by Kresley Cole
CHAPTER 2
"Perhaps I was . . . hasty," he said. "Stay for a drink."
Had my ass worked for me? Was I happy about this?
When I turned and traipsed back, he headed to the bar area. This was actually happening. I was going to have sex for money.
Over his shoulder, he said, "I'm Maksimilian Sevastyan."
I turned it over on my tongue, finding his name a mouthful. In my mind, I styled him Maxim.
"Encantada. Nice to meet you. I'm Cat Marin." I glanced around for my donation. Nothing. Which made me uneasy, but I gamely bellied up to the bar.
"Is that your working name?"
My alias. "That's what they call me." And that was what my fake ID said, whenever I was forced to use it.
I'd chosen my grandmother's name of Catarina, and her mother's name of Marin, and then I'd assumed the identity completely. Though I missed being Lucia, that life was like a distant dream.
"What do you drink?"
Good question. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had alcohol. Maybe beer after a 5K race? "Um, whatever you're having."
"Vodka martini?" Probably not a good idea. "You must have a preferred cocktail."
I was about to say something stupid, like "Sex on the Beach!" but instead said, "White wine would be great."
"You seem uneasy."
I admitted, "I'm a little new to all of this."
"Uh-huh. I've booked many escorts. Not one has ever said she's been at this awhile."
He thought I was lying. I was the world's shittiest liar. Early on, I'd realized that anytime I'd been put into a position to tell an untruth, I'd resented it so much, I would stew for days. So I'd just stopped doing it. "I'm not lying to you."
He waved my words away, turning to the wine collection.
As he investigated the offerings, I studied him up close. He was clean-shaven, with smooth skin that looked newly tanned, but he had no laugh lines around his eyes. Weird. No wedding-ring tan line either. At least he was single.
His lips were firm, his white teeth even. A wide masculine jawline complemented his strong nose and chin, his broad cheekbones. His hair was close-cut on the sides, longer on the top. What would it feel like to run my fingers through it?
"There's a cellar somewhere on this floor, but I think you'll like this wine." When he uncorked the bottle, his muscles moved beneath his thin sweater. He wore a diving watch that probably cost more than my rat-trap apartment complex.
The only thing that could compete with the view of him was the view outside. The wraparound balcony had small torches along its clear glass railing. Past an infinity pool that I would kill to experience, I could see the ocean. A nearly full moon hung heavy in the sky.
"Go take a look." He poured a glass and handed it to me. "I'll meet you outside."
I wasn't supposed to do anything until I got paid, but after a quick risk/reward assessment, I said, "Okay." As I strolled past the pool, steam rose from the heated water. In fact, the entire pool deck was heated. I crossed to the balcony rail and sampled the wine, sighing at the taste. I could see the appeal of drinking with this on tap.
A warm gust blew, and I inhaled the salty air. My eyes went half-mast at the sound of the ocean. I could almost imagine I was on Martinez Beach. Nearly a century ago, my father's family had bought a long tract of oceanfront property near Jacksonville, putting it into a trust, never imagining the fortune it'd be worth today.
Short of returning there, I would have loved to remain in this city. Unfortunately the only Miami in my future was M.I.A.M.I.: Money Is A Major Issue.
If I made bank tonight, I could reboot somewhere as exciting, maybe LA or San Diego. I'd leave right after my last college exam, then get on with phase two of my reclaim-my-life plan: Disappear Forever. I'd buy a real fake ID (oxymoron?) and a social security number that would hold up under scrutiny.
Here I was dreaming about bank, when I hadn't gotten my donation, much less upsold him for more. I knew my hard limits, but other than that, I wasn't sure what I would do.
As I drank, I recalled the article Ivanna had made me read to help with my first date: The Top Ten Ways to Wow a Client. Suggestions included feigning breathless absorption when he talked, pretending affection, faking orgasms, and always telling him he was right.
Seriously?
Maxim joined me outside, with the wine bottle in one hand and his drink in the other. He set the bottle on a nearby table, then stood beside me. The moon bathed his face, lovingly highlighting all his chiseled features.
Though unpaid, I began to relax. Regardless of what else happened, I was presently in the Seltane penthouse with a client who might just give me the FOTC. Fuck of the century.
I took another sip. "Did you add crack sprinkles to this vintage?"
"I was fresh out of crack," he said in a derisive tone. "What do you think of the view?"
I grinned over the rim of my glass. "I suppose it's adequate. If you like this kind of thing."
At my attempt at humor, he tilted his head. "I looked you up on your agency's site." Only a couple of the items Ivanna had listed about me were true--two-thirds of my measurements and my status as a CAN, certified all natural, with no surgical enhancements.
I recalled the fake bio she'd read to me: I like dancing (I hated dancing) and yoga (jogger here). In my spare time (as if I had any!), I enjoy performance art (no, gracias) and shopping (a form of torture).
"Your photo's unusual," he said.
"Is it?" Ivanna had taken pics of me on an out-of-the-way beach. I'd worn black boy-short bottoms that rode up my cheeks, no top, mascara only, and my hair piled up on my head. She'd chosen one taken from the back that I hadn't posed for.
My head had been turned to the side as I gazed off at something. My eyes had been distant, because I'd been deep in thought--second thoughts--about this entire idea. Oh, and cursing Edward as usual.
The blood arcing across our bedroom . . . those ugly sounds . . .
Shake it off, Cat.
The Russian said, "It's not your typical boudoir shot with flattering lighting and risque lingerie."
"A hobbyist like you would know, huh?" I drank more wine, frowning when I reached the bottom of my glass. "I'm not really a simulated boudoir kind of girl."
Without a word, he refilled me. "What kind of a girl are you?"
