Control: XXX Vadim Book 1 (Club XXX 4)

by Lana Sky

  A sly smile tugs on my mouth. I feel like some concubine at the mercy of her captor—and I abuse his attention to the fullest. Closing my eyes, I toss my head into the spray and shamelessly stroke myself with a washcloth. Up and down. Between my legs. I pay special attention to my breasts and the curve of my ass, turning around as I do so that my back faces my audience.

  Even above the relentless roar of the water, I still hear his groan.

  When I finally finish, however, and step from the shower, he’s gone. I have to pad across the room and grab my own towel from a silver rack. Before any real disappointment can set in, he reappears, a strip of fabric slung across his arm.

  “I can’t risk you spending hours to dress yourself today,” he says by way of explanation. He unfurls the fabric, revealing one of my new dresses.

  “Do you think green is my color?” I ask, eyeing the selection skeptically. It’s an eye-catching A-line day dress with a modest neckline and black buttons rimmed in gold going down the front. I may have picked it out to wear on my own, but the color is suspiciously close to that of the lingerie I wore last night.

  Sporting a smirk, I drop my towel and pull the dress on. Ever the smart ass, he also supplied me with a pair of lace panties it seems—but no bra.

  “How scandalous, Mr. Gorgoshev,” I scold as I prance past him into the bedroom, and my nipples promptly harden at the shift in temperature.

  I can’t help feeling like the joke is on me, though, as he follows behind and swears under his breath. “Merde.”

  Apparently, this dress hugs my ass in a way he appreciates.

  Tit for tat.

  Downstairs, he fishes a pitcher of orange juice from the fridge and proceeds to pour two glasses. On the counter, someone already laid out a cold spread of delicate glass bottles of jam, a bowl of fresh fruit, and a basket containing an assortment of bread from croissants to a baguette.

  “Did you leave these out all night?” I wonder, shooting him a curious glance.

  “No,” he says while handing me a glass of juice. “Ena did. He doubles as both my security and my chef when the urge strikes him. He makes himself scarce, and I specifically requested he stay out of sight to avoid startling you. The presence of security can sometimes make those around me uneasy.”

  “Ah.” Given how much money he likes to throw around, a highly trained security team makes sense. Is it creepy that some stranger had access to the property without me knowing? A little. “I’m guessing that Ena was responsible for delivering my Chanel the other day?”

  He nods and picks through the breadbasket, settling on a piece of the baguette. “As I mentioned, I told him to make himself scarce, but sometimes he gets persistent when he believes I’m not eating enough.”

  “Because of your diabetes,” I deduce softly. Reaching out, I playfully tug on his sleeve, surprised when his mouth twitches into a fleeting smile. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those workaholic men who recklessly disregard their health in their pursuit of the almighty dollar.”

  “Not quite.” He trails his fingers across the lid of a light-yellow jam as if mulling over whether or not to divulge more about himself than he already has. “Sometimes, I may go days without eating if I am not reminded. It’s not a conscious choice, mind you.”

  “Oh?” I watch him, my throat thickening. Could he suffer from an eating disorder?

  “When I was a child… Meals did not come regularly.” He deftly opens the jam bottle and slathers a healthy amount onto his bread slice. “I learned to suppress my hunger to escape the torment. And with insulin in short supply, doing so probably saved my life in the long run. Even in my adulthood, I’ve found that it’s been difficult for me to revert from that mindset.”

  Building horror tempers my curiosity to ask him more. I don’t like how he looks whenever he recalls his past. He isn’t reminiscing over wonderful Christmases and holidays spent on his uncle’s vineyard, that’s for sure.

  Guilt stings as I regret ever needling him at all. To lighten the mood, I snatch a croissant and proceed to shove half of it into my mouth.

  He eyes me quizzically, his upper lip quirking, and boom. He’s distracted.

  “Try not to choke,” he warns, dabbing at the corner of my mouth with a crisp white napkin. “I may have use for this throat yet.” He grazes the quivering column with his thumb, and my brain threatens to go offline again.

