by Lana Sky
“Another feature to tempt your fake wife?” I wonder while running my fingers over the navy bedspread.
“No,” he says in a deadpan tone. “The closet, however? Well, you be the judge.”
An excited thrill has me nearly running to the door he indicates with a curt nod. Sure enough, I find a magical realm of possibility in the form of a closet so big it spans not one, but two entire rooms, each one decked out with plenty of storage for both practical use and display.
He must have it organized into two sections. The first belongs to him, already stocked with a selection of boring, professional attire. The second is mostly bare despite a small collection of neatly arranged Chanel and my previous purchases. What had seemed excessive in the hotel room now looks pitiful, barely taking up a full rack.
“Your future fake wife is a lucky woman,” I admit, my heart panging with longing as I spot a full wall of shelves that she could dedicate to purses and shoes alone. Not to mention her ring—for the first time, I inspect the jewelry sparkling on my left hand in full and bite down a groan. The only terms my brain can come up with to describe it are gorgeous, big ass, diamond. With difficulty, I turn away and catch him watching me, his devious gaze as unfathomable as ever.
“Chop-chop!” I clap my hands commandingly. “Go fetch my purchases, please. It’s time to give you a makeover.” I eye him with a raised brow, surprisingly excited to see how he’ll look in what I picked out. “We’ll cover the basics first,” I warn as he strolls into the hall, seemingly unbothered at being bossed around.
“Oh?” he wonders. The subtle, taunting inflection in his tone makes me gulp, but this time I’m prepared with a devious trick to regain the upper hand.
“Undies,” I call after him, grinning from ear to ear. “You need a full shakeup from head to toe, baby. Maybe the constriction caused by those horrible boxers is what’s making you so mean?”
He laughs, and I suck in a startled breath, knocked off balance. Something tells me that this little plan will backfire.
Spectacularly.
Chapter Fifteen
In theory, buying him a full range of tidy-whities with the intent of having him model them for me sounded fun. Like harmless, mischievous fun while ensuring that I maintain the upper hand in our strange, transactional relationship.
The second he steps from the closet wearing only a pair of black, low riding boxer briefs that, though tight, the salesman at the high-end boutique insisted were more comfortable than going bare, I realize that I’ve failed.
Game. Set. Match.
“Judging from how your jaw is on the floor, I assume you find these to your liking?” he suspects. Before I can think to stop him, he turns around, displaying his perfectly supported ass, and I can’t contain a groan.
“T-Take those off,” I spit out, making a mental note to steal every pair of the style I bought and return them. No future fake wife deserves to ever see him in something so sinful.
“Now?” He slips his fingers beneath the waistband, and I practically lunge from the bed and race past him, entering the closet with him on my heels.
“I want you to try on a suit,” I decide, spotting a selection he had already partially unpacked. Neatly tucked within a custom garment bag is a rich, brown suit of impeccable quality. Well, almost impeccable. “I had to settle for standard sizing since I don’t know your measurements, but they offer custom tailoring, so I took the liberty of including that in the price. Don’t have a heart attack when you see the bill.”
“I’ve seen it,” he says, coming to stand at my shoulder. I shiver as he reaches around me to finger the sleeve of the suit, testing the quality. “My estimations were on the higher end, but you came close.”
I grit my teeth, hating the warmth that spreads through my belly at his nearness. “Was that praise I heard you utter, Mr. Vadim?”
He doesn’t answer, and desperate to change the subject, I turn to face him and size him up.
“I’m pretty sure I guessed correctly,” I decide, scanning his chest. “Over there are dress shirts.”
Obeying my instructions, he promptly unpacks ten shirts in varying colors, ranging from gray to a golden shade of yellow. I made sure to spring for multiple fabrics, including silk and cotton as well. He eyes them all without a word of either agreement or dislike, but his fingers linger over a light blue selection more than the others.
“Blue and brown?” I cock my head and bite my lip in concentration. “An atypical pairing, but let’s try it.”
