The Master

by Kresley Cole

  When he tickled my clit, I moaned, beginning to grind on him. I undulated, impaled, using his shaft.

  He pressed his lips to the spot where my shoulder met my neck. With an openmouthed kiss, he licked my sweat, rasping against my skin, "Mine."

  Ay, Dios mio, it is so good! The message he'd written was true. Too good. I needed my boundary!

  As if he knew I wanted to resist him, he commanded, "Surrender," as his fingers covered my clit, rubbing side to side, fast, hard.

  My eyes slid closed, my mind shutting down, almost like that headspace I'd craved.

  Sensation ruled me.

  I was aware of his cock, his hands--and his rumbling voice. I held on to the sound of it, as if he were leading me home. I moved on him like I'd never moved, keening his name. I craned my head back to get his mouth on mine, knowing he'd share the taste of my sweat and brand my mind with memories.

  When I came, I was shaken, my cry against his lips plaintive. Don't do this to me.

  In answer, his warm cum flooded me, as if to repeat, "Mine."

  For how long . . . ?

  His body quaked with after-shudders, his arms locked around me. He clutched me tightly, as if I were a treasure he'd never part with.

  "That merely took the edge off." He nipped my earlobe. "I'm nowhere close to satiation." There was a smile in his voice. Someone was having a great morning.

  Setting me up for a crash. I disentangled myself from his arms, levering myself off his still hard dick.

  He hissed in a breath. "That was . . . abrupt."

  Without looking at him, I stepped from my shorts, toeing off my shoes and socks. I made my way to the shower.

  Denying my escape, he joined me under the cascade, dragging me close. He peered down at my face, but I gazed away.

  "Ah. I think you enjoyed that too much. I know I did. Does it make you uneasy?"

  "Why do you have to sleep with me?" I demanded. "You don't even like me. You keep your things in the master bedroom. Why don't you keep yourself there?"

  "Hmm. Maybe we should both sleep in my room, the master's bedroom. Perhaps I'll have your treadmill and your things transferred."

  I'd wanted separation--not more closeness! "You said you'd be done with me. Why aren't you? How long will you keep me?"

  His hands dropped to my ass, palms covering my curves. "I've observed that you're much more affectionate with the belt--"

  "Not today!"

  "Why?"

  "I need to think."

  "Then I'll have to coax your affection myself?" He leaned down and pressed his lips to mine so tenderly, kissing me and kissing me and kissing me . . . until I was docile in his hands. He soaped my body, bathing me, exploring. Every touch was its own seduction.

  Why was he bothering to seduce me? I was here at his "disposal." What was his game now?

  Soon I was trembling for it again.

  He lifted me. "Wrap your legs around me." With a forearm under my ass and an arm looped around my shoulders, he worked me on his cock.

  When we came, with our foreheads together as we shared breaths, I wondered, Why fight this . . . ?

  Once we'd dressed, an extravagant breakfast spread awaited us on the pool deck. He'd ordered in advance, what looked like every item on the menu.

  "To discover which are your favorites," he explained.

  When he smiled at me, I realized he was responding to my own grin. Dick. Why fight?

  Yet then his phone rang. Sevastyan answered with a resigned exhalation. Soon his expression darkened. Must be Dmitri.

  I got the impression that Maxim had lost himself for a while this morning, and now was being harshly reminded of . . . something.

  He looked increasingly angry--at me, as if I was the one who'd distracted him, from whatever it was he should never forget.

  I sat on the couch, reading as a breeze fluttered the curtains and teased the curls around my face. I'd noticed that Sevastyan preferred the doors and windows open whenever possible, so I'd opened the line of them facing the pool.

  Since that phone call, he'd been distant, his mood clearly depressed.

  All morning, he and I had passed each other, gravitating toward one another, yet saying nothing. He'd read this same business journal by the pool while I was swimming. Or he'd appeared to. In reality, he'd been very interested in my bathing suit--a white one-piece woven from thin strips of material. His fascinated gaze had followed the webbing as it moved with my body.

  Now he sat on the other couch with a newspaper open, but he didn't read it. His ocean-blue eyes were grave as he stared out at the matching water. What was he mulling over?

