The Professional
Page 27
“I bought it from a Saudi prince.” That would explain the heavy security, the private entrance. A guard and servants were already installed here.
“Sounds expensive.”
A hint of amusement. “I have money of my own, milaya.” Our first day on the road, he’d told me that when things settled down, we would need to discuss my inheritance, but I was in absolutely no hurry. Since then, we hadn’t talked about expenses or money until now.
He joined me at the railing, the situation reminding me of the first time I’d looked out from my balcony at Berezka. Except that now, Sevastyan wasn’t physically standoffish. He pulled me in front of him, my back to his front, and wrapped his warm arms around me. Resting his chin on my head, he locked me tight against his torso.
“When did you buy it?” I asked.
“Not long ago.”
Another vague answer to put with the rest of them. I bit my tongue. Sometimes I bit it so hard it bled.
Since that night on the boat, there’d been no progression of emotions—or intimacy.
He’d claimed me again and again, praising me, bringing me untold pleasure. After each time, he’d let me explore his body as intently as he’d explored mine. Nights of breathless discovery. I would drift off to sleep with my hands still caressing him.
But he never took me as he so clearly needed to. I’d find his gaze on my wrists—because he needed them bound. He’d nuzzle my ni**les, suckling them, but never grazing them with his teeth or pinching them up to the point of pain.
Yesterday, at a gas station in Germany, he’d been on the phone—again—so I’d wandered inside and made a purchase: a hard-core bondage magazine (it was just sitting in a rack of mags next to the motor oil!).
Once we’d gotten under way, he’d absently asked, “What do you have there?”
So I’d turned to a page I’d dog-eared while waiting for him, holding up one of the many pictures that had piqued my interest: a na**d woman bound by her wrists and ankles to what looked like a padded sawhorse.
She’d worn these really cool nipple clamps; they’d looked like someone had placed one conductor’s wand above the peaks, then another below, tightening the slim bars together with screws on the ends. Recalling how hard Sevastyan had pinched my ni**les in the banya—and how I’d loved it—I wanted to be clamped like that. At the mere thought, my ni**les had stiffened.
Once Sevastyan had registered what he was seeing, his pupils had dilated, his knuckles gone white on the steering wheel. Voice hoarse, he’d asked, “Is that what you think you want?”
I’d nodded. “You have a lot of experience with scenes like this, right?”
“Enough for both of us, so that we never have to descend to that level again.”
Descend? “You should know—since apparently you’re the only man I’ll ever sleep with—that I want to try just about everything once. My curiosity demands it.”
He’d swallowed, his throat working. “Like what?”
In as casual a tone I could feign, I’d said, “I loved it when you whipped me with the venik.” When the stinging had turned to heat and the heat to bliss. “So maybe we should raise the stakes and try a paddle, or something like”—I’d shoved an ad for a flogger at him—“this.”
My cool Siberian’s upper lip had beaded with perspiration.
“Or this.” I’d showed him a picture of a na**d and gagged woman trapped in a pillory. A fully dressed man was behind her, smacking her between the legs with a dogging bat, which looked like a leather-covered bookmark that flared at the end. “That must feel . . . electric.”
With a blistering curse, Sevastyan had snatched the mag from me, flinging it in the backseat.
I’d been certain he was about to pull the car over to ravish me on the side of the road. Yet he never had. He wouldn’t even discuss what I’d shown him—as if it’d never happened.
Basically, my relationship with Sevastyan was emotionally stunted and heading toward sexually frustrated. Two very big hurdles . . .
Now, as the lights of Paris twinkled in the distance, he turned me in his arms. “What are you thinking about?”
“The drive down. The magazine.”
He dropped his hands and drew away from me. Crossing to the railing, he rested his forearms atop it. “I’m not discussing that.”
I narrowed my eyes, filled with irritation and disappointment. But recalling his white-knuckled reaction to my choice of light reading made me realize I could wear him down. Tempt him to lose control. Maybe?
