He pulled me closer, lowering his head. His scent washed over me, sending shivers over my body. "I think you missed me, Katya."
Oh, my name in his accent made my toes curl!
Right at my ear, he said, "I think you replayed what we did, and it made your soft little pussy wet."
His rasped words turned me on so fast and so hard, I gasped. His mouth descended over mine. I tasted a bite of vodka as he gave me sensuous flicks of his tongue.
So much for my wall and boundaries. I welcomed his kiss, lapping back. Just like that, the fire raged, and my fingers dug into his shoulders. When he clamped my thigh to his hip, I rocked my hips to him.
He broke from the kiss to ask, "Did you miss this"--he thrust his hard cock against me--"for two days?"
I moaned, nodding, grinding back.
"It wouldn't take much to make you come, would it?" He nuzzled my neck. "Rub your sweet clit with my thumb and you'd go off."
"Try me--"
My stomach growled. Loudly.
He drew back, releasing my leg. "You haven't eaten dinner?"
I shook my head.
Seeming to wrestle with a huge decision--which involved peering at my legs, my lips, my hard nipples--he sighed and said, "Let's go down to the bar for some food."
Why not call for room service? "Are you wanting to feed me, or show me off in this dress?"
"Maybe both."
CHAPTER 9
In the elevator, his towering frame and palpable energy took over the space. He trailed the backs of his fingers up my spine, making me shiver again. "So sensitive."
Downstairs, as we headed to the outside bar, he kept a proprietary hand on my back. Taller than all the other men, he walked with his chin up and his shoulders squared--utterly arrogant. Which I kind of enjoyed, when it wasn't directed at me.
The Seltane's outdoor area was breathtaking, with giant palms, multiple small pools, and luxurious seating nestled in romantic alcoves. He squired me away from others, closer to the ocean. Though two sofas wrapped around the candlelit table, we sat on the same one.
Our server--Tiffani!--was a tall blonde with a striking face. I expected Sevastyan to drool over her, but he was very attentive to me. He selected a white wine, a specific vintage that must be expensive; Tiffani raised her brows. He ordered a vodka martini for himself, telling her, "We need something to eat, something quick. Have the chef surprise us."
As we waited for drinks, I relaxed back on the sofa, determined to enjoy the lavish setting. My lids went heavy as a breeze wafted over us, dancing with the table's candle flame. Palm fronds fanned above. The now full moon was tinged with yellow and painted the waves.
While I was gazing at the ocean, he'd been gazing at me.
"What?"
"I can't figure you out. I can figure everyone out. I've met spies less secretive than you." Spies? As a politician-- or mafiya heavy--did he mean that literally? "Are you so secretive because you fear another besotted client? I'm sure you've had your share."
I teasingly said, "Should I be worried about you?"
"You looked me up online--what do you think?"
"Your long trail of brokenhearted blondes tells me your heart is bulletproof. Just like mine." I said this so confidently, but I could see my interest in him deepening--if he stayed warm like this.
Tiffani returned with our drinks.
After she'd gone, I sipped more crack ambrosia. Over the rim of my glass, I said, "You have excellent taste in wine for someone who never drinks it."
"Nothing but the best."
So I'd figured. I was beginning to suspect he'd preferred tall blondes because they represented cachet. He'd had no problems with my looks Monday night or tonight.
"Back to the subject at hand," he said. "Could I tempt you to tell me about yourself if I paid--"
"No."
He raised his brows. "I'm to ask you zero personal questions, but you can read whatever you like about me?"
"Should I believe everything I read?"
"Absolutely not." He shook his head. "You know my net worth, yet you continue to treat me as if I'm an aggravation."
"Monday night, I was delighted with you--but then you were cruel to me."
He opened his mouth to say something, closed it, then tried again. "That night was . . . different." He gazed out at the water as he said, "I expected you to do the escort spiel and resented it. I wanted nothing to color the experience."
What did he mean by different? Surely he expected me to ask. So I didn't. "I do know your net worth. You should pat yourself on the back for a good job. But it won't affect my behavior."