  “The things you say,” I scold once I manage to swallow.

  He laughs and gathers up the assorted breakfast items, carrying them to the glass dining table. The mysterious Ena must have been the one to set the table for two, as well as put a neat stack of newspapers near the place setting Vadim claims for himself.

  “Is this how you impress your other women?” I taunt as he lifts the topmost paper from the stack and proceeds to flip through it. “Proving yourself to be a worldly and knowledgeable businessman?”

  He doesn’t look up from his task, but his mouth quirks. Another smile? “I prefer to brush up on the current events every morning. It is my routine.”

  “Ah.” I stuff my face with another bite of bread and settle in to watch him. He skims through the major sections of the paper, paying attention to the world news and politics before heading to the business section. As he reads, his expression shifts from thoughtful, to concerned, to neutral again. When he finally thrums through the last stack, he looks up as if surprised to find me still here.

  “You aren’t bored?”

  “No,” I admit truthfully. It shouldn’t be this damn enthralling just ogling someone as they go about their simple routine.

  His smirk returns, and he downs the rest of his orange juice before standing.

  We cut through the back of the house, passing through a doorway that opens into a spacious garage containing three vehicles in varying degrees of flashy. The most conservative is a black van. Then a gray compact car, and then finally the cherry red sports car he drove to his brother’s house. In some ways, they remind me of three distinct personalities. The surly, mysterious Vadim, the cold Vadim, and the warm, slightly unpredictable daredevil who spanks women in one moment and manipulates them the next.

  “After you.” He ushers me into the passenger’s seat, and within minutes we’re heading toward the city.

  Our first destination is a tall, sleek office building in the heart of a mass of skyscrapers clawing at the sky. A simple logo adorns the front façade—three emerald-colored circles interlinked beside a crisp font read Eingel Health Industries.

  “Is this your company?” I ask as he parks in a reserved space at the heart of a parking garage at the base of the building.

  “One of them,” he says. “I no longer have a role in the day-to-day operations, but my share of the stock allows me to utilize an office in the American headquarters whenever I’m in town.”

  “A hotel room in California. An office here in Fair Haven. It seems as though you bounce from city to city, Vadim.” Though the woman from his meeting yesterday did mention that he only recently bought his house.

  “I’ve yet to find anything worth keeping me in one place for too long,” he admits while we enter a polished lobby and take an elevator to the top floor. As if in afterthought, he adds, “Anything that requires me, anyway.”

  And yet, all of a sudden, it seems, he’s gotten the urge to buy a fake wife and purchase a sprawling mansion near his estranged brother? I contemplate asking him as much, but I can almost see the invisible bricks of his wall threatening to fall into place the second I push him too far.

  So I bite my tongue and follow him down what appears to be an executive suite guarded by a single secretary seated behind a desk. She eyes Vadim and then does a swift doubletake, nearly falling off of her chair.

  “M-Mr. Gorgoshev! We weren’t expecting you. It’s been so long since your last visit—”

  “Over a year, I think,” Vadim says with a charming grin. Jealousy prickles through my belly, though when I scan his expression, it’s the neutral d
etachedness I’ve come to expect from him.

  “Yes, a year,” the secretary says solemnly. “Your office is just as you left it. I’ll have fresh coffee sent in immediately.”

  “For two,” Vadim adds before taking my hand. I warily follow him past the secretary and into a spacious office that looks fit for a CEO—not a “casual investor” who hasn’t bothered to visit this place in over a year.

  “Were you on an extended vacation?” I ask him playfully as he claims a leather armchair placed before a polished wooden desk while I collapse into a matching seat before him.

  “Something like that.” He looks away. Thunk. Before I know it, the wall has come down between us. I’m surprisingly stung—more than I should be. Cracking him takes so much effort. I’m not used to being the aggressive party in any relationship.

  Not that this is a relationship.

  Still. I can’t resist testing one of his invisible bricks for any hint of weakness.

  “How long were you in Cali for?”