He proceeds to dress as I watch him shamelessly from a corner of the closet. When he finally inclines his head for my approval, I think I’m in danger of fainting.
“I need to ban you from wearing blue,” I blurt, stunned by how the color animates his features, making his smirk ten times smirkier. “We’re done modeling for now.” As he takes off the jacket, I re-enter the bedroom, my head spinning. “Where am I going to sleep—”
“I am done modeling,” Vadim says, alarmingly stern. “As for you. I insist that you show me at least one of the purchases that rang up to over ten grand at Atelier Noir.”
I nearly die hearing him mention that number out loud. To a normal person, it’s more money than could be feasibly spent on a purchase as frivolous as underwear. But to him, money literally seems meaningless. I don’t think it’s a front either. He says the numbers with no inflection. Ten dollars or ten grand doesn’t mean anything to him either way, and I wonder just how much money he truly has. I’m probably better off not knowing.
“Don’t tell me you’re ashamed of your selections?” he prods, knowing right where to aim to make me react.
“Fine!” I start toward the doorway, but he clears his throat.
“They’re in here.” He points to the closet, but I don’t have the energy to argue. I’ll remove them later.
Sure enough, in the other section of the closet, I find my comparably small arrangement of purchases. My first thought is to try on the more boring, practical bra and panty set I’d gotten. Sometime during my search through the packages, I change my mind and settle on the most daring and risqué.
Jim would die if I ever wore something like this for him—and not in a good way. Die. Come back to life and then restructure his sermons about the dangers of the flesh and how wives are inherently sinful creatures. I chuckle out loud, but it’s too close to the truth to be a real joke.
Given Vadim and his damn wall, I picture him eyeing me with no emotion, unmoved by the design either way. So I take my time to ensure I provide him with the full effect.
I strip my Chanel ensemble and hang it. Then I gingerly slip into a sheer emerald green bustier adorned with a dozen hand-sewn ebony roses that decorate the plunging neckline. Admiring myself in the mirror is a surreal experience. I’ve never felt sexier or more beautiful. A part of me despairs that—for now—this outfit will go woefully unappreciated.
No more sex with Vadim under any circumstances. That doesn’t mean I can’t needle the hell out of him, though.
“It’s a shame we won’t be fucking,” I declare as I strut into the bedroom, my hips swaying, head thrown back. “Because this little ensemble demands I be…fucked.”
Revenge slips from my brain the second I take in his expression. He changed while I’d been in the closet, stripping his suit for that flattering pair of briefs. I must have caught him off guard, in the middle of sitting on the bed. He’s frozen mid-crouch, his eyes fixated on my body. A jolt of electricity runs through me as he rakes his gaze up and down the length of me. The poor man doesn’t even have the time to rebuild his wall.
I can track every minute reaction transforming his features within the span of a few seconds. A raised eyebrow at my nipples, prominently on display. An appreciative swallow as he roves downward to my practically invisible thong. But then he keeps going down, tracing the curve of my hips and the shape of my thighs, then up to my shoulders and my own throat contracting around a quick swallow.
Our eyes meet, and I
realize that I never stopped advancing toward him. In response, he finally moves, lowering himself onto the edge of the mattress as I draw closer. Any second, I expect him to throw his wall back up. Break this spell I can’t seem to snap out of as long as he looks at me like…this.
With hunger and no ounce of restraint.
My fingers fly up to the neckline of my ensemble, and some reckless impulse makes me finger the thin strap sleeves, pushing his reaction to its limits.
A low hum escapes him as he leans back, taking me in like a man having a world-shattering revelation. One of the “Holy shit, I’m forever changed” variety. His eyelids flutter the more I toy with the straps until finally, I let them both slip from my shoulders, sending the neckline plunging.
And he finally moves.
His hands grip my waist first, drawing me into him. Our lips meet next, tongues clashing as my brain goes on hiatus. I wind up straddling him, wantonly rubbing my chest against his, gasping at the friction of the lace over my nipples, enhanced by the heat of his skin. Soon enough, he has the brassiere off and his fingers grope my breasts, kneading them ruthlessly.