Of course, that would mean having to pay the piper. Was I ready to commit to a BDSM relationship with this man? Part of me wanted to, simply because it would at least be a defined relationship.
As we stood now, everything was up in the air, with zero stability. I was discovering that I liked stability. I’d liked living on one farm my entire childhood with steady-as-rocks parents. I’d liked settling in at one school.
Naturally, Sevastyan would feel differently after his hand-to-mouth existence as a child. But I needed more. . . .
“Talk about something else, Natalie, or we won’t talk at all.”
“Fine. We’ll discuss other things. Such as how you made so much money.” I’d had no idea he was independently wealthy to this degree, but it made sense considering he was a vor himself. Now I realized he’d lived at Berezka by choice, to be close to Paxán. The idea of that tugged at my heart. “Will you not tell me how?”
“I . . . fought.” He fell silent. I guessed he knew he’d have to give me something more, because he tried again. “In my teens and twenties, I fought in underground mafiya matches. It was lucrative for me.”
“I imagine you won lots.”
“I never lost one of those match-ups,” he said, not with conceit, but almost with . . . regret. In a lower tone, he added, “I am singularly suited to fighting, always have been.”
“How so?” Superior bone density? High pain threshold? I recalled Paxán telling me that he’d never seen anyone take hits like Sevastyan, and he’d only been thirteen at the time.
Ignoring my question, Sevastyan continued, “A few years ago, I realized I wouldn’t be able to fight forever. I had a business idea, and brought it to Paxán. He encouraged me to use my winnings to develop the scheme on my own.”
“What was it?”
“A way to smuggle cheap vodka into the country.”
“Isn’t Russia the land of cheap vodka?”
“It costs significantly less to buy it from the States, but our alcohol tariffs deter most from importing it. So I came up with a way to disguise the vodka from customs.”
“How?” I asked, fascinated.
“I had it dyed light blue with food coloring. Then we labeled the barrels as windshield-wiper fluid. Once in Russia, we reversed the dye.”
I grinned up at him. “That’s scarily brilliant.”
He shrugged, but I could tell he was pleased with my assessment. “It made millions, still does,” he said, again without conceit. Then he exhaled, gaze gone distant. “I help get cheap alcohol into the country. Ironic.”
“How’s that ironic?”
Attention back on me, he said, “Enough questions.”
I tilted my head at him. I’d had a victory—he’d told me more about himself than ever before. So should I let him off the hook?
I’d just decided I would when a lustful look arose on his face, the look I now recognized and breathlessly welcomed.
“I want to show you something.” He led me up the stairs, then through a foyer to a palatial bedroom suite.
Inside, I saw our bags beside each other. “This is our room?” Staying in hotels with a traveling companion wasn’t that big a deal. But it struck me that I was now living with a man.
At his place.
“You don’t like it?”
The room was decorated in understated colors, dark blue and cream. The counterpane over the immense bed was lush but refined, the walls papered with a tasteful design.
The furniture was a complementing mix of masculine and feminine. There was a sophisticated dresser for cosmetics and jewelry—that I no longer had—as well as a weathered leather ottoman that looked like it’d been stolen from some duke’s retiring room. Yet everything worked together. “What’s not to like? Is this what you wanted to show me?”
He shook his head, leading me into an attached office with a bulky door. Inside were a desk, a cot, storage closets, and several monitors displaying camera feeds.
“Is this a panic room?”
“Precisely.”
The feeds were from each area of the house. “The whole place is wired?”
“And one hidden outside.” It displayed Parisians walking down a side street, most gazing directly at the concealed camera. “I can watch every feed on my phone.” Sevastyan held up his cell, clicked an app, then showed me one. “So even when I’m not here, I can watch over you.”
Always watching me. “Does it record?” I asked in an innocent tone, but he’d already sensed the direction of my thoughts.
“If we wish it to. Or you could watch a feed live as it occurs.” He turned back into the bedroom, picking up a remote. A panel hummed, revealing a huge wall-mounted flat-screen.
