude of simple, but crisply tailored suits and a boring arrangement of ties. Though professional attire isn’t all that I find dangling from wooden hangers. Tucked at the very back is an array of insultingly plain sweatshirts when compared to the quality of everything else.
“A gym rat?” I suspect out loud. That would certainly explain his remarkably fit shape. Biting my lower lip, I flick through the nearest selection of suits. Tucked amongst all the black is a collection in a deep, rich shade of navy, and I’m too tempted to resist.
“Don’t tell me your style has changed within the space of five seconds,” Vadim murmurs as I strip the suit from the hanger. “I must say that I’m curious as to how a masculine style would look on you.”
I suck in a breath but push the thought out of my mind instantly. Wearing his clothing is way too intimate. “Wear this,” I demand, whirling around to shove the suit at him. “Eww. Not that!” I playfully smack his hand away as he reaches for an ebony selection instead. “This one.”
I hold the jacket up to his chest and instantly regret the selection. “Maybe not.”
Like a shark sensing blood in the water, he snatches the garments from me and tugs them on as I watch, increasingly terrified by the overall effect.
Damn, damn, damn. Blue is so his color—to an alarming degree. It enhances the darkness reflecting in his eyes and brilliantly plays off the paleness of his chin. The only thing that could possibly enhance the look more is…
I scan the space for it, and my eyes fall over a tie organizer hanging on the opposite side of the closet. Sure enough, shoved at the very bottom in an array of muted colors is a navy one made of silk. My fingers shake as I loop it around Vadim’s neck.
“So much better,” I confess. “You’re far too handsome to avoid color.”
“Is that so?” He’s frowning as he adjusts the tie, deftly tying it. “Will you make me buy myself a wardrobe next?”
I flinch at the surly tone, but he presents a tempting possibility. “Maybe,” I say, my voice distant as I picture how he’d look in red. My throat goes dry.
“So…breakfast.” Forging a change in subject, I slip past him and re-enter the bedroom. “Where are you taking me?”
I steel myself for some insanely expensive restaurant or a McDonalds—knowing him, either option is within the realm of possibility, chosen primarily to catch me off guard.
“Downstairs,” he says, surprising me. “I have a standing reservation. It will, however, serve as a business meeting as well.”
As if to demonstrate as much, he crosses to a briefcase placed beside the entrance and lifts it. “After you.”
“Business?”
He doesn’t give me an explanation as I follow him out into the hall. We take the elevator down to the lobby, and within minutes, we’re herded to a beautiful table in the back of an elegant French restaurant.
“Are you French?” I ask him as I claim the seat across from him. I notice that the menu is in French and paired with his display from last night, I think he enjoys flaunting his bilingualism before me.
“My mother was,” he admits, opening his menu to scan the pages. “And it is my preferred culture of the many I grew up immersed in.”
“Military brat?” I say, taking a guess. He certainly has the stone-cold emotional range of someone who grew up with a hard ass, drill sergeant parent.
He looks away, and his gaze turns distant. “No. Not quite.”
“You don’t like to talk about your childhood,” I surmise. “That could be a good thing. Mine was so boringly typical that there isn’t much to talk about.”
“Oh?” Real interest flashes across his features.
“My dad was an investment banker,” I admit. “My mother was a glorified housewife—but damn good at it. My uncle Conroy runs one of the largest vineyards in the country, and I had the typical, milk toast, country club, basic bitch white girl upbringing.”
And there is no shame in that.
“But you were married…” He busies himself with pouring water from a pitcher into two glasses, but I sense that he’s very interested in this topic.
“For seven years,” I say tiredly. “I met him the day after I got drunk at a high school yacht party and flashed my tits to a group of guys who took pictures. Then I fell off the upper deck and sliced open my back. Wine is my Achilles
heel.” More so whenever he is involved. “My parents were scandalized. My Dad was terrified I’d be ostracized, and my mother couldn’t stop crying at the thought of me being labeled a dirty slut. So, I panicked. The very next day, while bandaged and high on painkillers, I joined a bible study class at my private school, and there I met James Andrew Walker. Jim for short. He told me I was pretty, I told him I was born again, and with my newly reformed attitude, no one could judge me for my hellish lapse in judgment. My parents were happy. I was happy, or at least I thought I was…”
“The marriage was unhappy?”
I nod. Then I shake my head. “Not necessarily at first. We dated for a year before then, but… It was like nothing I did made him happy. How I dressed. How I acted. What I did. Didn’t do. I couldn’t conceive on his timeframe—” I don’t go into the details, and luckily he doesn’t ask. He just listens, as watchful as ever. “I couldn’t have sex the way he wanted. Every day spent with him made me feel like some dirty, disgusting, worthless failure. He was prominent in the church, you see, so I always had to be a ‘model wife’ for his congregation. Apparently, I failed, because one day, I came to our beautiful home and found him waiting for me with his beautiful secretary whom he’d been sinning with in secret for a year, I think. This, after we were basically separated already so he could ‘reevaluate things.’ The newer model was pregnant, so divorce city for me. Marital bliss for them.”
Saying it all out loud hurts more than I would have anticipated. My eyes burn, and blinking rapidly can’t keep one rebellious tear from breaking loose.
“After that, I told myself that I would never, ever beat myself down for anyone else. I would never change who I am to please anyone. If I want to run off on a crazy sexual adventure, then damn it, that’s what I’ll do.”
