The Master
Page 24
“I don’t know.” My sole experience with one had been horrifying.
Bent on uncovering Edward’s ace in the hole, I’d retrieved my father’s commemorative pistol, a gift from the Cuban government. I’d loaded the accompanying bullets, planning to shoot the ceiling to get Edward’s attention, like they did in movies. I’d also grabbed my mother’s rosary and donned it for courage.
At the end of the night, I’d been drenched in blood, fleeing a madman.
I swallowed. Shake it off, Cat. I told Sevastyan, “It must be reassuring to be so protected. . . .” I trailed off. I’d dampened the material of Máxim’s shirt and could make out marks on his back. Unable to stop myself, I tugged his shirt from one shoulder.
Muttering something that sounded like, “Get this over with,” he yanked it off.
I gasped. Scars covered his back from his neck down to his hips—crisscrossing lines of them, as if he’d been whipped—repeatedly. What the hell had happened to him? Who could have done that? No wonder he had issues with touching!
He rose and turned with his shoulders squared, a dangerous glint in his eyes. He grated, “Ask me what happened.”
I was the last person in the world to ask about something so personal. “That isn’t my business.” Sometimes I wanted to strangle people who stuck their nose in my own. “If you want me to know, you’ll tell me, and I’ll listen.”
He narrowed his gaze. “Only a handful of people have ever seen my back. If you find out the story behind the scars, you could sell it to a tabloid. Make a lot of money.”
I rolled my eyes. “Now you’re just pissing me off, pendejo.”
He tilted his head. He’d probably expected me to clasp my hands to my chest and tell him I would never sell a story!
“Look, Sevastyan, I don’t mind problems—I handle problems—but I hate when they’re unnecessary. So don’t do this with me.”
“You’re not going to make the observation?”
“What observation?”
“That I whip women because I was whipped.”
“That’s not why you do it.”
He raised his brows. “Thrall me with supposition.”
I said nothing.
He stabbed his fingers through his hair. “It drives me mad not knowing what’s going on in that head of yours.”
I couldn’t take his pain away, but I could acknowledge it. I could let him know he was still gorgeous to me. “Then I’ll show you what I’m thinking.” I climbed out of the pool and crossed to him. “Turn around, please.”
He hesitated. When he finally turned, I could tell he was holding his breath, wondering what I’d do.
Standing on tiptoe, I pressed a tender kiss to the highest scar, then lightly grazed my cheek against it. On a shuddering exhalation, he murmured, “Dushen’ka.”
I kissed and nuzzled the next line and the one below it, all the way down to the small of his back. When I got to his muscled ass, I pantsed him. I nipped one flawless, sculpted cheek, then started back up.
He turned, gazing down at me with his brows drawn. “Singular creature.”
I told him what I told myself whenever my guilt grew too painful: “It happened. It hurt. Better things await you.”
“Like what?”
“Like pouring champagne down my chest to drink from my nipples? While I ride you? That’s in your future if you want it.”
He swallowed. “A bright future for me, then. I’m long overdue for that.” He retrieved another bottle from the bar. . . .
While I rode him on a lounge chair, he drank and drank.
More champagne . . .
We made toasts to each other. He tickled me. When I tried to escape, he pinned my wrists above my head and played with my breasts till I writhed. “In case I haven’t told you,” he rasped, “I like your size as much as you do.” Then he rode me.
More champagne . . .
Room service arrived with pan-seared diver scallops, Wagyu beef tenderloins, and Beluga caviar. As we fed each other, he blamed me for how famished he was.
“Caviar is decadent!” I told him.
“I can’t believe you’ve never had it.” Voice gone gruff, he said, “There are many things I could show you.”
More champagne . . .
I lay on a float on my front as he pulled me around the pool, our faces close. We discussed books and business theory till the pads of my fingers pruned.
More champagne . . .
We reclined side by side on a double lounger, sharing a blanket, gazing up at the full moon and stars. I was seriously buzzed. But I liked the faint feeling of spinning; it made the sky twirl for me.
“I’ve divulged more about myself than you have,” he said, his voice rumbly with relaxation. “I can’t tell you how unusual that is.”
“Ask me light questions, and I’ll answer.”
“Very well. What was your first pet? A dog?”
“A goldfish. I never got to have a dog.”
“If you want one, why don’t you have one now?”
I stretched an arm over my head. “Ah, to be Máxim Sevastyan for a day. What you want, you get.”
“I want more answers from you, but I don’t get them.”
Bob and weave. “What was your first pet?”
“A gelding.”
“I’ve never been horseback riding.” There were plenty of farms on the coast, but my family’s mansion was isolated. I’d been secluded till I’d gone to high school. After that, all I’d cared about was partying.
