So much for Ivanna’s article. Somehow I managed to say, “Understood.”
“Then I’ll pay you three thousand—and you’ll be amenable to my interests.”
My knees almost buckled. That much money would be life-changing! Yet words were leaving my lips: “Make it five, and we have a deal.”
He stilled. Had I angered him? Blown everything? Mima, my island grandmother, had a saying: “Pigs get fat, hogs get slaughtered.” I was about to be bacon.
“Deal,” he said.
En serio? Wait, what had I agreed to? Amenable to his interests?
“I assume you’ll want to be paid in advance.”
Holy shit! “Yes, por favor.”
“Follow me.” He returned to the living room, heading toward a stylish briefcase on a console.
Once fifty bound Benjamins sat tucked in my purse, my fate had been sealed.
He took my empty glass from me, setting it down. I’d drunk that wine too? I might’ve been buzzed, but my nerves prevented it. Now that the thrill of the deal was fading, anxiety took its place.
He crossed to a suite, saying over his shoulder. “Come. I’m keen to see what five thousand buys me in Miami.”
I stiffened at the reminder.
At the bedroom entrance, he turned to me. “What’s your hesitation? Feigning shyness won’t be tolerated either.”
My thoughts were in a tangle. Two stood out. You’re going to be a hooker, Cat, warred with Five thousand dollars, idiota! Gut check? Oh, yeah.
But Ivanna was right; I would have sex with this guy for free.
Besides, my situation demanded drastic measures. Nothing this man could do to me would be worse than what Edward would do if he caught me.
Since he was my husband, and I’d foiled his plan to kill me.
With that in mind, I joined the Russian in the bedroom. What I saw on the bed made me freeze in my tracks.
CHAPTER 3
A ball gag. A crop. Leather restraints.
Ni en broma! Not on your life.
No, no, surely I could figure out a happy medium. This man had to be interested in more than BDSM. “Explain what you’d do to me.”
He coolly said, “Once you’ve stripped, you’ll go to your knees at the edge of the mattress, buckling the gag on yourself. I’ll bind your arms behind your back, and you’ll lean forward resting on your forehead. Then I’ll whip your body wherever it occurs to me to. When I’m satisfied with that, I’ll fuck you from behind.”
This sounded like a script. Like he did this with every escort.
He’d said nothing about kissing my nipples, nothing about petting me. In his scenario, we’d share the fewest points of contact possible while still technically having sex. He wouldn’t see my face or hear my voice. He wouldn’t even touch me to gag me!
I would be just a receptacle. Which he’d pretty much warned me about. A faceless, voiceless receptacle.
I’m not there yet. So my options were to walk out or try to change his mind. Nothing to lose by the latter. Why not make this into a fantasy? I could be anyone tonight. A femme fatale, a man-eater.
I told him, “While your script sounds . . . interesting, I don’t think that’s what you really want.”
His brows shot up. “You don’t.”
I turned toward the suite’s sitting area. All the windows and doors were open in the softly lit room. Gauzy moonlit curtains fluttered. I sauntered behind the couch. When I patted the back cushions, inviting him over, his lips thinned.
Long, anxious moments passed as we stared at each other. Heartbeat . . . heartbeat . . . heartbeat. Then it seemed like curiosity forced him to stride over.
When he took a seat, I smiled, sidling around in front of him. I stepped forward until he had to make room for me, spreading his knees.
I played with the sash on the side of my dress. “Would you like me to take this off, Ruso?” Russian.
Curt nod.
I slowly untied the sash. Letting my dress hang open like a robe, I gave him a curtained glimpse of my provocative black demi bra and thong set.
I couldn’t read him, couldn’t tell if he liked the view or not. He looked so cold.
So why was I getting hot stripping for him? I glanced at his big, masculine hands. What would they feel like squeezing my breasts or cupping my bare pussy? My nipples were taut, my panties growing moist. I never wore lingerie like this, and I felt hypersensitive after my waxing a couple of days ago.
I shimmied from my dress, tossing it to a neighboring seat. When I faced him in my underwear, he casually draped his arms along the back of the sofa.
“Turn in place for me.” He was so calm, detached even. This was like foreplay with a computer. A DDG computer. “Slowly.”
I reminded myself that I was playing the femme fatale. My two glasses of wine told me I was doing fine.
As I turned, I could feel his eyes on my cheeks, exposed in my tiny thong. Which only made me wetter. Furtive lubing would not be a problem. In fact, maybe I should leave my panties on for a little longer? It’d been a while since I’d had the time or energy to masturbate. What if I lost control?
Like everyone else on earth, when my body got turned on, my brain turned off. But mine was a total factory shutdown, a labor strike. I needed my wits to handle this guy.
I faced him again. Had his breaths shallowed a touch? “Show me your breasts. Let’s see if I like your size as much as you profess to.”
I removed my bra, tossing it in the direction of my dress. I was secretly proud of my pert breasts. They fit my body but were plump, with jutting nipples that were not quite pink and not quite tan. My small areolas we re raised, giving the peaks a slightly puffy look.