But all she seemed to be doing with that degree she’d earned was planning her wedding. She hadn’t updated any of her Pinterest boards in months, and she’d been talking less and less about herself during our monthly calls.
And now she wasn’t talking to us at all.
“I was thinking of taking some time off to drive down there in a couple of weeks,” I confess to Cynda. “Check on her myself.”
“That’s a great idea,” Cynda says. “Can I send you some gas and hotel money?”
“No, you keep that money for the twins,” I answer. “But I’ll call her right now and let her know I’m coming down there.”
“Don’t let her talk you out of the trip,” Cynda warns.
“I won’t,” I promise my friend. “She keeps saying she’s fine, but I don’t believe her. And I want to set eyes on her myself.”
“I wish I could go with you,” Cynda says, her pretty face twisting with regret.
Funny for someone who used to go through guys like toothpicks, Cynda had morphed from super vixen to super responsible over the last three years.
“No, Cynda, you work six days a week, and you’ve got the twins. Let me do this,” I answer.
“Are you sure?” Cynda asks, her pretty face twisting with guilt.
We’re all orphans of a sort. We all lost our moms to cancer, a fact we bonded over during our time in Atlantic City. Neither Gina nor I really know our fathers. And Cynda’s father passed away three years ago.
I’m the only one who isn’t an only child. But Clem often feels more like a responsibility than a brother while Cynda and Gina feel like sisters. Sisters I chose.
That’s why it’s easy to tell Cynda, “Don’t worry, I got this.”
We talk for a little while longer about the usual things. How work is going—boring for the both of us.
Cynda apologizes for not sending me her tax stuff yet, which leads to a discussion about whether tax season will be delayed this year because of COVID. And for how long.
I ask her if she’s dating anyone.
“Girl, who has time for dating? I’m just trying to get the twins and me to Pittsburgh.”
I frown. I get that she cares about the twins, but I’m not quite sure why she’s following them all the way to college. It feels a little…
I don’t know. Like she’s living her life for everyone but herself. But who am I to talk considering that I’m sacrificing my pride and three-full days of work to get my brother out of his debt?
“What about you?” Cynda asks, interrupting my sheepish thoughts. “You planning on finally giving yourself a hot girl summer after you pass this CPA exam?”
“I love how you assume that I’m going to pass,” I answer with a chuckle. “Or that I’m even capable of a hot girl summer.”
“Girl, you can do it. Put your back into it!” Cynda answers, making both her expression and her voice extra grimy with insinuation.
“Okay, Cynda, stop,” I say, laughing even harder.
But my laughter abruptly cuts off when the building’s back door opens…
And Vlad steps out.
He doesn’t look happy. Like, at all.
Chapter Seven
Maybe the doorman wasn’t merely looking the other way when I snuck out earlier.
There’s no one but him in the lobby when Vlad hauls me back in. But he appears selectively deaf and blind as Cheslav’s henchman drags me to the elevator.
“What is wrong with you?” I ask him. “I was just making a call!”
Vlad shoves me into the elevator and punches the button for the penthouse floor.
Last night he seemed pretty affable for someone breaking into my house. But now the mood’s all changed. He ignores me and simmers at the same time as the elevator whisks us up to the building’s highest floor.
He doesn’t talk until the elevator opens on the long hallway leading into the suite. And then it’s only to say, “Go ahead. He is waiting for you.”
That one ordered issued, Vlad takes a seat on a black stool beside the elevator that I didn’t notice when I was leaving. This must be his station, I realize. The one he was meant to guard.
And my outrage fades a little.
“Sorry if I got you in trouble,” I murmur. “My mom was a security guard over at Memorial stadium. If I’d known you were manning this station, I never would have left.”
Vlad’s expression softens. But only a little, before he repeats, “Go. You do not want to keep Mr. Rustanov waiting.”
I go.
And though, I know I did nothing wrong, it feels like a death march.
I find Cheslav bent over the game board, sitting on his coffee table. He’s standing on the red side this time.
The window frames him in a bright halo of light as he moves his piece. Like an angel. But when he stands up, revealing his whole outfit, I see that he’s wearing a red button-up shirt that stretches tight over his muscles and black slacks.
No, he’s no angel. In fact, he looks like the devil himself.
“Hi,” I say with a little wave. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”
“Yes, you misunderstand somehow meaning of ‘no leaving.’” He sneers at me. “Just one lunch. Vlad walked away from his post for fifteen minutes to grab sandwich. Only fifteen minutes. But you managed to sneak out.”
“I didn’t sneak out; I went downstairs to call my friend.”
Cheslav’s eyes narrow. “This friend of yours. What is his name?”
I start to answer that my friend was a girl, not a guy. But then I close my mouth. First of all, why is he acting so possessive? He only has rights to my body over the next five days, not my heart. He has no moral or technical ground to stand on when it comes to whether I speak to other guys or not. Second of all, I don’t want Cynda anywhere near this thing.
“None of your business,” I answer.
“None of my business,” he repeats. His voice is completely level, but it feels like something inside of him is ticking.
Suddenly he reaches down and sweeps the chessboard off the table in one explosive movement.