Bent on uncovering Edward’s ace in the hole, I’d retrieved my father’s commemorative pistol, a gift from the Cuban government. I’d loaded the accompanying bullets, planning to shoot the ceiling to get Edward’s attention, like they did in movies. I’d also grabbed my mother’s rosary and donned it for courage.
At the end of the night, I’d been drenched in blood, fleeing a madman.
I swallowed. Shake it off, Cat. I told Sevastyan, “It must be reassuring to be so protected. . . .” I trailed off. I’d dampened the material of Máxim’s shirt and could make out marks on his back. Unable to stop myself, I tugged his shirt from one shoulder.
Muttering something that sounded like, “Get this over with,” he yanked it off.
I gasped. Scars covered his back from his neck down to his hips—crisscrossing lines of them, as if he’d been whipped—repeatedly. What the hell had happened to him? Who could have done that? No wonder he had issues with touching!
He rose and turned with his shoulders squared, a dangerous glint in his eyes. He grated, “Ask me what happened.”
I was the last person in the world to ask about something so personal. “That isn’t my business.” Sometimes I wanted to strangle people who stuck their nose in my own. “If you want me to know, you’ll tell me, and I’ll listen.”
He narrowed his gaze. “Only a handful of people have ever seen my back. If you find out the story behind the scars, you could sell it to a tabloid. Make a lot of money.”
I rolled my eyes. “Now you’re just pissing me off, pendejo.”
He tilted his head. He’d probably expected me to clasp my hands to my chest and tell him I would never sell a story!
“Look, Sevastyan, I don’t mind problems—I handle problems—but I hate when they’re unnecessary. So don’t do this with me.”
“You’re not going to make the observation?”
“What observation?”
“That I whip women because I was whipped.”
“That’s not why you do it.”
He raised his brows. “Thrall me with supposition.”
I said nothing.
He stabbed his fingers through his hair. “It drives me mad not knowing what’s going on in that head of yours.”
I couldn’t take his pain away, but I could acknowledge it. I could let him know he was still gorgeous to me. “Then I’ll show you what I’m thinking.” I climbed out of the pool and crossed to him. “Turn around, please.”
He hesitated. When he finally turned, I could tell he was holding his breath, wondering what I’d do.
Standing on tiptoe, I pressed a tender kiss to the highest scar, then lightly grazed my cheek against it. On a shuddering exhalation, he murmured, “Dushen’ka.”
I kissed and nuzzled the next line and the one below it, all the way down to the small of his back. When I got to his muscled ass, I pantsed him. I nipped one flawless, sculpted cheek, then started back up.
He turned, gazing down at me with his brows drawn. “Singular creature.”
I told him what I told myself whenever my guilt grew too painful: “It happened. It hurt. Better things await you.”
“Like what?”
“Like pouring champagne down my chest to drink from my nipples? While I ride you? That’s in your future if you want it.”
He swallowed. “A bright future for me, then. I’m long overdue for that.” He retrieved another bottle from the bar. . . .
While I rode him on a lounge chair, he drank and drank.
More champagne . . .
We made toasts to each other. He tickled me. When I tried to escape, he pinned my wrists above my head and played with my breasts till I writhed. “In case I haven’t told you,” he rasped, “I like your size as much as you do.” Then he rode me.
More champagne . . .
Room service arrived with pan-seared diver scallops, Wagyu beef tenderloins, and Beluga caviar. As we fed each other, he blamed me for how famished he was.
“Caviar is decadent!” I told him.
“I can’t believe you’ve never had it.” Voice gone gruff, he said, “There are many things I could show you.”
More champagne . . .
I lay on a float on my front as he pulled me around the pool, our faces close. We discussed books and business theory till the pads of my fingers pruned.
More champagne . . .
We reclined side by side on a double lounger, sharing a blanket, gazing up at the full moon and stars. I was seriously buzzed. But I liked the faint feeling of spinning; it made the sky twirl for me.
“I’ve divulged more about myself than you have,” he said, his voice rumbly with relaxation. “I can’t tell you how unusual that is.”
“Ask me light questions, and I’ll answer.”
“Very well. What was your first pet? A dog?”
“A goldfish. I never got to have a dog.”
“If you want one, why don’t you have one now?”
I stretched an arm over my head. “Ah, to be Máxim Sevastyan for a day. What you want, you get.”
“I want more answers from you, but I don’t get them.”
Bob and weave. “What was your first pet?”
“A gelding.”
“I’ve never been horseback riding.” There were plenty of farms on the coast, but my family’s mansion was isolated. I’d been secluded till I’d gone to high school. After that, all I’d cared about was partying.