He faced me. "Oh, really?" His words were tinged with ice.
The man thought I was cozying up to him for his money. The irony! "Your wealth is an abstract--it's leprechaun gold to me."
Why would I dream about his money--instead of my own? There'd been a few million liquid, but Edward had probably blown through that much searching for me. He still had the mansion, but not Martinez Beach.
Each decade, the strength of the land's trust eroded; in time, a lawyer like him could figure out a way to circumvent the trust. With resort encroachment on both sides, its value would be through the roof.
Others had had the same idea. Developers had hounded my mother constantly, one reason she'd become a shut-in.
"I could almost believe you," Sevastyan finally said. When I shrugged, he asked, "How much of your online bio is true?"
"Not a lot."
"You don't like dancing, yoga, and shopping? What do you do for fun?"
"I can't dance, I scoff at yoga, and I despise shopping. I'm a runner, and I don't have spare time for fun."
A muscle ticked in his wide jaw. Of course he would take that to mean: I'm always on my back. "I have little time myself. Most of my life is dedicated to business."
"Hmm."
"Hmm, what?"
I ran the pad of my forefinger around the rim of my glass. "You could've had fun Monday night. You missed out on the time of your life."
"Did I? Tell me what we would've done."
"The party would've begun right after you screwed my ever-loving brains out on the couch. Instead of getting rid of me when I patted your ass, you would've laughed. Maybe even tickled me. Wrestling would've ensued, and I might have let you win. Then we would've had another round of drinks and gone swimming." I fake-examined my nails. "If you must know, seeing me dive naked would've been life-changing for you."
"Would it, then?" His blue eyes grew lively. His charisma was off--the--charts. "Continue."
"We would've had sex again. In the water. Then, after more drinks, I would've ridden you on a lounge chair until your eyes rolled back in your head."
He groaned low. "MSOG?"
Multiple shots on goal. "Sometimes I forget what a hobbyist you are."
"The hobbyist and his courtesan. How long have you been doing this?"
"Would you believe me if I told you that you were my first client?"
"Nyet."
"Wow. Don't even want to think about your answer?"
"I 'strong-armed' an escort into a date and purchased her private line for ten thousand dollars. Before that, I downloaded her goddamned picture to my phone. If I'm to be brought this low, it shouldn't be at the hands of a rank novice."
My pique passed. "Is there a compliment in there?" Had he truly downloaded my picture?
"You fuck too well to be anything but a pro."
"Thanks?" Maybe he liked the idea of me being a professional. If I convinced him I wasn't, maybe the thrill would be gone for him.
And did it matter when I'd never see him again?
"Is Cat short for Catherine? Or maybe Catarina or Catalina?"
"I'm just Cat."
"Tell me your real name."
"That's not even on the table."
"Like I said, everything's on my table. I'll get it out of you sooner or later."
How long did he think this arrangement was going to continue? "You
better hurry. You return to Russia soon, no?"
"I've decided to stay until the twenty-eighth. My older brother is getting married in Nebraska that weekend, so I'm remaining in the States till then."
Could I have had something to do with his decision?
He sipped his drink, waiting for me to reply. And waiting . . . "This is where you angle for multiple dates, telling me you'll show me the town."
Angle? That was something Edward would do. I gave Sevastyan a tight smile and patted his shoulder. "I'm sure you'll get up to something. Have fun."
His lips parted. "I gave you an in, and you didn't take it. I find you a very singular creature."
I laughed. "I'm singular? Psst, I'm not the one who gets off on whipping strange women."
He gave me that DDG smile. "This is precisely what I'm talking about. You know what I'm worth, but you still give me lip. It's incredibly refreshing."
For once my sass (as my mother used to call it) was working for me!
"Unlike every single other escort I've been with, you didn't try to upsell me after sex; you simply took my money."
I jutted my chin. "You deserved that."
"Maybe I did," he conceded. "And you didn't feign passion. In fact, you insisted on your own pleasure."
