Unmeasured (Unmatched Book 1)

by Alyssa Turner

  She reemerged from the bathroom, and Paolo regarded her closely.

  “Where did our little lioness go? Hmm?” he said, taking both cheeks in his palms.

  Samantha shrugged, miserably. Most of all, she wanted to be their lionceau, basking in the glorious light of their rapt attention.

  He tugged on the metal that was quickly becoming a part of her. “This is for your own good, you know?” Paolo said with a smirk. “I can’t say that I was happy to see it, but Oleg was not exaggerating about your effect on us.” He leaned into her neck then, and she felt him drag a parcel of air through his nose. “How does it make you feel to know that your chastity belt is as much about teaching you discipline as it is to force us to follow our own rules?”

  She wondered why he would admit such a thing. Maybe he liked rattling her cage. “What are those rules?” she asked, trying to figure him out.

  “Pleasure only when you have earned it.”

  “How do I earn it?” Had she really meant to sound so sultry?

  He smiled devilishly. “Submit.”

  She recalled how that had turned out the last time. She dropped to her knees and fumbled with his belt, thinking that the look on his too-delicate features was something she’d like to photograph and tuck under her pillow.

  He shook his head, petting the top of hers. “No, silly. You don’t decide what that means.” He reached for her hand, and she stood. “For now, I only want to paint you.”

  As much as she wanted him to paint her in saliva, she was happy to place her confusing thoughts aside in exchange for his eyes on her in the name of art.

  Samantha dropped her robe from her shoulders, and it tumbled to the floor. “I don’t need this while I’m here. I…don’t want it.”

  Paolo arched an eyebrow and signaled toward it. “I don’t want it either, but it doesn’t belong on the floor.”

  She smirked and rolled her eyes. “Right.” She stepped over the pile of fluffy white cotton pivoted on the balls of her feet in a smooth, harmless motion. Folding at the hip, she slowly bent down and grasped the discarded robe as he subtly advised. Perhaps she added a bit of finesse to the task. Perhaps she added too much.

  A swift and powerful swat unleashed atop her upturned ass. She nearly tumbled forward, but Paolo caught her shoulder, bracing her against another slap of his palm and then another.

  “Ask and you shall receive, little lion.” His voice had taken a sudden octave dive, less playful, more dangerous.

  Samantha squeaked more like a captured mouse with each blow. They stung like a sudden sunburn, and yet just as with the allure of the actual sun, she wanted more, whether she should or not. Her hands reached out for the floor, and he allowed her to land on all fours. She imagined the heat in his warm brown eyes and the concentrated creases at the corners suddenly on show when they narrowed. His fingertips dragged over her arms and then her shoulders, traversing her back as a parade of shivers followed in their wake. Over her hips and the round hill of her butt, his touch whispered against her skin. He read her like braille with those fingers, learning her form with tender detail. Then he gripped her hard at the hips and drew her into his obvious erection.

  Her fingers dug deep into the plush carpet. Did she want this to go further? She remembered the sweet persistence Paolo gave her clit the night before. She only wished she’d had a view of his beautiful face tucked against her, with his busy tongue on a singular mission to drive her insane with pleasure. His maneuvers were dexterous and exacting, free-spirited and creative. Having such a man inside her would be a treat to impress even the most greedy of hedonists. But the chastity belt remained a steadfast barrier between their overheated sexes. With an ironic smile, Samantha realized she wouldn’t have it any other way. Something very important would be missing. She wanted Oleg’s dedicated gaze, his delicious approval, his intoxicating control. She wanted his undivided attention as he watched Paolo take her in every manner he allowed.