Pieces go flying, red pawns and black kings alike.
What the hell is up with this guy? Why is he so mad? I consider running, or at the very least, cowering in the wake of his anger.
But I’m strong, I remind myself. I’ve been strong since my mother died. And damn if I’m going to let this huge Russian hockey player take that away from me.
I stand my ground, glaring back at him just as hard as he’s glaring at me.
And he lets out several harsh breaths before asking, “Who was it? Who was so important that you had to break my rules to talk to him?”
“I didn’t break any rules,” I insist. “I only went outside because there’s no reception up here. And it wasn’t even that far—”
“Three hundred thousand. Do you think that little money?”
I cut my eyes to the side. “Obviously not. Or I wouldn’t be here, going against everything in my character to whore myself out to you.”
His expression ices over. “Did you not understand what I said before? You are my pet. Whores are paid by the hour. Pets are kept. Owned. And they must be punished when they don’t obey the rules.”
My throat dries, and my defiant stance falters when he says punish.
“You’re going to hurt me?” I ball my fist at my side, knowing that would be a bridge too far.
“No, krasotka. As I told you before, I would never hurt you,” he answers, dipping his head. But then his face hardens. “However, I will train you.”
I don’t want to ask. But I have to. “How?”
He looks at me for the longest time. “You broke not one, but two of my rules—no, krasotka. No shaking head.”
I don’t realize I’m denying his version of the story with an emphatic shake of my head until he tells me to stop doing it.
“I woke up alone because you had left to make your call. That is one rule you break. The other is my
command to strip. You put clothes back on. Maybe this is because you do not understand…”
He walks over to me, devouring the space between us with just a few strides. “I tell you to do something, it stays done. No reversing that order just because you want to make call.”
“That’s so unfair,” I say, my voice shaking. “I didn’t know.”
“Now you do,” he answers, his own voice low and dark. “And as for unfair….”
He fingers the straps of my pajama top. “I like you, beauty pageant accountant. Since first time I lay eyes on you. More than is reasonable. This fire you stir within me. I do not think that is fair. But do I whine about it and sneak off to call another girl—easier girl than you who will obey my commands to the letter? No, I do not. So do not speak to me of fair. This thing between us cannot be fair.”
It’s work to keep myself still as he says this to me. Work not to show fear or shrink away from his touch, which somehow feels like a caress and a threat at the same time.
I don’t understand why he’s saying all of this to me or why he’s acting so obsessed. We only met this morning.
But I want future knowledge more than I need to understand why he’s acting like a possessive gorilla. My accountant mind craves numbers that I can add so that I can predict what comes next. So I ask him straight out, “What are you planning to do to me?”
His green eyes flash, and he regards me for a long moment before answering, “You put your clothes back on without permission, so now you will have to keep them on.”
I look to both sides. Not even beginning to understand how that’s a punishment.
“You are so very beautiful. It will be joy to punish you,” he says, not seeming to notice my totally confused look.
Then he cups the back of my head and pulls me into him for a deep kiss.
A deep, long kiss. I’m gasping by the time he finally breaks it off.
“I am hungry,” he says. “Are you hungry? I will have Vlad order us something.”
Something is Chinese food, which we eat out of cartons in front of the TV while watching a hockey game.
Well, he’s watching a hockey game. I’m taking small bites of Mongolian Beef and trying not to stare at him as he stares at the screen.
He called me so very beautiful, but he’s a work of art—all defined muscle beneath his red shirt.
My body heats with memories of early this morning as the sun starts to sink in the sky behind us.
“Come, sit in my lap, pet, while I figure out how we will defeat my brother’s team.”
I hesitate, but then I remember…
No hesitations, my pet. When I give a command, I expect full and immediate submission. Or else, you will be punished for your insubordination.
I scramble into his lap, not wanting to get into any more arguments with him.
“Is that your brother?” I ask, pointing to the Minnesota Bobcat with RUSTANOV written across the back of his uniform.
“Da,” Cheslav answers. “His name is Artyom. We play his team in home game on Thursday night. Right now, they are most likely team to stand between me and my last Stanley Cup.”
“How do you know it will be your last?”
“I am thirty-five. That is very old for hockey. I train and do right things, but my body is telling me I must stop. And I would rather go out on top of my game, so this is my last year.”
I nod, my heart squeezing with empathy. I had pretty much aged out of cheerleading by my mid-twenties, and I remember how hard it had been to realize that your body would no longer support you in the sport you loved.
We watch the game for a few more minutes. I’ve never seen Cheslav play hockey, but his brother skates like I figure he would. Artyom is strong yet slippery. I watch him relentlessly attack players until he steals the puck. Then he somehow manages to evade the opposing team until he shoots a goal.
Wow, he’s good. Like really, really good.
“Does your brother know this is your last year?” I ask Cheslav.
“Of course he does,” he answers. “I tell my brother everything. We are very close.”
“Knowing it’s your last year, maybe he’ll go easier on you,” I say and hope at the same time.
“Of course he will not,” Cheslav answers with a low chuckle. “His last name would not be Rustanov if he did not make me work for my final glory.”
