The Soldier

by Renee Rose

  The explosion of butterflies in my belly makes it hard to think. To decipher. Other than lifting one finger for a half-second, as if to signal me to wait, he doesn’t acknowledge me. He walks past to stand in the line at the front desk. A hot flush floods my cheeks as I sit, my spine straight, tits out, awaiting his command.

  I try to push back the pain of his rejection. It’s not rejection. This is a test in obedience. How well do I read his wishes? How good am I at delayed gratification? He’s edging me. That must be it.

  Everything the man says or does sends flutters through me. His words are delicious, fantasy-inducing commands. His expressions tend to be dark, bordering on slight disapproval. He’ll give me a flick of his eyebrow, a warning look. He plays the part of my forbidding master to a tee. Except I’m not even sure it’s a part he’s playing. All of our interactions are movie-worthy scenes, but I don’t think this role is very far off from who he really is.

  The problem is, I just don’t know. Sometimes I’m not sure I want to know. We’re playing out our fantasies with each other. Why would we want any part of real life in this?

  One of the hotel staff brings him a tray with filled champagne glasses. He shakes his head but says something to the man then points in my direction. My hurt fades. He’s still looking out for me, as a good master should. I’m offered more champagne, and I accept, not because I want it but because Pavel had it sent over to me.

  He checks in and then strides over. This time I don’t start to get up until I’m sure. Not until he holds out his hand for me. He’s still cool and impassive. No expression whatsoever on the harsh planes of his face. I can’t tell if he’s happy to see me. If he’s pleased or displeased with my outfit or the way I waited obediently. I set the champagne glass down. I don’t need any more—one drink is plenty for a lightweight like me.

  My hand is clammy in his as he helps me to my feet. He doesn’t say a word. No kiss. No how are you? Or You look great. Nothing. He’s all business. He drops his suitcase on top of mine, takes my hand again, and leads me to the bank of elevators, rolling both our suitcases with his free hand.

  The butterflies become a hurricane, spiraling in frantic flight. I don’t understand him and my need to please—to play this game properly—has me on a knife’s edge.

  We step into the elevator, and the doors shut. The moment we’re alone, Pavel turns to me. One hand wraps in my hair, the other on my ass as he pushes me back against the elevator wall. His mouth descends on mine in a demanding kiss. His erection prods my belly, and his tongue sweeps into my mouth. Relief pours through me.

  He’s not dissatisfied. He does want me.

  I wind my arms around his neck and kiss him back, wrapping one leg around his to draw him closer. We kiss like the world’s about to end. Like if we don’t devour each other’s mouths, we’ll never see the light of day again. It’s only been a week since we’ve seen each other, and it feels like both yesterday and forever ago.

  The elevator dings, and Pavel catches my hand, not looking at me as he leads me out, expertly maneuvering our stacked suitcases down the hall to a door, which he opens with his keycard.

  He still hasn’t spoken. I guess I haven’t, either, because I’m waiting for him to lead. He’s the master. I’m his slave. At least that’s the game we’ve been playing since we met just over a month ago. He kicks the door shut and resumes our kiss with the same ferocity he left off. My butt hits the wall. The hard lines of his body mold against mine, demanding my yield. I surrender to him. To his skill. His domination, his lead. He catches my thigh and hikes it up, finding the top band of my thigh-highs.

  “Hot,” he breathes against my lips. For a first word, it seems appropriate. He strokes my ass, his palm sliding under the hem of the dress. “You look so fucking hot.”

  There. That’s what I was hoping for. Why I changed my clothes over a dozen times.

  He kisses down my neck as he palms my pussy like he owns it. Which he does. Consensually given, of course. Like always, I’m soft putty in his hands—quivering, ready, awaiting his command.

  He doesn’t give one. Instead, he just takes. He slides his fingers inside my panties and strokes over my slit. “Already wet.” His neatly-trimmed beard tickles my ear. His Russian accent is thick—it always grows stronger when he’s turned on. “Such a good girl. Ready to take my cock the moment I want to give it to you.”