  The chastity belt dug slightly into her belly in her animalistic position. She only wanted what Oleg allowed. The thought was a gnarled coil in her head. A concept that held the promise of order, yet remained dysfunctional with crimps and tangles. How could it be that she enjoyed the sequestering of her right to experience pleasure? How could the tease and anticipation of his whims be more of an elixir than her own power to claim her heart’s desires? Samantha had been born with everything, had never known what it was to want for anything she needed. Her life had been neatly packaged with doting, if not busy parents and a protective if not annoyingly perfect brother. She had it all, and still it wasn’t enough. Perhaps it was too much? Oleg held her pleasure in his pocket, and she smoldered, despite her disappointment of his sudden departure, for the look of satisfaction on his face when he finally granted her the gifts he held back.

  Today, he’d let her romp and play like a cherished pet and permit her some fun exploring, but in the end, she would only have one master.

  Samantha lowered herself into the carpet, keeping her ass raised high, feeling more animal than human. She spoke, mostly to keep herself grounded. “Do the four of you always have sex with the students you take on?” She asked the question with a sudden compulsion to know if she might be the rule or the exception.

  “Not always,” he continued to grip her, rubbing his rigid length against her ass. “There are many ways to dominate and submit that are not sexual.”

  She recalled the experiences of Oleg feeding her lentil soup and Italian stewed veal. Both occasions had felt quite sexual, though not in the obvious sense. She remembered sipping cream from a bowl on all fours with their heated gazes locked on her every sinuous motion. That had been undeniably sexual, though confusing and damming all at once.

  “We are not having sex now. Is this not sexual?” she asked.

  “Everything with you is sexual, Lionceau.”

  The room was so quiet, she registered the wetness of his mouth as he swallowed.

  “I can still feel your tongue on me,” she whispered.

  He grunted and slapped her ass one more time before standing. Despite her throbbing, abused flesh, she stood as well and faced him.

  Paolo towered a head taller than her, his careless scruff loomed level with her forehead. He glared down at her with equal parts desire and restraint. He glared and glared until she couldn’t stand the heat of his accusing eyes any longer. She lowered her gaze and focused on the way the tattered cuffs of his jeans fell upon his shoes.

  He took hold of her waist, gripping with his thumb lodged against her hip bone and his fingers pressed on her back. She closed her eyes as his other hand breezed feather-light fingers over her belly and past the chastity belt, to her inner thighs where the evidence of just how sexual not having sex with him had been. She was an overflowing mess of slick, shiny lust. He made several passes over the slippery flesh of her thigh, finally drawing one into the crease of her leg along the edge of the maddening metal cage. She opened her eyes when his fingers left her, and her gaze followed as he raised them to his lips and glossed them with her juices. “I can still taste you.”

  She groaned.

  “Do you know why a Dom shares his submissive?” he asked.

  “Because he likes being generous?”

  Paolo laughed. “Dominants are the most selfish people on the planet by design.” He strode across the room to her messenger bag. “He shares because it’s so much more satisfying to take back what’s his when the sharing is finished.” After rummaging inside the bag, he removed her ballet flats. “Put these on,” he commanded and turned toward the door.

  “Where are we going?”

  His eyes twinkled. “I’m going to make you immortal.”

  “I think I like the sound of that.”

  “The horse stables have been converted into my studio. It’s chilly out, so bring the robe.”

  “Can I bring my sketchbook?”

  “Of course. You are an artist. I’d never hold your muse hostage, no matter how naughty
you behave.”

  Samantha stood at the threshold of the weighty oak door, the grand foyer behind her and the sprawling property stretched out in front. With a tug of the terry cloth robe tighter around her body, the neutral temperature of the home gave way to the crisp, clean air of the sun-soaked spring day. A slight chill still lingered between strong, determined rays. Winter was struggling to deliver its last weary punches, but there was no mistaking it would soon lose the battle. Hopeful new buds dotted the branches of ancient willow trees dappling the estate. Audacious crocuses had survived the last snow and multiplied proudly in the grass. The soft hills were awash with purple, granting the landscape a regal cape. Upon arrival, she hadn’t had the opportunity to take in the splendor of the home. Pale-gray limestone that shone almost silver against azure-blue skies helped give the intricate structure its storybook quality. Her family’s country home, a stately Tudor on the banks of Lake George in upstate New York also whispered of old-time fables and legendary secrets. But the familiar beauty of that place had become plain, slowly taken for granted. Just like the man, Oleg’s home was a glorious new mystery.