A dogged survivor who believed in living to fight another day. But I told him, "A girl who believes in topless beaches for everyone. Viva la revolucion!" I thought that was funny, but he just tilted his head again.
"Your photo makes a man wonder what you're thinking about. That was by design, no?"
"I didn't choose the one that was uploaded." I'd only allowed Ivanna to use it because I'd looked a world away from the last pictures taken of me, when I was still a teenager.
"You're twenty-six?"
Ivanna had inflated the number. "Old enough to know better."
Maxim peered at my breasts. "Measurements: thirty-five, twenty-three, thirty-six?"
"Thirty-four and a half on a good day. I didn't put that up either. I like my size." I could go braless if I wanted to, but could still produce cleavage when necessary.
His brows drew together. I got the impression he was trying to fit me into a box, and having unexpected difficulties.
I could've told him, My ass won't fit, yo.
"You have a marked accent. Not native to the States?"
"I grew up in a Spanish-speaking household." With una madre loca, Catholic to the core. Despite her refusal to learn English, she'd homeschooled me until high school and kept most people away from our secluded beach. I didn't like thinking about my childhood, much less talking about it.
"In Miami?"
I shrugged. Questions like this made me nervous. The less anyone knew about me the better. Connections to others were breadcrumbs. That was why I didn't date, didn't socialize. Not that I had time between scrubbing toilets and going to school.
"You don't care to talk about yo
"Oh, you don't want to hear about my boring life. I have an idea: let's institute a no-personal-questions rule."
"And you think you can keep yourself from digging about me?"
If it kept him from doing the same? "Si."
"Very well, then let's get down to business. I believe this is the part where you upsell me."
Busted.
"I'll only need you for an hour or so," he continued, "but I don't like to be mindful of such things, so I booked half the night. How much will it cost to let me do anything I desire to you?"
What would a guy like this--gorgeous, rich, condescending--want? "Some things aren't on the table."
A flash of anger. "Everything is on my table, little girl."
This was turning into an issue. No, no, remember your mantra. When faced with a difficulty, good businesswomen said, "It's not a problem," then went to work fixing it.
"Though I'd love to get to know your body better"--I gave him a brazen once-over that seemed to surprise him--"I can't provide some of the services you might desire. There's not enough money in the world."
"Such as?"
"BBBJ. In fact, bareback anything is out."
"I have no interest in that. You replaced another tonight--I'll expect you to do what she would have. What I ordered from your agency."
I recalled Ivanna's kink specialization: bondage, discipline, submission, and the like. She had gear all over her apartment. Had this guy requested her for more than her looks?
As a vetted hobbyist, he couldn't be too dangerous. If he offered me enough money, could I trust a strange man to tie me up? To make me helpless?
No, gracias. My ability to trust was broken, like a fractured limb that had never been set, now shrunken and useless. I even refused to trust myself when it came to men.
But I didn't want to lose out on this money. "Why don't we take tonight as it comes? See where it leads us?" See where I can lead you. "I promise we'll both be satisfied."
He narrowed his blue eyes, and it was like a blast of icy air blew over me. "Do not play games with me. And don't mistake my intent--I couldn't care less if you enjoy this or not, so don't pretend to."
What a dick! Callate la boca, Cat! Shut your mouth--
"I won't tolerate feigned passion."
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.
When I squared my shoulders, the Russian's nostrils flared--finally a hint of passion from him!
"Very nice. I hadn't thought the view from the front could compete with the back."
Wow. An actual compliment. My attention was drawn downward. A very large erection pressed against the material of his slacks. Muy grande. Maybe too big? For all my fooling around, I'd only had intercourse with Edward, and he was nowhere near as well endowed.
"Continue."
Strip totally? Deciding against that, I stepped forward, straddling him. I rested my knees beside his hips, my hands on his shoulders. A breeze from the ocean drifted in, mingling with his intoxicating scent--a blend of sandalwood and simmering man. His scent made me tremble--it was like an unfair advantage, used to drug new escorts.
When I lowered myself atop the thick ridge of his cock, I could feel his heat even through our clothes. My eyes went wide; his narrowed.
I'd be taking his length inside me directly. The idea no longer filled me with hesitation. I shivered with desire. My nipples puckered even tighter, right before his eyes.
I wanted this man, this stranger.
I could count on one hand the number of guys who'd gotten me off. Most times had been accidental when I'd been fumbling in the backseat with a boy or grinding one at a keg party. Edward had never gotten close. Not that he'd cared. But this Russian--
"I did not invite you to straddle me," he snapped. His body went tense--angry tense.
I froze with confusion. Most guys liked it when topless girls straddled them.
"You just assume I wanted you atop me?" He couldn't sound more cutting. He grabbed me, lifting me to the side--as if to fling my body off him.
Yet then he stilled. His hands were so big on me, his fingers covered a good bit of my ass. After a hesitation--when we seemed suspended in the moment--he began to knead me. When he lowered his hands to grip my curves, a low groan escaped him. But he still held me upright.
Again, something was happening that I didn't understand, as if some inner battle were being played out. In my lust-dimmed mind, I wondered if he tied women up and fucked them from behind because he didn't like to touch too much of them.
Just when I'd decided that was the case, I found myself settled back over him, the raised bulge of his cock directly between my legs. Had I won this round?
His anger seemed to have been put on hold, but he wasn't ready to concede defeat. "You still refuse to give me what I want?"
And he was going along with my refusal? Emboldened, I leaned in next to his ear. "I'm going to give you what you need, Ruso." The wine and my arousal were making my own accent thicken even more. My stiffened nipples brushed the fine cashmere of his sweater, which felt incredible, so I skimmed them again.
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