  A shudder of pleasure goes through me at his dirty talk, and I drink up his praise, even though my state of readiness isn’t something I have control over.

  “Yes, sir,” I pant.

  “I need to be inside you, blossom,” he says gruffly, rushing to free his erection.

  Blossom. I love his pet name. It started because he thought I was too delicate a flower. Too crushable. We were paired by a roll of the roulette wheel at Black Light, and I think he was disappointed to get me. But when he found I took everything he dished—pain and humiliation alike—his disdain for me slowly turned to appreciation. After he broke me, when I humiliatingly lost my shit in a puddle of sub-drop sobs, he declared I belonged to him.

  That was five weeks ago.

  I don’t help him now because my job is to submit. He drives the train.

  He pulls my panties to the side and lines the head of his cock up with my entrance, bending his knees to lower to my height. We don’t use a condom because I’m on the pill, we’re monogamous, and we’ve both been tested and are clean. When he shoves in and up, he lifts me to my toes, sliding my hips up the wall.

  I cry out, clutching his bulging biceps for stability.

  "Whose pussy is this?" Pavel’s fingers are rough on my ass as he helps lift me to the right height to nail me against the wall.

  "Yours, Master!"

  He thrusts in hard and fast. My back bangs against the wall. It’s rough and frightening and wonderful. I lift my other leg to wrap around his waist, and he grinds into me, shoving in with each powerful snap of his hips. His teeth score my neck, he sucks and nips as he pounds into me.

  I listen to the quickening of his breath. I will come the moment he does—if he allows it. I don’t even think or try—it’s like my body knows its master. It wants to join him in the release.

  Pavel’s strokes get harder, driving my body further up the wall. I let out a cry of need. His breath catches, and he slams in deep. “Come.” His command is strangled and guttural as he speaks over his own orgasm.

  I relinquish all effort to hold back the squeezing of my muscles around his cock. There is nothing but the sound of his rasping breath, and the sensation of his cock pulsing inside me.

  Pavel kisses my temple, my cheekbone, the bridge of my nose. These are the moments I savor. When I’m certain I’ve won his approval. When he’s grateful and gentle and generous with the affection he otherwise holds back. “I needed that.” He squeezes my ass and kisses my neck. “I couldn’t even look at you in that dress when I came in; I knew I’d have the world’s most visible boner walking to the front desk.”

  “Ah, that’s what it was.” I almost laugh with relief. “I thought you were playing some mindfuck to keep me off balance.”

  Pavel pulls back, easing out of me, and studies my face. He tucks his cock away and straightens my dress. “I hurt your feelings.”

  I shrug. He’s great at reading me when he seeks an answer but is sometimes clueless about what to ask. My friend Sasha, who hooked us up, thinks I’m the first and only girlfriend he’s ever had.

  And I don’t even consider myself his girlfriend.

  What we have is something else.

  I nod, and he strokes his thumb down my cheek.

  “I’m into delivering physical pain not emotional, Kayla. I don’t do mindfucks. I don’t want you off-balance, I want you sure of me. Otherwise, how will you trust me with this fuck-hot body of yours?”

  The flutters in my belly tumble once then settle down.

  Pavel holds my jaw and hovers his lips above mine. “I’m sorry, blossom. I’m a selfish prick.
I didn’t mean to hurt you.” He kisses me so softly it almost makes me weep. It’s the opposite of the hard, claiming kisses of the elevator. Something different. “Thank you for telling me. I won’t leave you hanging again.”

  Everything in my chest goes warm and gooey. This is how things always are with Pavel. I’m on edge, a shivering, volatile mess, trembling for his attention, dying for affirmation, and then when he gives it to me, I soar like a kite.

  My housemates think it’s dysfunctional, but they don’t understand BDSM. I think Pavel’s the most exciting thing to ever happen to me.

  2

  Pavel

  Kayla’s knees buckle, and I catch her elbow to steady her. She’s so fucking sweet. Definitely tender, like a little flower.

  A flower I always fear I will crush.