  She spotted something in the next willow tree. It was nearly obscured with branches.

  “A tree house,” she said out loud, enchanted by the sight.

  “Oleg’s from his childhood,” Paolo clarified.

  She stretched her neck as they passed it, making out its long-forgotten details. “He didn’t have it removed,” she remarked, not quite understanding the wistful tone in her voice.

  “This home is equally old and new,” Paolo said simply.

  Samantha couldn’t tear herself away from the ancient-looking remnants. She couldn’t stop imaging the child who played there. Had Oleg ever been a naïve little boy? Had his mother called him over and over to come down for lunch? It was difficult to picture, and yet she knew it had been true once. He was a mortal man, no matter the god-like aura he now carried.

  “This way,” Paolo prompted, his hand extended to her, chivalrous and proper.

  Samantha looked closely at him, taking a moment to really appreciate his full lips and strong brow line. Two creases had started to claim real estate between his eyebrows, which reassembled plumes of golden wheat. Just as present were his neat dimple lines, confirming how often he chose a smile over a frown. He had thoughtful eyes, less goading than Henri, far gentler than Ivan’s and just as solicitous as Oleg’s. He needed something from her. She supposed they all required something of this unorthodox arrangement. Why else invite her into this twisted fairytale? And what exactly did she want from her time with them? A kinky break from reality? An unpredictable walk on the wild side? Those answers didn’t fit with the ease by which she walked almost nude next to a near stranger. They couldn’t explain how naturally she’d fallen into step with her role as their submissive house guest. Maybe she needed to believe she wasn’t as crazy as she felt half of the time.

  Chapter 23

  “How long do you anticipate your meeting will run, sir?”

  Oleg’s gaze refocused, recognizing the modest office building he’d instructed Jean Michel to bring him to. He cleared his throat and placed his hand on the door release. “Not long. Stay close.”

  He pulled his briefcase to his side as he exited the car. This was a cheap, dingy part of the city that held long-term potential if one could be patient. Oleg was usually a very patient man. But today he just wanted to get this meeting over and done with. The tangled questions he never wanted to ask took up most of the space in his head. What had happened to his mother the night she was taken by Luka Durchenko? Taken. He still couldn’t reconcile the possibility that she’d gone to him willingly. The thought sickened him, caused the ground beneath his feet to seem less firm, less trusted not to open up and swallow him whole. He needed answers, even if he was loath to hear them.

  He would go to the source, but he needed access.

  In the day that had passed since Oleg had played the hero to a nearly unconscious Claude Vincent, the swelling of his abused face had receded some. After striking a deal that would spare his daughter, a meeting had been scheduled to secure a legitimate agreement for thirty percent of future revenues. Oleg wasn’t about to rely on a promise blurted through his blubbering cries of desperation. He’d planned to get ink on paper. Now, he wanted to strike a new arrangement.

  “Your daughter,” Oleg began abruptly, his calm demeanor having evaporated during Viktor’s fireside talk. “She can get me into Luka’s hotel room before he arrives.” His words were delivered as a statement. His glare was meant to back it up.

  Claude swallowed. “You agreed to keep her out of any of this. I have the papers prepared for you right here.” He pushed a stack of hand-worn documents toward him with shaky fingers.

  “I will forgive your entire debt when she provides me a keycard to his suite and activates the fire alarm twenty minutes before he is due to arrive.”

  The trepidation in Claude’s expression was expected, and so was the eventual nod of his head. He frowned slightly, no doubt considering what implications would lead back to his family. “What do you plan to do with him?”

  Oleg pointed to the cell phone resting at the corner of his desk. “Call her, and don’t concern yourself with things that are none of your business.”