"You're a good-looking man. I find it hard to believe that no one gets turned on when they're with you." I glanced down. When had we gotten so close together? We now sat thigh to thigh.
"They have their reasons. Some have admitted that they keep that part of themselves separate from their clients. I've observed others so busy thinking about upselling me, or even landing me, that they don't relax."
And I'd told him, "Ow! Hold up." I had to stifle a laugh.
"Or else an escort bills herself as a submissive, when she's anything but. I've had many who swear they enjoy discipline and bondage, yet then I would see no evidence of it."
Ivanna had told me that she initially enjoyed it. But one day she'd had five outcalls, had been tied up and whipped by five amateurs. Her experience had soured her on it.
"It's not easy to find a true submissive," the Russian continued. "One who's beautiful and available would be snapped up." He peered at me keenly.
Though I was beginning to suspect that kink with Maxim might just blow my mind, I wasn't ready to sign on. "How did you discover your interest in that?"
He leaned back, glass in hand. "I'm in the business of information. For many years, I've brokered in it. I was investigating a particular man--one I thought I knew well--when I learned of his darker . . . leanings. I wanted to understand what drew him to that type of life. The more I learned, the more curious I became. I tried it and found it suited my needs."
He didn't sound like a man who'd discovered a secret passion and reveled in it. He talked about BDSM almost mechanically. "So you enjoy it."
"It suits my needs," he repeated.
"Then what made you decide to call for me today?"
"I was at a yacht party yesterday, hosted in my honor. Many businessmen attended, and even more escorts. As I had no intention of calling you again--and proving you right--I gravitated toward my usual." He swirled ice in his glass. "But the blondes weren't doing it for me. Figuring my tastes had changed, I approached a petite Latina. Didn't work out either. Still I fought the impulse to call you. I made it to this afternoon. When I pulled up your picture, I decided I'd have what I truly wanted."
Had he slept with the Latina? Me on Monday, her on Tuesday, me on Wednesday night? "So you had a taste test of sorts. I guess I outperformed her in bed?"
"I didn't fuck her or anyone else there."
I exhaled, relieved once more.
"And no one at that party was using a bed."
"It sounds like an orgy." Dios mio. "Do you often attend them?"
"I wouldn't say often." He turned my question back on me. "Do you?"
"I've never been to one." I was open-minded about sex, but an orgy would never be in the cards for me. "That's not my speed."
"Have you ever slept with more than one man at a time?"
"I've never had sex with more than one man." He'd think I was talking about at one time. And he would still disbelieve me. "I don't want to."
"Earlier, you balked hard. That's unusual in your line of work, no? Still, I can see it."
"Why?"
"I'll wager your clients can barely handle you, much less another added to the mix."
"Thanks. I think." I drank.
"Have you ever even tried BDSM?"
I shook my head. "I wouldn't want to be struck."
"There's more to it than that," he said. "Whipping a woman is not a favorite aspect of mine."
"Then why was a crop part of your script?" Maybe because it limited touch even more?
"If you've never tried any of it, then how do you know you won't like it?" He'd deflected my question.
Because of my ineptitude at lying, I dodged and deflected, bobbing and weaving, and I was attuned to similar tactics in others. "I liked Monday night," I told him, dodging his own question. "I liked how the weight of your body pressed down on mine, and our skin touched all over, and I could feel your big muscles flexing." I leaned in, wanting closer to the heat emanating from him. At his ear, I murmured, "When your chest rubbed over my nipples while your cock plunged, I came until my vision blurred."
He inhaled sharply. "We should return. Now."
"We'll ditch--"
"Here we are!" Tiffani said, tray in hand. She was probably puzzled when we both scowled at her.
My scowl faded once she uncovered the dishes. Lobster salad with citrus dressing, and langostinos accompanied by truffle-butter risotto. The bottle of wine sat at my disposal.
I moaned with my first bite. I was indulging in a meal like this--when I'd planned on nothing more than a can of soup. "Esta como para chuparse los dedos. This is delectable."