  He frowns, stroking his chin. “A month? Two months? The days tend to blur together. I was here not too long ago, but that trip was not for business.”

  Ah. I nod. “So, what made you want to come back now?”

  Especially after a year of absence.

  His smile turns cold. “One could say…complications within my family. But I’m here for good. At least if…”

  “If?” I prod, leaning forward. We’re in a tug of war, I sense—fighting over the position of one of his bricks. I’m pushing hard, but he’s fighting just as relentlessly to keep it in place. With a sigh, he sits back, and something gives.

  I win this round.

  “There is something I want,” he says carefully—deliberately vague, but it’s a start, so I bite my tongue. After a few tense seconds, he rewards me by speaking some more. “Something I want enough to fight for, even if it means staying in this God-forsaken place. I won’t let anyone stop me. This time, Maxim won’t drive me off.”

  A stupid, careless part of me wants to suspect that he means a relationship. A relationship he might have spontaneously discovered with a certain redhead. But that’s not it. His expression radiates emotion for once—a raw, feral energy that makes me shudder. Whatever his goal is, it requires him to fake a wife and risk living within his brother’s volatile orbit to attain it.

  And maybe I’m a teensy bit jealous.

  “Can I have a hint?” I ask sweetly.

  He blinks and looks up as if remembering I’m even here. Then he casually tugs open a drawer on his end and fishes out a silver pen. “I need to work.”

  His tasks this time stretch well into the early afternoon. Again, I think I should be bored, forced to watch him, left with no other entertainment. But damn, even watching this man pour over reports and make phone calls is riveting. It’s almost like observing a ballet dancer gracefully in his element—a master at work.

  Eventually, he puts his papers away and seems to take pity on me because he stands and extends his hand to help me to my feet as well.

  “Lunch,” he explains, leading me out into the hall. I expect him to take me back to the car, but instead, he turns into a large boardroom set with a spread fit for a king. “I took the liberty of having a few things delivered,” he explains while guiding me to a seat near the head of the table while he takes the one across from me.

  “I think I recognize that brand of wine,” I say cynically, eyeing the infamous bottle of vintage that had been my kryptonite back at the hotel suite. “Are you trying to ply me, Mr. Vadim?”

  “Yes.” He sits back further, threading his fingers together. A part of me quivers, recognizing that I’m on an unfair playing field. This room, this location is an arena best suited to give him the advantage.

  So, like any sore loser, I play dirty. I yawn as if bored and reach up to flick open the topmost button of my dress. Then another. Another. The barest tease of cleavage is enough to dampen his smug grin to acceptable levels. All is fair in war, after all.

  “There is something I want to discuss,” he says, cutting to the chase.

  “Yes?”

  “You teased me about being pierced before,” he begins, laying one of the most dangerous topics on the table. “Were you serious?”

  “Yes,” I blurt automatically. A sexy piercing would be the introduction to the kink I’ve been fantasizing about. My relationship with him aside, why should I let a harmless fling stop me? Especially if he’s planning on paying for it.

  “But,” I add, still eyeing the table. “I want to renegotiate my previous price—”

  “Anything.” The heat in his voice draws my attention, and I sorely regret facing him directly. I got my wish. His wall came down, but I’m no match for what I find lurking beneath it. Dark eyes heavy-lidded and focused, a jaw clenched to brooding perfection and pink lips slightly moistened by a slithering tongue. There’s no way to describe the reaction other than raw, naked lust.

  “You really want me to do this,” I whisper hoarsely. Should I be horrified? I’m not. I’m freaking thrilled. My mind skips ahead, imagining him, teasing some delicate silver piercing with his teeth. Even the thought makes synapses in my brain explode and fire at random.

  “Yes,” he confesses without shame. “I… I would love to pierce you.”

  Holy hell. I have to keep from fanning myself, and all I can think to blurt out is, “Why?”