  How in the hell would I know that checking in first would crack her confidence? It’s exactly this tenderheartedness that made me reject her when we first met at Black Light. I didn’t think she’d last one minute with me without screaming red. But she proved me wrong.

  Kayla will take just about everything I dish out without complaint. Those big blue eyes are always on my face, looking for my approval, for my next command. She’s actually a dream submissive. But being her dom means I have to figure out the emotional shit, which isn’t my forte.

  Understatement.

  I slide my lips over hers in a soft kiss, then trace the cutout of her dress with the tip of my index finger. “You look so beautiful, little flower. I should take you out for dinner and show you off, is that what you want?”

  It’s not what I want. In fact, the second I saw her down in the lobby, I wanted to toss her over my shoulder and spank her ass red for letting anyone else see her looking so very fuckable.

  It’s why I refused to renew our memberships to Black Light, where we played for free for the last month. I didn’t like anyone else looking at her. It brought out a violence in me that I had to contain. Had to be careful not to channel into our play.

  “I dressed for you, Master,” she says softly.

  Damn. Every time I try to defend myself against this relationship, she says something like that.

  A surge of passion rushes out of me, and I grip her face in both my hands and shove her up against the wall again, kissing the hell out of her pretty mouth.

  By the time I’m finished, my beard has chafed her skin, her lips are swollen, and she’s panting for breath. I want to do a hundred dirty things with her, but I shove my dark desires down. The need to make up for hurting her feelings takes precedence over my need to torture that lush little body of hers.

  I smooth back her hair. “If we don’t leave this room now,” I warn her, “you’ll be naked in thirty seconds with my handprints all over that pretty ass of yours.”

  Her eyes dilate. “Mmm.”

  “I meant that as a threat.” Amusement rolls around in my mouth, almost making me smile. “Let’s go eat.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  I maneuver her out of the room with my hand on her back because it’s so damn pleasurable to have her body under my hands at all times. In the elevator, I flatten her against the wall again. “Were you a good girl this week?”

  She blinks up at me. “I’m always a good girl.”

  “I know.” I brush the hair out of her face. “That’s what makes this so wrong.”

  Her brows furrow in confusion. “What?”

  “You’re so good, and I’m very, very bad.”

  She doesn’t balk. I don’t think she believes me—but she should. Instead, her sweet body writhes against mine, seeking pleasure. The elevator stops, and two people get on, prompting me to turn around and tuck Kayla protectively into my side. We’re safe here—there’s no bratva cell or anyone our cell has a beef with in Los Angeles.

  I take her to the nice restaurant in the hotel because I don’t want to get too far from our room. Once we’re settled and ordered our food, Kayla studies me.

  “What do you do for your job, Pavel?”

  “Anything the boss wants me to,” I say. And nothing I can tell you about. When I realize she’s waiting for more, I add, “My position is brigadier--a soldier. I don’t rank high in our organization, but I am lucky enough to be in our pakhan’s inner circle.”

  “Ravil is the boss—the pakhan?” she asks.

  My brows shoot up at her knowing his name. I haven’t shared much of anything about my life with Kayla. We usually keep our conversation and activities to the bedroom.

  “Sasha told me,” she says quickly. Sasha, our bratva fixer’s new bride, studied theatre with Kayla at University of Southern California. They roomed together during college. I now live with the pain-in-the-ass bratva princess and the rest of our bratva cell.

  “Yes. He’s getting pissed about me being gone every weekend. He made a comment.”

  “If you had to cancel, it would be fine. I’d understand.” She flushes. “I mean, of course, you know that. You’re the dom.”

  I’m the kind of guy who takes whether something is being offered or not, but having Kayla repeatedly offer up her submission changes me. Makes me want to give a little more. Which is what makes this dangerous territory. I shouldn’t let this thing deepen when I’m about to break it off. So I don’t tell her the truth: that I’d rather stick a fork in my eye than cancel our weekend.

  Our food comes—steak for me, salmon salad for Kayla, and we eat in silence until Kayla asks, “Do you kill people for Ravil?”

  The words charge the air between us, creating an electric barrier.

