“No? Then all I know about you is that you decided to solve whatever problems you think you have—by selling your body. Bravo. Great idea.”
My jaw slackened. “Hipócrita! You’re going to give me shit about being an escort, when you’ve kept the entire industry afloat with your dick? Baby boy, do I need to teach you the law of supply and demand?”
“I know I’m a man with vices, but you’re young enough . . .” He scrubbed his palm over his face. “You could have gotten another job. You could have applied for scholarships or loans, gone to school. America is the bloody land of student loans! If you needed money, you could have borrowed from a relative or a friend until you’d saved up. Anything other than sell yourself!”
“Amazing. You think you’ve got me all figured out.”
“How many men have known your body? A hundred? Two hundred? A thousand? There had to have been an alternative.”
I feigned a look of surprise. “Why, I never explored alternatives to hooking!” Resuming my glare, I demanded, “Where is this coming from? It’s not like I sprang this on you.”
“No, you sprang a paternity play on me!”
“I know why you’re keeping me here, and it has nothing to do with entrapment. How fortunate for you that you could cook up this accusation. You’d do anything to have me here for your pleasure. Specifically me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You hired escorts and had your script because you didn’t want to touch another. You don’t use a crop on women because you were whipped; you do it to avoid touching them.” That muscle ticked in his jaw. Bingo. “Yet then I came along, climbing all over your body, and you could tolerate it. Even liked it. I’m unique to you. Something about me has your cock pointed due north. No wonder you want me more than I want you—I do things for you that no one else can.”
He crossed to me, clamping my nape with his hand. The feverish look in his eyes should’ve unnerved me.
Yet I never felt threatened for an instant. “Do you deny that, Ruso?”
“I don’t. I knew I was fucked from the moment I first got close to you.” He tightened his grip on me. “I saw you had freckles on your nose and your eyes were the color of new pennies. You smelled like pleasure itself.”
I exhaled a breath.
He dropped his hand. “So I’ll keep you as I please, until I can shake this.” Because of course he would shake it. “If you think you have me by the balls, you’re mistaken.”
In the haughtiest voice I could manage, I said, “I’ve got a monopoly on me—I control the supply of something you demand. So actually, I do have you by the balls! Oh, querido, the weight of them in my palm is making my hand tired.”
“I will be done with you,” Sevastyan vowed. “Just give it time.”
CHAPTER 18
After our fight, I turned up the radio on the deck and hit the pool in my bathing suit—or rather, my thong.
I’d found it in a little hotel bag, freshly laundered. The silk had a solid front on it and could pass for a bathing-suit bottom. No top? I’d pretend I was European.
For over an hour¸ I swam laps. Without my daily grind of running, scrubbing floors, and sprinting for buses across town, I had way too much energy.
Plus rule number four—I couldn’t allow myself to get soft. Rebooting in a new city was always tough. I’d be ready.
Unfortunately, I was still turned on, which meant that my nipples were hard. Without a bathing-suit top, water streamed over them, making me even hornier and more keyed up. A vicious cycle.
“Keeping your figure for all your sugar daddies,” Sevastyan observed as he strolled onto the pool deck. He wore a crisp charcoal-gray suit and an expression that said: I command all I survey. “Admirable.” He turned down the stereo volume with the waterproof remote.
“Who knows when you’ll be done with me?” I treaded water. “You might toss me back to my daddies this very day, into their frenzied, pawing clutches.”
His jaw clenched, that muscle ticking. Jealous, Ruso? “I’m leaving, won’t be back until after dinner.”
“What am I supposed to do all day?”
“Contemplate the many things I could’ve done for your punishment.”
“Is gulag an option? Maybe the place where they kept Pussy Riot? Sir, I’d like to be transferred to gulag, please.”
Ignoring that, he said, “Will you go against my command and touch yourself when I’m gone?”
Would I masturbate? As primed as I was from this morning’s cataclysmic oral sex, not to mention the belt all night? And then with nothing to do to distract me?
Hell yes.
There was that wicked gleam in his eyes. And there went my heart racing from the thrill. We both knew I’d get myself off, but he thought I was about to lie, to avoid the belt.
Though chastity had maddened me, I already kind of . . . craved it again. I craved the carnal excitement in his eyes when he’d locked me in—and when he’d freed me.
It might torment me, but I believed it would torment him too. I suspected the Russian would obsess all day about the woman he “owned,” about the lover he’d left trapped and yearning in chastity.
His first lover.
That leather lead would circle this powerful man’s neck—as if I’d placed a collar on him. The metal key would sear his chest.
With that in mind, I lifted my chin and said, “I plan to spend the day leisurely finger-fucking myself.”