“The way you feel…” He trails off, his voice a guttural rumble.
Maybe it’s a good thing he doesn’t finish that thought? A burst of wetness coats my inner thighs, and I don’t think I could survive a second more of him speaking like this.
As if to spite me, his mouth finds my ear as he groans, shifting beneath me so that his legs part, a firm bulge pressing against my mound. “The least I should do is taste you,” he murmurs against my flesh. “If we can’t fuck.”
Total mental shutdown. I’m struck dumb as he lifts me off of him and manipulates me onto my back. All I can do is prop up my upper body on my elbows and watch as he crouches at the foot of the bed between my splayed thighs.
Anticipation builds to a painful degree. As if knowing that, he takes his sweet time trailing his fingers up to my hips and finds the waistband of my thong. One gentle tug and I writhe to assist him.
His lips part as his eyes meet mine. Then he lowers his head and…
I’d imagined what it might feel like to have his mouth on me. Reality takes those fantasies and dashes them. So much for the idea of him partaking in tentative, sensual licking.
He stiffens his tongue, instead plunging it inside me so swiftly I cry out and nearly jolt from the mattress. It’s like he’s too eager to even play the game he seems to relish in—taunting.
He takes. It’s a sensation so different from anything else. Silk in lieu of steel, conforming to my every curve and contour. I stiffen as he traces my outer lips, displaying an almost feral attention to every detail. Tasting me in hungry flicks and searing breaths. Panting, I draw my knees up beside him, nonsense spilling from my mouth. Pleas. Praises. Curses.
He is too good at this. Too adept at manipulating his tongue to strike all the right spots. My clit. Then downward, teasing my entrance. Then inside swiftly. Then up again. Such skill betrays that he had to have done this before.
But then a growl rips from him, vibrating all the way down to my core. One of shock—like a kid experiencing the taste of candy for the first time. Poof, a glutton is born.
And I’m at his mercy. His hands grip my thighs, nails piercing my flesh in a startling burst of pain. Trapped, I can only squirm as he lunges, applying more pressure. More vigor. More of everything.
My body goes off, climaxing so viciously I barely hear him groan above the sound of my racing heartbeat.
“The taste of you,” he grates, sounding crazed. “Incroyable. Never get enough…”
And he keeps going, long after I come once. Twice. Again. Soon, I’m shaking, my body drenched in sweat, voice wavering and broken.
“Please. No more… I can’t—” Fireworks explode down my spine as he suckles at my clit, drawing out the stimulation to an almost painful degree. “Vadim!”
“Addicting woman… I will pierce this,” he rasps in between nips, and I nearly go off all over again. At the last second, he draws back, leaving me teetering on the edge. Our gazes meet, his unfocused, glimpsed through slits, and I gasp for breath. He looks insane. Mad.
So desirable, it hurts.
“Please.” I part my legs eagerly as he steps forward, wrenching his briefs down his hips. His cock juts to attention, so thick my eyelids flutter at the sight.
He doesn’t hesitate to mount me, shoving in so deep I come again. And again.
Lost in a haze of pleasure, I hear him curse, his hips slamming over mine. Like gasoline poured onto a roaring inferno, the sensation of his release flooding my sheath sets me off yet again.
I cling to him, clawing at his back, marking him as brutally as he fucks his pleasure into me, still moving until his cock finally softens.
Spent and breathless, the reality doesn’t kick in until I’m staring up at the ceiling, aware of him partially on top of me, his mouth on my throat.
So much for no sex.
Chapter Sixteen
I am so royally fucked. Literally and figuratively.
I wake up beside Vadim again—this time with one hand on my ass and the other on my tit. I lie facing him, his arm around my hips, his body relaxed, his face utter perfection. My heart pangs as I blink my eyes open to see him, bathed in the glow of early dawn.
I drink him in, barely able to keep from touching him. My brain is still drunk off the sex, and dangerous thoughts creep in. Like how good it feels lying beside him. His posture alone conveys that he feels the same way, relishing our carnal attraction. Lust isn’t an affliction he’s forced to suffer. If anything, he has to surrender to it.