  I could swear he struggled with a decision.

  He checked his phone, texted something, then abruptly stood. He looked at me, parting his lips. Thinking better of whatever he was about to say, he turned toward the door. "Vasili will be outside." Then he left me.

  Que? I was going to be alone on Christmas Eve? Yet another miserable, lonely one.

  If he was teeing me up for a crash, I should at least get the benefit of company today.

  For the last three holidays, I'd been undergoing the hard task of rebooting. The Christmas before those, Edward had left me to go on an "unexpected business trip." Probably a vacation with Julia that I'd unwittingly funded.

  I thought back to the last Christmas I'd enjoyed. I'd cooked with mi madre, a traditional Nochebuena dinner.

  Maybe I should cook today? I rose and strolled to the kitchen, checking pots, pans, and equipment. There were four convection ovens, warming drawers, two microwaves, and a steam oven--all brand-new and hi-tech.

  I hadn't been in a fully functioning kitchen in ages--had never been in one as modern as this--and I missed cooking. I could order ingredients through Alonzo.

  Preparing a meal would relax me, setting my mind right. That was the only reason I would do it. Not because I wanted to show off for Sevastyan.

  He probably wouldn't even return until late. I'd known he would want to spend the holidays with someone other than me!

  His loss. I'd treat Vasili and his battalion of bodyguards to thank them for their protection.

  I called Alonzo, listing all the ingredients and equipment I needed asap, everything from mint sprigs to a rolling pin, from food processors to meat thermometers.

  An hour later, when several attendants arrived with bags and boxes, Vasili furrowed his bald head at me again.

  I shrugged. Turning the surround sound to a Havana station, I tied on my new apron.

  To bad weather, good face.

  I fried bacon, peeled sweet potatoes, and simmered brown sugar with anise seeds. I toasted almonds. I rolled dough and cut circles for crab croquetas. I chopped mint for mojitos. The entire floor smelled incredible.

  I was singing "Fuentecilla Que Corres" as I put a spiced pork roast into the oven.

  "What's this?" Sevastyan asked, making me jump.

  I almost dropped the roast, one of three I was cooking. "A Cuban Christmas dinner." He'd returned!

  "What's on the menu?"

  "Lechon asados, pork roasts drenched in mojo; langostinos con salsa rosa, prawns with pink sauce; arroz congri, beans and rice; tostones, fried sweet plantains; and crab croquetas. For dessert, I'm making bunuelos, fried sweet dough; turron de Navidad, nougat almond candies; and boniatillo, sweet potato pudding."

  He smirked. "So now you'll cook to get back into my good graces?"

  I pressed my fingers to my chest. "I'm sorry; did you think any of this was for you?"

  "You're preparing enough for an army."

  "Tengo mucha hambre. Es todo para mi."

  "You're very hungry? And it's all for you?"

  While he was picking up Spanish at lightning speed, the only Russian I knew was blyad , prostitutka, dushen'ka, and kotyonok. "All for me. You couldn't handle my food. Dessert alone would make you have an orgasm espontanea." To taunt him, I sampled a flaky croqueta I'd just fried up.

  Before I could stop him, he'd snagged o
ne, taking a bite. His lids went heavy, and he chewed slowly. "I'll expect dinner at seven. Do not be late." Croqueta in hand, he turned to go.

  Ordering me? "Pendejo!" I tossed a handful of toasted almonds at the back of his head.

  He paused, then continued on.

  With a roll of my eyes, I got back to work. Though I kept the music going and I sang as I cooked (with a voice that no one would write home about), Sevastyan remained near the kitchen all afternoon, even when talking on the phone and reading business proposals.

  Over the day, he relaxed by degrees. A time or two, I caught him doing nothing but staring at sailboats. His piercing gaze had been at ease, his complicated mind lost to daydreams.

  In contrast, I grew nervous, as if I had a date later--when in fact, he'd simply commanded dinner. At six, he'd headed to the master bedroom without a word.

  I'd finished everything, stowing dishes in the warming drawers, and I'd even packed heavy boxes for Vasili and his guys. When I called the man inside for pickup, he'd eyed my offering warily.