  He sits back, eyeing me objectively. His gaze flickers down my torso, settling where the table obscures. “I am intrigued… No. I love—” his tongue fumbles with the word, betraying how little he must say it. If ever. A part of me feels oddly pleased that few women probably ever hear him utter it in this husky, dangerous tone. Overall, I’m more alarmed than ever. “I love the idea of you entrusting yourself to me.”

  Heat pools beneath my legs so hotly my brain has trouble catching up. But when it does, I blink, snapping from the daze as something clicks.

  “You mean, you actually want to pierce me?”

  He raises an eyebrow as if the concept isn’t totally insane. “I would prefer to be the only one to pierce you.”

  I shake my head. “Sorry, but I can’t just let anyone put holes into my nether regions.” There are some lines even I’m not willing to cross. “Anyone but a trained professional.”

  His mouth quirks into an expression of utter sin. “Luckily for us both, I am a trained professional.”

  I scoff. “Really? For real, or did you just learn by watching videos online or something?”

  His murky gaze offers no insight, and I feel stunned, more off-balance than ever.

  “Let me guess,” I spit in exasperation, “you pierced yourself?”

  His smile falls flat, betraying a hint of vulnerability, and my eyes go so wide I’m sure they’ll pop right out of my head.

  “You did? You pierced yourself!” I scramble upright and circle the table until I reach his chair.

  “There are cameras,” he warns in that unnervingly neutral tone. But I don’t care. I straddle him anyway, forcing him to push back from the table to give me enough room. If there are cameras, I figure my hunched frame shields how my hand slithers between us, finding the front of his slacks.

  He watches on in cautious amusement as I tug open his fly and slide my hand beneath the fabric, cupping his shaft. Surprise, surprise, he’s hard, pulsing against my palm. But foreplay isn’t on my mind as I drag my thumb across the crown, gently—very, very gently—probing one of the protruding silver beads capping the bar of his piercing.

  “Why on earth would you pierce yourself?” I croak, still stroking him. But he already gave me the answer, didn’t he? For control. To exert ownership over himself that no one else could. Why might he be driven to such an extreme? I shouldn’t want to know.

  “I may or may not have been in my right mind,” he confesses, his eyes narrowing further with every hesitant brush of my thumb. Maybe I should stop touching him like this? I can’t seem to.

  “You,
on the other hand, I will treat with the utmost care,” he promises, his voice thickening, making my tongue moisten. Damn, he makes being stabbed through with a needle sound…irresistible. “I will even numb you first so that you feel no pain.”

  “No pain… You pierced yourself raw?” I blurt, my voice so loud anyone passing by could hear me. “Baby!” I cup his jaw with my free hand, forcing him to meet my gaze. He stares back blankly, as if he can’t quite decide why I care. Deep down, I don’t know why either, but the thought of him hurting himself—because that’s the only way to describe it—makes me…

  Ache in ways I never have.

  “Tell me why,” I whisper, running my lips over his jaw, sensing it stiffen. Then soften. “I’ll let you put as many holes in me as you want, just tell me why.”

  “My feelings have changed over time,” he says carefully, his gaze growing distant. “But I would be lying if I claimed that my original goal was anything other than…mutilation.”

  My heart lurches at the thought of it. Someone so lost, so tormented that driving a needle through his own penis was the only way he could regain control. Over his body. Over himself.

  Voice rasping, I murmur, “Why?”

  “I thought it would make me unappealing,” he confesses tonelessly. “Grotesque. That no one could derive pleasure from it. No one would ever crave it—me—honestly. I could track their intentions then. Anyone who claimed otherwise, obviously had ulterior motives. I would be on guard.”

  Such a freaking man. So paranoid, he would turn his own penis into a lie detector. A faulty one at that.

  Overwhelmed, I release him and twist around until I face the world looming beyond a row of full-length windows. The city stares back, cold and lifeless. Why he would choose to settle here, of all places? I can’t imagine.

  Or maybe that’s the point? Denying himself of beauty and pleasure is starting to seem like his defining trait.

  “That’s why you rejected me after the first time we had sex,” I deduce out loud. “I called your cock beautiful.”