  *

  Twenty minutes had been plenty of time to enter the evacuated hotel room and leave before Luka Durchenko’s security returned. Now he waited in the hotel bar for his phone to ring. He’d left a handwritten note, along with a picture of his mother, soft with the abrasions of his wallet over the years.

  The phone in his pocket vibrated.

  “Oleg.” His name was not spoken with malice or even curiosity. Luka spoke his name like it was long overdue on his lips.

  “I want a word with you,” Oleg said.

  “I gathered that.” There was a beat of silence on the line, and Oleg could make out the low hum of a machine at work. “This is a personal request?”

  “My uncle is not the reason I have made contact.”

  “Your mother is,” Luka finished. He sighed, and the sigh morphed into a wet cough, followed by the clearing of his throat. “Come to my suite. I will guarantee that no one will pose a threat to you behind my closed doors.”

  The pat down was of no surprise. Oleg cooperated. He placed a small caliber automatic pistol down on the table but retained the magazine once it was disengaged. He held up a slender black box once he’d removed it from his breast pocket. Opening the hinged lid, he made a show of revealing the two Cuban cigars inside. A single nod from Luka’s henchman was permission to tuck it back away.

  “Come, let us speak in private,” Luka said. He’d dressed in his trousers and a loosely buttoned dress shirt.

  Oleg followed as Luka walked past his henchmen, their eyes suspiciously trained on his every move. Luka invited Oleg to sit on soft sofas at the back of the suite and his dismissal of the two scowling men came with a casual flip of his hand. Though their expressions remained hard, the men opened the suite door and stepped outside.

  “Say your peace.”

  “I want to know what happened that night.” Oleg felt his teeth clash on the end of his sentence. The scalpel resting beneath the Cubans in their case burned against his chest.

  Luka’s eyebrows rose. “What do you think happened?”

  “You sold her.”

  “That is the story, isn’t it?”

  Oleg could kill this man with his bare hands, he didn’t need a gun or a blade. The fragility of Luka’s physical presence painted a picture of a far lesser man than he’d expected.

  “Do you want to know the truth?” Luka asked. Rubbing his chapped lips, he searched Oleg’s eyes in a manner that seemed intrusive.

  “It’s why I have come. Did she come to your home on your invitation only to be sold like a common whore to your party guests?”

  “Emily was welcome in my home even when she was no longer welcome in my heart.” He shifted his gaze to the
panoramic view and narrowed his eyes at some unseen advisor in the distance. “She came to my home to dance for me on my birthday, as she had done every year in secret. She missed the spotlight on her skin. I could never be so cruel to deny her. She danced for my pleasure and the pleasure of my party guests, and then she gorged herself on the desire she created.”

  “Did you sell my mother to the bastards at that party?”

  “Emily was one of a kind. She would step on stage and bring every man to their knees. A ticket to the ballet bought two hours watching her dance, and it felt like it was all for you and you alone. I always understood her power. I understood what it meant to her, to be worshiped by so many. I would have never asked her to give it up, any of it. Each year, she came to me starving for everything she sacrificed when she married your father. Each year, I fed her until she was full. I didn’t sell her, silly boy. They each bought a ticket, and she got to be their ten-minute fantasy.” He looked away again. “I will spare you the details since we are talking about your mother.” Then his eyes were on Oleg again. “But you dishonor her memory when you portray her as a helpless victim. I won’t portray her as someone she wasn’t just because it’s a more convenient story for you to hear.”

  Oleg seethed, standing up. “Did you kill my father?”

  Luka shook his head. “Another convenient lie. He found Emily…engaged with me and a few of my guests. I’ll never forget the look in her eyes when she saw him, the sorrow, the apology. I wanted to kill him for the shame she felt. I wanted to tell her to stay with me, because I was the only man who could give her everything she needed and still love her. But before I could, your father stuck the gun to her temple.”