With another press of a button, the TV came to life with a crystal-clear color view of the bedroom. The camera must be hidden in the molding on the wall opposite the bed.
He took off his suit coat, then moved to the bed, sitting back against the headboard. “Strip for me.” He clicked another button on the remote, dividing the screen between the bedroom and the street. It was as if strangers were with us, gazing directly into the room. With his eyes darkening, he said, “Strip for them.”
Oh, game on. This was the first even remote hint of kink since we’d had sex.
I pulled my hair down and shook it out over my shoulders; his gaze trailed over my mane, seeming to follow every curling lock.
With an indolent air, I unbuttoned my blouse; his hand headed south to rub the huge bulge already straining against his slacks.
I turned around when I shrugged off my top, keeping my back to him as I unzipped my skirt. The sound of his zipper joined mine. But I could see him on the TV, his gaze rapt on my ass as he fisted his cock.
God, that man aroused me beyond reason. I had a brief thought that he could be recording even this. The idea just turned me on even more. Any shyness I might have retained had been burned away by nights of his lovemaking, by his ardent gaze, his reverent touches.
This man liked my body and made no secret about it. So what was there to be shy about?
“Do you wish they could see you like this?” he asked as I shimmied from my skirt.
“I might.” Off came my bra.
“My little exhibitionist.” Just his rumbling voice had my ni**les budding. “Are you a voyeur as well?”
Considering my wee addiction to porn, I had to say, “Odds are.”
“Don’t remove your heels and thigh-highs—I’m going to f**k you with those on.”
I shivered at his words, reaching for my thong, the last item he’d let me slip off. I reveled in his heavy breaths as I inched the scrap of lace down to my ankles, stepping from it.
“Turn around so I can see what’s mine,” he commanded me.
As ever, any hint of his dominance sent a flutter through me. I slowly turned. Though he was still dressed, I flaunted my na**d attributes for him.
He looked mesmerized, his brows drawn tight, lips parted. Relishing his obvious pleasure, I squared my shoulders and cocked a hip out. “Like what you see, Siberian?”
“And it’s all for me alone. Come.”
With a sassy grin, I sauntered to the bed, climbing up to walk on my knees toward him.
“Straddle me.”
I situated one knee on each side of his h*ps and laid my palms against the high headboard—which put my crotch right before his face. Positioned like this, our gazes locked. His expression dared me to look away as he leaned forward to flick his tongue out. I gasped at the hard lash he gave my clit.
He did it again, burying his face deeper, not bothering to hide the fact that he was inhaling my scent. I raked my fingers into his ruffled black hair, rocking forward for more of his carnal mouth.
He licked my bud, tasting it till it was agonizingly swollen. His groans joined my moans as he ate me wetly, loudly—flicking and sucking with abandon until everything between my legs was sopping.
I perceived a droplet of my moisture trailing down my inner thigh, caught by the lacy garter-top of my hose. With a growl, he cleaned the lace with his tongue, sending my arousal spiraling. Then he set back in, ordering me, “Play with your ni**les. Roll them between your fingers.”
As I played, he spread me wider, nursing the hood of my cl*t until my legs trembled and my toes curled in my kitten heels. “Oh, God, Sevastyan, I’m close.”
Right when I was on the verge, he broke away with a sweet kiss.
I peered down with confusion. “But . . . but you can’t stop.”
“Just did, pet.” As he laid me back on the bed, I sputtered a protest . . . that fell mute when he rose to begin stripping. He made short work of his clothes, as if he didn’t want to miss a nanosecond of this.
I gazed on adoringly, riveted to his body moving, all ruthless hardness. Each of those hollows and rises had known my lips. The gunshot graze on his arm was almost healed, another bravely earned scar to join the rest of them.
Another mark for me to kiss.
Back in the bed, he maneuvered himself between my legs, fisting his shaft, aiming between my sodden curls. Even after all the times he’d taken me, I still went wide-eyed when he delved the head inside. He took care with his size, but I’d only been doing this for a few days.
