Or plotting.
Then again, I could be wrong.
I slid my fingers around her lips, marveling at their sensuous natural color. So plump. So ripe. All I could think about was shoving my cock deep into her sweet little pussy. When I slipped them inside, rolling my index finger across her tongue, she made a gurgling sound.
"See how sweet you are?" I asked.
Without my command, she closed her mouth around my fingers, her tongue darting back and forth as she sucked. While I knew the rebellious brat had returned, I took a moment to enjoy the event; the way her eyes were half closed, as if riding the wave of ecstasy and the sheer sensations that rocketed every cell and muscle.
She cleaned every inch of my fingers, twisting and turning her head with every action. She also maintained her position, for which I would give her credit.
When I pulled out, she gave me a wry and very seductive smile.
"Pleasure and pain, sir. I'll remember that."
Everything about her actions was meant to rile me, and I hated to admit that it was working. I took another deep breath before walking around her, immediately striking her twice with the quirt.
She grimaced but kept quiet.
I issued four more, frustration grabbing at me.
She refused to react.
I rubbed my fingers down her spine as I towered over her, keeping my tone even. "One day, cherie, I will break you. On that day you will beg me to fuck you."
"I will never beg a man to do anything but die. Sir." Willow
I wanted to lash out as before, but with every experience I had with the brooding Russian, I was becoming more intrigued by Aleksei. There was such an extreme sadness, an aura of tragedy that I couldn't put my finger on.
He was obviously rich.
Stunningly handsome.
Intelligent.
Powerful.
But the word I truly thought of more often was damaged. As if his soul had been shattered into pieces. The experience in his playroom had been oddly freeing, far too much so, leaving me riddled with mixed feelings. Guilt. Shame. Uncertainty.
Desire.
I hated all of them.
Even the loathsome words I'd said to him, all of them meant to push every button, had left a bad taste in my mouth. I'd become just as hard and bitter as the man himself. Perhaps even more so.
I was mortified at the previous experience, the damn rubber piece a reminder that I belonged to him. Every time I moved, I was reminded of his dark and dangerous desires. I was shocked how full I felt, the plug actually making my pussy wet. How could I feel this way? A heated flush crept along my cheeks as embarrassment rushed into my mind even as the longing remained strong. What was this man doing to me?
He'd had staff prepare a table full of appetizers; crab and shrimp puffs, stuffed mushrooms, various pastries. I'd seen them work in a flurry, making certain the dining room table was set with candles and crystal wineglasses before moving back into the kitchen to prepare dinner. They'd left only minutes ago, but not before opening a bottle of cabernet.
Expensive cabernet.
Was the man actually trying to wine and dine me? Whatever the case, I'd poured myself a glass, enjoying the taste of limited freedom for a few more minutes. The aroma was amazing; hints of raspberry laced with a touch of vanilla. The man also had consummate tastes.
I heard his heavy footsteps and tensed, realized my arm was shaking. He'd allowed me to shower and change, leaving me to myself for a solid hour. I stood in his posh living room, staring out at the various lights shimmering from the depths of the luxurious pool. There wasn't a portion of the house that seemed like the man or his tastes. I couldn't get over how pleasant and comfortable, almost beach-like the setting.
While I wasn't allowed outside, according to his list of rules, the ambient lighting gave me a limited understanding of how lush the space truly was. A cabana. A waterfall. A tiki bar. What kind of mafia man had a tiki bar, for God's sake? Everything appeared as if with the idea of entertaining in mind. Did he even have friends?
I moved closer to the bank of French doors, pretending I cared nothing about his arrival. I could tell by his reflection in the glass that he'd stopped just inside the doorway. And he was staring at me.
"Krasivaya."
His Russian accent seemed huskier tonight, sending a smattering of prickles dancing down both arms.
I bit my lip before turning around, trying to give him my usual defiant air. Almost immediately it failed. He stood in an exquisite pair of charcoal linen pants, accompanied by a billowy white shirt. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was a model preparing for a romance cover shoot. The thought brought a wave of heat between my legs.
"What does that mean?" I dared to ask.
He walked closer, his eyes never leaving me. "That means beautiful."
Whatever had possessed me to wear one of the dresses his soldier had brought was beyond me. The simple plum frock did hug every curve, falling in all the right places. I felt a warm flush creeping along my jaw, threatening to give me away. "Your soldier brought me two types of clothing. Hardcore and fancy."
"I prefer you this way." He eyed the glass in my hand, offering a single slight smile before heading to the bar, pulling out a rocks glass from a hidden cabinet. "Women should always highlight their alluring features."
The man knew how to turn up the heat.
"You don't enjoy wine?" I asked with zero emotion.