  My brows slam down as my pulse quickens. “Why would you ask that, Kayla?” My gaze travels to her throat, marking her frantic pulse. The worst possibilities run through my head—she’s an informant. She’s wearing a wire. That’s why she’s asking about Ravil and my job and who I’ve killed.

  But no—Kayla’s such an open book. She couldn’t play me like that, could she?

  Her lips part, but no further sound comes out.

  I reach across the table and pick up her wrist, finding her pulse with my fingers. “Why do you ask?” I repeat, with a harder edge to my voice.

  She swallows. “C-curiosity.” Her pulse is quick because I scared her, but it doesn’t grow faster when she answers.

  I flip her wrist in my hand and brush my thumb across her pulse lightly to soothe away my harshness of a moment ago. “You really want the answer?”

  Her pulse skitters beneath the pad of my thumb. I can tell by her wide eyes that she already knows the truth, and it frightens her, but she nods.

  “Yes. I told you I was a killer when we met. It wasn’t a figure of speech.” My admission thuds onto the table between us like a heavy stone, crowding our plates and silverware, an ugly centerpiece no one wants to look at. “All of them deserved it, not that I believe that will save my soul.” I meet her gaze steadily. I resolved myself to being an executioner right after I dropped the first body for the Russian army. I never looked back. There’s a place in this world for men like me. We serve a purpose most aren’t willing to fulfill. But that place isn’t anywhere near Kayla Winstead. She’s far too pure. She’s not innocent, not weak, but she’s whole and undamaged. A man like me doesn’t belong in her bed or her life.

  She still hasn’t spoken. I release her wrist and sit back in case she’s ready to throw her napkin on the table and run. I wouldn’t stop her.

  “I’m not a nice man. I told you that when we met.”

  Her lashes flicker over her eyes, like she’s trying to keep them wide, to keep tears from spilling. “Do you remember what I told you?”

  I remember. I remember everything about that night. The way it felt to break her. The way it felt to hold her in my arms, afterward, and put her back together. The unspeakable sexual power that gave me.

  I clear my throat. “You said you trusted me.”

  She nods. “I still do.”

  “Blossom.” It’s a sigh. Or maybe a prayer. I should set her free—right now—but I can
’t bring myself to speak the words. I’m not ready to give her up. So instead, I say, “I promise I’ll let you go the moment you want out.”

  She draws back, and I watch a shiver move through her.

  “You’re scared,” I murmur, reaching for her fingers across the table and weaving mine through hers. “Are you scared of me?”

  “No.” She shakes her head.

  “Good. You’re safe with me, blossom. Always. You say the word, I back off. You know that, right?”

  She has a safe word. I’m telling her it extends beyond our play. If—no, when—she says red to this relationship, it ends. Because I know that day will come.

  3

  Kayla

  After dinner, I fish in my purse for my bottle of eye drops and shake it, but it’s empty.

  Pavel watches, his face impassive. “You okay?”

  “My eyes are itchy from allergies. I need to pick up some more eye drops. Maybe I can run to the drug store tomorrow.”

  “I can go tonight,” Pavel offers. “There’s one on the corner. I’ll take you back to the room and walk over.”

  “I can walk with you,” I protest, then quickly tack on a “Master.” It’s funny how much of a gentleman he is when we’re out of the bedroom.

  “You want to walk over? In your heels?”

  “Yes,” I say. The truth is, I don’t want to be separated from him. There’s so much emotional distance between the two of us still, I can’t stand any more physical. Especially when I only have him for a short weekend. I also don’t mind the heels. I have a high pain threshold—which comes in handy being Pavel’s slave.

  “All right, blossom. Let’s go.” I hear the shrug in his voice. The doorman holds the door open for us, and we walk out. I shiver at the night air, and Pavel curses softly in Russian. “You’re cold.”

  “I’m fine.” I step into his side, and he takes the hint, wrapping an arm around me and holding me close to his hip as we walk. He was right—there’s a drugstore just three-quarters of a block away, the neon sign shining, casting a blue glow on the sidewalk in front.