“Sounds expensive.”
A hint of amusement. “I have money of my own, milaya.” Our first day on the road, he’d told me that when things settled down, we would need to discuss my inheritance, but I was in absolutely no hurry. Since then, we hadn’t talked about expenses or money until now.
He joined me at the railing, the situation reminding me of the first time I’d looked out from my balcony at Berezka. Except that now, Sevastyan wasn’t physically standoffish. He pulled me in front of him, my back to his front, and wrapped his warm arms around me. Resting his chin on my head, he locked me tight against his torso.
“When did you buy it?” I asked.
“Not long ago.”
Another vague answer to put with the rest of them. I bit my tongue. Sometimes I bit it so hard it bled.
Since that night on the boat, there’d been no progression of emotions—or intimacy.
He’d claimed me again and again, praising me, bringing me untold pleasure. After each time, he’d let me explore his body as intently as he’d explored mine. Nights of breathless discovery. I would drift off to sleep with my hands still caressing him.
But he never took me as he so clearly needed to. I’d find his gaze on my wrists—because he needed them bound. He’d nuzzle my ni**les, suckling them, but never grazing them with his teeth or pinching them up to the point of pain.
Yesterday, at a gas station in Germany, he’d been on the phone—again—so I’d wandered inside and made a purchase: a hard-core bondage magazine (it was just sitting in a rack of mags next to the motor oil!).
Once we’d gotten under way, he’d absently asked, “What do you have there?”
So I’d turned to a page I’d dog-eared while waiting for him, holding up one of the many pictures that had piqued my interest: a na**d woman bound by her wrists and ankles to what looked like a padded sawhorse.
She’d worn these really cool nipple clamps; they’d looked like someone had placed one conductor’s wand above the peaks, then another below, tightening the slim bars together with screws on the ends. Recalling how hard Sevastyan had pinched my ni**les in the banya—and how I’d loved it—I wanted to be clamped like that. At the mere thought, my ni**les had stiffened.
Once Sevastyan had registered what he was seeing, his pupils had dilated, his knuckles gone white on the steering wheel. Voice hoarse, he’d asked, “Is that what you think you want?”
I’d nodded. “You have a lot of experience with scenes like this, right?”
“Enough for both of us, so that we never have to descend to that level again.”
Descend? “You should know—since apparently you’re the only man I’ll ever sleep with—that I want to try just about everything once. My curiosity demands it.”
He’d swallowed, his throat working. “Like what?”
In as casual a tone I could feign, I’d said, “I loved it when you whipped me with the venik.” When the stinging had turned to heat and the heat to bliss. “So maybe we should raise the stakes and try a paddle, or something like”—I’d shoved an ad for a flogger at him—“this.”
My cool Siberian’s upper lip had beaded with perspiration.
“Or this.” I’d showed him a picture of a na**d and gagged woman trapped in a pillory. A fully dressed man was behind her, smacking her between the legs with a dogging bat, which looked like a leather-covered bookmark that flared at the end. “That must feel . . . electric.”
With a blistering curse, Sevastyan had snatched the mag from me, flinging it in the backseat.
I’d been certain he was about to pull the car over to ravish me on the side of the road. Yet he never had. He wouldn’t even discuss what I’d shown him—as if it’d never happened.
Basically, my relationship with Sevastyan was emotionally stunted and heading toward sexually frustrated. Two very big hurdles . . .
Now, as the lights of Paris twinkled in the distance, he turned me in his arms. “What are you thinking about?”
“The drive down. The magazine.”
He dropped his hands and drew away from me. Crossing to the railing, he rested his forearms atop it. “I’m not discussing that.”
I narrowed my eyes, filled with irritation and disappointment. But recalling his white-knuckled reaction to my choice of light reading made me realize I could wear him down. Tempt him to lose control. Maybe?
Of course, that would mean having to pay the piper. Was I ready to commit to a BDSM relationship with this man? Part of me wanted to, simply because it would at least be a defined relationship.