“Oh…” Cheslav is blackmailing me into several days of sex. But for some reason, I want him to get his final glory. “Well, I hope you get the trophy anyway.”
“Thank you, krasotka. I plan to,” he answers. “I will not let my baby brother stop me.”
We continue to watch the game. Hockey isn’t my favorite sport, but this is fine. Cozy even…until Cheslav brings his hands up and starts massaging my nipples through my shirt.
The pajama top is thin, and his hands are rough. Before I know it, my nipples are pebbled and poking against my top.
That’s when he moves one hand down to my crotch. His hand lasers right back on my pearl. And he rubs at it through the barrier of my shorts.
I was confused before. But it only takes a few moments to fully understand why making me keep my clothes on was a punishment.
My clit throbs underneath his fingers. And my hips lift, rubbing against the bulge locked away underneath his zipper. Soon I’m squirming on his lap and pressing my breast and crotch into his hands.
“Look at your shorts, pet. There is a dark spot now. Are you truly that wet?”
Yes, I totally am that turned on, just from him touching me over my clothes. But what he’s doing isn’t enough. More. I want more.
“You want more, da?” he murmurs in my ear as if reading my thoughts. “You want my hands underneath this tank top and below the band of your shorts.”
A question. Somewhere deep in the recesses of my frustrated ache, my mind comes back online to answer. “Yes! Da!”
“My language sounds so cute in your mouth. I will have to teach you more to say to me while I am fucking you.”
He says that…then he takes me by the hips and sets me down beside him.
My body keeps pulsing after he pushes me away, like an engine from an old car still crackling and popping after you’ve taken away the key.
Irritation starts to seep into my desire as I demand, “That’s it?”
“Yes, that is it. For now.”
That “for now” sounds truly ominous as he switches his gaze back to the television.
After about fifteen minutes of sitting there, staring at him while he watches his brother’s game, I realize he’s totally serious. He revved me up, just to leave me hanging.
Which does feel exactly like the punishment he promised me.
But I can’t just sit there like a good little pet and let it go. “So this is what you want to do with your three-hundred K? Spend the whole five days frustrating me?”
“Not whole five days, nyet,” he answers without looking away from the TV.
His eyes are intent like what’s on the screen is way more interesting than who’s sitting beside him.
I start to get up. If he’s going to watch hockey, I can play on my phone. Or maybe read a book. I’ve been meaning to read that last Stephen King novel from 2019 before the new one comes out in April…
But when I can reach for my phone, he says. “Sit. No phone. Boredom is part of punishment.”
Ugh!
Chapter Eight
So that’s how I end up sitting there for the next hour while Cheslav watches hockey.
And if that wasn’t torturous enough as soon as the game is over, he draws me back into his lap.
“Is your pussy dry again?” He makes the same disappointed tutting sound Vlad did when I thought about going for a knife. “I will assist you with that.”
Almost as soon as he grabs ahold of me, massaging my breasts and pussy over my clothes, my entire body lights back up. Forget that last hour of doing nothing. It’s as if I never calmed down at all.
“Please,” I find myself whining. “Please don’t stop. Please let me come.”
“I like your sweet begging, pet. But are you sure this is what you want?”
“Yes!” I nod desperately even though I know it’s a trick. This is just a cruel question he’s asking before he sets me aside again.
However, I’m wrong about that.
“If you wish it.” He presses his hand harder into the cloth separating my clit from his fingers. “You may come.”
His voice is light with amusement, but for me, it’s no joking matter. I finally release, and it’s….
Not that great, actually. More like a few ripples of pleasure as opposed to the waves that I experienced the first time he took me. Even worse, my core is still throbbing. Not as bad as before, no. But in a way I recognize.
Back when I was a cheerleader and occasionally dated, almost always after my lover left the next morning, I found myself…I guess the only way to describe it is still turned on. Like, the evening’s activities hadn’t quite scratched the itch.
Usually, I’d furtively reach down and make myself come again. To get the rest of the desire out. I’d always felt ashamed of myself while doing that, but that shame was nothing compared to the misery I’m feeling now.
“Was that not enough?” Cheslav croons into my misery. “Were you hoping for more?”
I grit my teeth. I want to touch myself so bad, but I’m unwilling to get in that kind of trouble. His way for the five days and all that.
“Do you have anything to say to me, pet? Anything that might change my mind?”
I pounce on his invitation and open my mouth to defend myself. But then I close it again with the realization that he’s playing a game with me.
Like a literal game with rules and strategies.
A game I can’t win by doing what I did before. Earlier I’d defended myself over and over. That tactic hadn’t worked, so now it was time to try something else.
I slow my breathing, reviewing the tape of what’s happened tonight like Cheslav watched his brother’s last hockey game with a cold, dispassionate gaze.
Everything he’s done since I returned has been a punishment. Punishments meant to teach me a lesson. So what does he want me to learn?
Billie and the Russian Beast: An Enemies to Lovers Russian Hockey Player Sports Romance [50 Loving States, South Carolina] (QUARANTALES Book 2) Page 4