  Speaking slowly, I assured Vasili, "This food is one hundred percent not drugged because I couldn't find any drugs."

  He grated, "Spasiba. Thank you."

  One more word in my Russian lexicon. "There are written instructions inside. If you put pink sauce on anything other than prawns, I will kick your Russian ass, comprendes?"

  He exhaled, grudgingly saying, "Christmas no good for boss."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Boss want keep you. Okay. You keeped. Now fix Christmas."

  That's all he would say.

  CHAPTER 23

  Fix Christmas? In the shower, I mulled over that curious exchange. Some people hated the holidays. I should.

  This would explain why Sevastyan's mood had been deteriorating. When I'd brought up the subject of Christmas, he'd snapped, Do not remind me!

  The idea of him in pain bothered me. Really bothered me.

  Because I was an idiot.

  He'd told me he would keep me till he could shake what he felt for me; while he worked to recover from his interest, Catarina was sinking deeper into infatuation.

  Why else would I take pains with my appearance? After my shower, I donned a strapless red dress, along with the only jewelry I had: my earrings and arm cuff from my first night here. I wore my hair up in a loose knot and applied eye makeup and lip gloss.

  Feeling silly for taking the trouble, I frowned into the mirror. This was just a meal between a mobster and his prisoner (one he considered to be a lying prostitutka).

  Still, I got to the dining room early, lighting the many candles inside and the torchlights on the adjoining balcony. I carted dishes to the table, then opened the room's doors and windows for Sevastyan--allowing in the sound of waves.

  When he joined me, I smiled to see he'd worn slacks and a blazer, dressing up as well. That meant a lot. I told him, "I've decided to share some of my food with you, because I didn't get you anything else. I was debating a tall, blond blow-up doll--or a goldfish."

  "I have a closet full of blond blow-up dolls, and goldfish travel poorly on airplanes. Dinner was a wise choice."

  I grinned. "Mojito or wine, Ruso?"

  "Vodka."

  "Not on your life. Obey my playground rules, or take your balls elsewhere."

  Raised brow. "Mojito."

  I poured him one. When he sampled my concoction, I could tell he liked it. We sat, and I served him from the many dishes, detailing the main ingredients in each.

  With his first bite of roast, he seemed to be stifling his reaction. "And on top of everything else, you can cook. Did you learn only from home, or did you have schooling too?"

  "Only home."

  He ate everything on his plate, so I served him seconds. But when he pushed his plate to me for thirds, I said, "There's a lot of dessert."

  His first taste of turron made him groan. Once he'd eaten that and a helping of pudding and two bunuelos, he said, "I didn't come spontaneously, but it was touch and go for a while."

  I laughed over the rim of my mojito.

  "You could be a chef," he said.

  "That would be exciting. But I think I'd prefer your job as mogul, so I could dominate the world."

  "You think you could handle my job?"

  "I think you'd be surprised."

  He rose, crossing to the sideboard. "I doubt that. I know how smart you are." He returned to his seat with a bottle of vodka and two shot glasses. "Cuban dinner, Russian after drinks." He poured.

  Oh boy.

  "Za zdoroviye," he said. "To your health."

  "Salud." I drank my glass, coughing.

  As he poured for us again, he asked, "Whose meal did I enjoy?"

  "Pardon?"

  "You would've cooked this for friends or family over the holidays. Maybe the lover I took you from." He shot his glass.

  "The kitchen inspired me." I drank mine, with another wince.

  "What's so remarkable about it?"

  "The appliances." They worked. Also, the pots weren't dedicated to flood prevention. "Why are you so convinced there's someone else?"

  "You respond to two things: money and pleasure. I give you both, yet you hold yourself back."

  I frowned. "There's got to be more than that."

  "Why wouldn't you have a partner? If you didn't choose a man from outside your work, then one of your clients would have snapped you up."

  "You sound so certain."

  "When you fuck your clients"--that muscle ticked in his jaw--"you . . . affect them. But you would have me believe that not one has kept you?" He poured another round. "I see you, hear you, smell you, feel you. You should be haunted by men."

  I almost gave a bitter laugh. If only he knew.