As we stood now, everything was up in the air, with zero stability. I was discovering that I liked stability. I’d liked living on one farm my entire childhood with steady-as-rocks parents. I’d liked settling in at one school.
Naturally, Sevastyan would feel differently after his hand-to-mouth existence as a child. But I needed more. . . .
“Talk about something else, Natalie, or we won’t talk at all.”
“Fine. We’ll discuss other things. Such as how you made so much money.” I’d had no idea he was independently wealthy to this degree, but it made sense considering he was a vor himself. Now I realized he’d lived at Berezka by choice, to be close to Paxán. The idea of that tugged at my heart. “Will you not tell me how?”
“I . . . fought.” He fell silent. I guessed he knew he’d have to give me something more, because he tried again. “In my teens and twenties, I fought in underground mafiya matches. It was lucrative for me.”
“I imagine you won lots.”
“I never lost one of those match-ups,” he said, not with conceit, but almost with . . . regret. In a lower tone, he added, “I am singularly suited to fighting, always have been.”
“How so?” Superior bone density? High pain threshold? I recalled Paxán telling me that he’d never seen anyone take hits like Sevastyan, and he’d only been thirteen at the time.
Ignoring my question, Sevastyan continued, “A few years ago, I realized I wouldn’t be able to fight forever. I had a business idea, and brought it to Paxán. He encouraged me to use my winnings to develop the scheme on my own.”
“What was it?”
“A way to smuggle cheap vodka into the country.”
“Isn’t Russia the land of cheap vodka?”
“It costs significantly less to buy it from the States, but our alcohol tariffs deter most from importing it. So I came up with a way to disguise the vodka from customs.”
“How?” I asked, fascinated.
“I had it dyed light blue with food coloring. Then we labeled the barrels as windshield-wiper fluid. Once in Russia, we reversed the dye.”
I grinned up at him. “That’s scarily brilliant.”
He shrugged, but I could tell he was pleased with my assessment. “It made millions, still does,” he said, again without conceit. Then he exhaled, gaze gone distant. “I help get cheap alcohol into the country. Ironic.”
“How’s that ironic?”
Attention back on me, he said, “Enough questions.”
I tilted my head at him. I’d had a victory—he’d told me more about himself than ever before. So should I let him off the hook?
I’d just decided I would when a lustful look arose on his face, the look I now recognized and breathlessly welcomed.
“I want to show you something.” He led me up the stairs, then through a foyer to a palatial bedroom suite.
Inside, I saw our bags beside each other. “This is our room?” Staying in hotels with a traveling companion wasn’t that big a deal. But it struck me that I was now living with a man.
At his place.
“You don’t like it?”
The room was decorated in understated colors, dark blue and cream. The counterpane over the immense bed was lush but refined, the walls papered with a tasteful design.
The furniture was a complementing mix of masculine and feminine. There was a sophisticated dresser for cosmetics and jewelry—that I no longer had—as well as a weathered leather ottoman that looked like it’d been stolen from some duke’s retiring room. Yet everything worked together. “What’s not to like? Is this what you wanted to show me?”
He shook his head, leading me into an attached office with a bulky door. Inside were a desk, a cot, storage closets, and several monitors displaying camera feeds.
“Is this a panic room?”
“Precisely.”
The feeds were from each area of the house. “The whole place is wired?”
“And one hidden outside.” It displayed Parisians walking down a side street, most gazing directly at the concealed camera. “I can watch every feed on my phone.” Sevastyan held up his cell, clicked an app, then showed me one. “So even when I’m not here, I can watch over you.”
Always watching me. “Does it record?” I asked in an innocent tone, but he’d already sensed the direction of my thoughts.
“If we wish it to. Or you could watch a feed live as it occurs.” He turned back into the bedroom, picking up a remote. A panel hummed, revealing a huge wall-mounted flat-screen.