But how long can I stomach this before I get hopelessly addicted?
It’s like he’s always reading my mind, even while unconscious. He stirs, his eyes opening, as a part of me warns that it’s already too late. Those dark irises take me in leisurely, still unfocused from sleep. A groan rips from him as his tongue traces a path along his lower lip.
“You are so beautiful.”
And he means it. He truly thinks I’m beautiful enough that he slips up and breaks his most stubborn social rule. A frown shapes his mouth as he realizes what he’s done, and he rolls onto his back. Both of his hands withdraw from me, and I can practically see him rearranging the bricks of his invisible wall.
“Don’t be mean to me.” I shuffle forward and mold myself against him. The logical part of my brain is screaming, but I don’t care. Rejection is a pill I can’t swallow right now. Not when I can still feel him inside me, and my brain is still churned to mush. Jim always pushed me away.
Vadim sighs but relents to the contact. Reluctantly, his arm slips beneath my waist again, and I wiggle into his touch, overwhelmed with relief. A pity cuddle is beyond his comfort level—I know that. But he endures this one anyway. Later, I’ll go over the repercussions.
Now?
I’m dizzy, and clinging to him seems to be the only way I can ground myself.
“I loved having you go down on me,” I confess against his ear. His jaw twitches, but the depth of his expression is hard to make out from this angle. Good? Bad? “I love how you felt,” I continue, letting my eyes drift shut as his heat thrums through me, more relaxing than the world’s best wine. “I love when you lose control. I love when you fuck me wild—”
“Enough to stay?”
“Hmm?” I peel one eye open only to find him staring at me intently, all traces of lust erased. He’s serious.
“Enough to let me pierce you?” He slides his hand along my thigh, raising goosebumps.
I sink against him again and let out a dreamy sigh. “Enough to consider letting a trained professional pierce me, yes.” I may even mean it. Just thinking about how a piercing might have enhanced my pleasure last night?
I’m beyond tempted.
That seems to placate him enough that he relaxes beside me. We must drift off like this. When I come to again, I’m lying naked with the sheets kicked down to my ankles and the space beside m
e glaringly empty. Confused, I roll over to catch a half-naked Vadim strolling across the room, wearing only a towel slung over his waist. Dripping water, his curls hang freely, and I have to clamp my knees together as I take him in.
“You showered without me.” I sound devastated by the fact.
Frowning, he doesn’t seem to realize why.
I flip onto my back, but I don’t bother to cover myself with a sheet. “Letting me suck you off in the shower should have been your number one priority after last night,” I point out. “Fair is fair.”
He chuckles, strolling toward the closet with renewed confidence. “The things you say…”
“Are you leaving?” I sit up and finally reach for the end of the comforter, drawing it around me. A row of floor-to-ceiling windows provides a bird’s eye view of the surrounding landscape. It looks to be early in the afternoon, though cloud cover and a light rainfall make it harder to pinpoint a time for sure.
“I have some errands to run,” he admits. Then almost hesitantly, he adds, “You are welcome to join me.”
“Really?” I bound from the mattress before he can change his mind.
“The bathroom is through that door,” he says, nodding toward a polished, silver one in the corner of the room. I step through it only to enter a dream world formed of stainless-steel fixtures with the main attraction being a clawfoot tub positioned near a view of the water.
It’s also infuriatingly modern.
If the shower at the hotel confounded me, this one leaves me hopelessly confused as to where to begin—it’s a panel built into the wall in the center of a huge stall enclosed by glass. In the end, I give up and call for help.
An amused Vadim appears at my shoulder seconds later, dressed in the brown suit and blue shirt ensemble he modeled for me last night. His breath tickles my shoulder as he explains how to operate the shower. Once I have the water pressure set to my liking, I lather up, only to realize that—rather than leave the bathroom—he’s seated leaning against a row of marble-topped counters, watching me bathe.