  Edward had been on my mind more and more. Though he'd acted the gentleman, never using bad language, never raising his voice, he'd been eager to murder me. Now that he'd nursed his rage for years, what would he do?

  Sometimes I swore I had an animal sense that he was closing in--

  "You're doing it even now!" Sevastyan slammed down his glass. "Your eyes go distant whenever you think of him! That drives me insane!"

  "I am in no way thinking about a lover."

  "Why should I believe that, or anything you say?" He poured more vodka.

  "I suppose you shouldn't. You have no reason to believe me."

  "Are you being sarcastic? Ridiculing my inability to trust? I didn't simply wake up one day and decide to be like this. The last time I trusted someone's word, I was cursed to pay for the rest of my life."

  "What does that mean?" How had he paid?

  Silence.

  How exactly did Vasili expect me to "fix Christmas" when Sevastyan wouldn't talk to me? "Fine. Forget it." I rose to clear the table.

  "And you clean as well?" His tone was half-cutting, as if he intended to be rude but didn't quite commit.

  "Oh, I'm a real pro at cleaning." When I'd finished with the dishes and had stored a mountain of leftovers, I returned.

  He remained in the dining room, peering into his drink. Had he polished off the first bottle and started on another one?

  I sat beside him. "You're hurting. I don't like it."

  "Ah, the escort with a heart of gold."

  I narrowed my eyes at him. Was insulting me his way of putting distance between us? Like the boundaries I was failing to maintain? "Por Dios, it's all pumpkins and carriages with you."

  "You think me moody?"

  I'd just told Ivanna about his hot and cold moods. "Yes, I do."

  My answer surprised him? "All the world considers me a silver-tongued charmer--except for my Katya."

  "Tell me what's on your mind, Ruso."

  It took him a while to reply. "Ghosts of the past. You don't want to hear my drunken ramblings."

  "Try me."

  He pushed my vodka shot toward me. "How old were you when you had that memory of making paella?"

  Random question. "I was almost four." I downed the
glass, wincing less.

  "What time of year was it?" Another pour for each of us.

  Where was he going with this? "Right after Christmas. I remember because it was before the 'red scarf war.' "

  "What was that?"

  Between the mojitos and the vodka, I found my tongue loosening. Or maybe the candlelit room and the sound of the ocean influenced me. Maybe this man did. "Mima, my grandmother, knitted a red scarf for me, and I loved it to death, smugly wore it everywhere. I even slept in it. My mother wanted to take it away, believing it was a symbol of my pride. She often assigned meaning to things, said nothing happened by chance." In that, I might agree with her.

  "Go on."

  "Though I was so young, I somehow knew I was fighting for more than the scarf. I could not lose that battle." I sighed, glancing up. "I'm boring you. Your life is far too exciting for my silly story to be of interest."

  He met my gaze, all intensity. "You will tell me the rest, Katya. Now."

  Well. I cleared my throat. "I ran from her, threatening to sail away and never come home. I hid outside past dark. Mima was terrified. I only weighed about thirty pounds, and it was cold that night. She intervened with mi madre. When she called out that I could keep it, I came home and slept in it that night. Years later, my mother told me she regretted not taking it from me--she was convinced she could've curbed my pride right in that moment. She could've made me meek and dutiful."

  "Then if you'd lost the war, I never would have met you."

  If not for my pride and rebelliousness, I never would've latched onto Edward. Though I do believe my mother had suffered from a degenerative disease--she'd presented symptoms before Edward and Julia had descended upon us--I didn't know how much longer she could've survived. "True. My life would've turned out very differently."

  "Do you wish you'd lost the war?"

  "I don't think I'll know that until my entire life has played out." I just hoped that wouldn't be in my early twenties.

  He rotated his glass on the table. "I would've been thirteen at that time."

  "What were you doing? Riding horses and chasing girls?"

  It was like a pall fell over him. "Not at all."

  "Then what?" He didn't answer. "Sevastyan, I've told you something. It's your turn to talk."

  He finished his drink, pouring us another round. "My older brother is marrying an American girl. Roman--excuse me, he goes by Aleksandr now--hasn't known her that long. Their wedding is very rushed."

  I let Sevastyan get away with the change of subject. "How do you feel about that?"