"I wasn't hungry before, yet now . . . I think you increase all of my appetites," he said, his words loaded with innuendo. But when he met my gaze, I got the feeling he was telling me something more. Between bites, he asked, "Aside from jogging, what are your other interests? And that shouldn't count as a personal question."
What had I enjoyed doing before my life had changed so drastically? "I like to cook." My mother had taught me. It seemed we only got along when we prepared dishes together, neither talking, soft Cuban music playing on the radio. Though I looked so much like her, we'd been opposites in every way. She'd rarely smiled or laughed, yearning for the religious life she'd given up for my father. "I love swimming, reading, and hanging out with friends." Past tense. I missed having friends.
I'd had a great group in Jacksonville--loud and ballsy, each one. I missed swapping dirty jokes. I missed laughing and confiding.
When I'd gotten married, I'd grown apart from them. To bury my head in the sand about my disaster of a marriage, I'd buried myself in school, racking up twenty-one credits a semester, over and over.
"What are you thinking about?"
Edward, Edward, Edward. I shrugged.
"I can't stop wondering what's going on behind those beautiful eyes of yours."
"Nada." He'd called my eyes stunning last time.
"You truly don't enjoy shopping?"
"I hate it. This dress is a loaner." Gracias, Ivanna.
The only fun I had each week was cleaning her condo. As I washed windows, she would paint her long nails and tell me stories about escorting. I got a weekly earful about debauched nights, bizarre clients, and tried-and-true techniques.
But I never told her anything about myself. She had family back in the Ukraine that she was desperate to bring over. If she saw a reward for information about me, she would choose her family over me. I didn't begrudge her, but I also didn't share anything unnecessary.
Sevastyan asked, "Would you want to shop if I said we could go pick up a bauble right now? Get a store to open for us?"
Now he was just screwing with me. I wondered if he did that with other p
eople. "Delaying sex for food is one thing. For dinner and shopping? Silly Ruso."
"You make a valid argument."
By the time Sevastyan and I had finished eating, I'd had two glasses of wine, commanding myself to take it slow on my third.
"I don't have to ask if you enjoyed the meal," he said. "You got a blissful look on your face with each bite."
"That obvious, am I?" It couldn't have been helped. Whenever I was with the Russian, everything felt amplified. The taste of wine. The texture of food. The feel of his fingers tracing my back. The pleasure in a kiss--or a climax.
"I like when I can tell what you're thinking and feeling, dushen'ka."
"What does that word mean?"
"It's a way of calling you 'dear.' " He stretched his arm behind me, and I found myself curling up against his chest. An unexpected sense of ease bloomed between us. Almost like deja vu, as if I'd been with him before.
The last thing I needed was to become infatuated. We were in a transactional relationship--which was going nowhere. Boundaries, Cat. Build the wall.
He trailed his fingers over my arm. "I never thought I'd meet a woman with more secrets than I." His voice was low and relaxed. "And you ask so little about me."
"What should I be asking? What would you ask if you were me?"
"Why I was in Miami in the first place. For politician or mafiya business. You must have read about my syndicate ties."
"I don't think I want to know about the dealings of la mafia Rusa."
"Are you certain?" His tone was coaxing, as if he dangled bait. Screwing with me again. "I'm open to talking about my activities."
I was only going to be with him for another couple of hours, so what did it matter?
"I've never been with a date who didn't dance toward the subject."
Those actresses and models? Or the paid help? I drew back to cast him a bored look. "No thanks. I watched The Godfather once. I'm sure you can't improve on that."
He canted his head. "I guess that disproves Vasili's suspicion."
"Which is?" I reached for my glass, taking a sip.
"He believes you're a plant, paid for by my enemies or the tabloids to dig up information. I think I'm too proud to tell him that you have very little interest in me."
I frowned. Edward had made my pride sing with pain. I remembered yelling at him: "How can you be married to a woman you don't desire? Why won't you go to counseling with me?" Without looking up from his computer, Edward had said, "I'm so sorry, Ana-Lucia--are you still talking?"