With another press of a button, the TV came to life with a crystal-clear color view of the bedroom. The camera must be hidden in the molding on the wall opposite the bed.
He took off his suit coat, then moved to the bed, sitting back against the headboard. “Strip for me.” He clicked another button on the remote, dividing the screen between the bedroom and the street. It was as if strangers were with us, gazing directly into the room. With his eyes darkening, he said, “Strip for them.”
Oh, game on. This was the first even remote hint of kink since we’d had sex.
I pulled my hair down and shook it out over my shoulders; his gaze trailed over my mane, seeming to follow every curling lock.
With an indolent air, I unbuttoned my blouse; his hand headed south to rub the huge bulge already straining against his slacks.
I turned around when I shrugged off my top, keeping my back to him as I unzipped my skirt. The sound of his zipper joined mine. But I could see him on the TV, his gaze rapt on my ass as he fisted his cock.
God, that man aroused me beyond reason. I had a brief thought that he could be recording even this. The idea just turned me on even more. Any shyness I might have retained had been burned away by nights of his lovemaking, by his ardent gaze, his reverent touches.
This man liked my body and made no secret about it. So what was there to be shy about?
“Do you wish they could see you like this?” he asked as I shimmied from my skirt.
“I might.” Off came my bra.
“My little exhibitionist.” Just his rumbling voice had my ni**les budding. “Are you a voyeur as well?”
Considering my wee addiction to porn, I had to say, “Odds are.”
“Don’t remove your heels and thigh-highs—I’m going to f**k you with those on.”
I shivered at his words, reaching for my thong, the last item he’d let me slip off. I reveled in his heavy breaths as I inched the scrap of lace down to my ankles, stepping from it.
“Turn around so I can see what’s mine,” he commanded me.
As ever, any hint of his dominance sent a flutter through me. I slowly turned. Though he was still dressed, I flaunted my na**d attributes for him.
He looked mesmerized, his brows drawn tight, lips parted. Relishing his obvious pleasure, I squared my shoulders and cocked a hip out. “Like what you see, Siberian?”
“And it’s all for me alone. Come.”
With a sassy grin, I sauntered to the bed, climbing up to walk on my knees toward him.
“Straddle me.”
I situated one knee on each side of his h*ps and laid my palms against the high headboard—which put my crotch right before his face. Positioned like this, our gazes locked. His expression dared me to look away as he leaned forward to flick his tongue out. I gasped at the hard lash he gave my clit.
He did it again, burying his face deeper, not bothering to hide the fact that he was inhaling my scent. I raked my fingers into his ruffled black hair, rocking forward for more of his carnal mouth.
He licked my bud, tasting it till it was agonizingly swollen. His groans joined my moans as he ate me wetly, loudly—flicking and sucking with abandon until everything between my legs was sopping.
I perceived a droplet of my moisture trailing down my inner thigh, caught by the lacy garter-top of my hose. With a growl, he cleaned the lace with his tongue, sending my arousal spiraling. Then he set back in, ordering me, “Play with your ni**les. Roll them between your fingers.”
As I played, he spread me wider, nursing the hood of my cl*t until my legs trembled and my toes curled in my kitten heels. “Oh, God, Sevastyan, I’m close.”
Right when I was on the verge, he broke away with a sweet kiss.
I peered down with confusion. “But . . . but you can’t stop.”
“Just did, pet.” As he laid me back on the bed, I sputtered a protest . . . that fell mute when he rose to begin stripping. He made short work of his clothes, as if he didn’t want to miss a nanosecond of this.
I gazed on adoringly, riveted to his body moving, all ruthless hardness. Each of those hollows and rises had known my lips. The gunshot graze on his arm was almost healed, another bravely earned scar to join the rest of them.
Another mark for me to kiss.
Back in the bed, he maneuvered himself between my legs, fisting his shaft, aiming between my sodden curls. Even after all the times he’d taken me, I still went wide-eyed when he delved the head inside. He took care with his size, but I’d only been doing this for a few days.
