by Renee Rose
“Come on, beautiful.”
“Master.” She turns those big blue eyes on me. They’re pleading. My dick turns as hard as marble despite the fact that I’ve already come twice. That’s what this girl does to me.
Calling me Master.
Letting me call all the shots.
“Hmm?” I raise my brows in an authoritative way, making her blush and grow more nervous.
“May I take the buttplug out?”
I didn’t forget. I wondered how much she could take. Whether she’d complain. I like to keep her ass prepared for anal sex. I like to keep her ass plugged in general, just to edge her.
“Are you getting sore, blossom?”
She nods her head.
“Come here.” I sit on the edge of the bed again and hold my hand out to her. She steps between my knees, and once more, I fold her over my lap in her favorite position. She doesn’t like impersonal torture. Or much distance between us. As a man who’s kept everyone at arm’s length for all of my life, it should be a difficult adjustment. But with Kayla, it’s not. If she wants something, she gets it. Because she gives me everything.
The red of her earlier spanking is fading, so I spank her some more, loving the way she wriggles and pants and whimpers.
I grip the head of the plug and gently pull it out, then push it back in. “Who does this hole belong to, little slave?”
Kayla gasps in surprise. “Y-you, Master,” she warbles. I work it some more, fucking her ass with it until she’s humping my lap. “Master, please,” she begs.
“Please what, blossom?”
“Please…” She sounds so pitiful. I should have mercy on her, but instead it just makes me crave more of her begging. “I have to...I’m going to…”
“Permission to come,” I tell her quickly because she’s about to climax anyway, and I don’t want to punish her more. I mean, of course I do, but not at this precise moment.
She climaxes as I give the plug short, quick thrusts in and out of her ass. She sobs out her release, and I spank her some more for good measure. “I wanted you sitting on this plug in that cocktail bar, remembering who owns you.” I alternate slapping each cheek, not holding back much in the intensity. “But since you need me to take it out, I’ll have to make your ass red and hot instead.”
“Ohhh,” she moans, still humping my lap. I stop spanking and roughly massage her ass. Pulling out the plug takes coaxing because she tightened around it when she orgasmed, but I manage to ease it out.
“Stand up, beautiful.”
She wobbles when she gets up, still wearing her sexy stilettos. I steady her with a hand on her elbow then wash and sterilize the plug for later.
Kayla’s flushed and off-balanced, just the way I like her. When I return from the bathroom, I wrap an arm around her from behind and kiss her temple. “Good girl,” I murmur because I know how much those words mean to her.
She lets out a whimper-sigh, relaxing back against me. She’s so precious. I wish I could keep her.
I kiss her again. “Come on, little flower.” I take her hand and lead her to the elevator.
Downstairs, the cocktail lounge is full and hopping. The young, good-looking and rich of Beverly Hills all gather here to drink and talk loudly. There aren’t any tables, but I score one barstool at the bar, which I help Kayla onto. She fusses with her dress to keep from flashing her bare beaver as she gets up. Not that she has a beaver. She’s freshly waxed—another gift for me. I get to mark her smooth, soft skin with rug-burn from my facial hair.
I squeeze my body in beside her, my hand on her back, making it clear she’s with me.
Kayla doesn’t know what she wants. I could order for her, and she’d drink whatever I buy, but I’d rather find out what she likes. I ask for the cocktail menu and let her scan it. “What are you getting?” she asks.
I’m amused that she wants to know. She’s always measuring me to figure out what I want from her. Maybe not now, for the drink, but these things matter to her. “Vodka, rocks. I’m boring. What looks good to you?”
“Maybe the Moscow mule.” She points at the cocktail description.
Sweet girl. My lips tug up in the ghost of a smirk. “Russian drink. Good choice.”
She flushes a little and shifts on the stool, reminding me she’s sitting on a bare, red ass. I take another mental snapshot. Some day Kayla will be famous, and I’ll get to jack off to these memories thinking, I knew her when.
I hate that thought. Not the one of her being famous but of us being a distant memory.
I order the drinks. Hers comes in a copper mug, decorated with an orchid and garnished with blackberries. She takes a sip and closes her eyes. “Mmm. I love it.” She’s so damn cute.
I sip my drink in silence. It takes me a minute to realize the lack of conversation has grown awkward. Kayla’s toying with her straw too vigorously, shooting glances around the room.
Blyad.’
I’m not used to making small talk. Sure, I call her when we’re apart. When I’m back in Chicago and she’s here, but those conversations are sex-driven. Me ordering her to masturbate, so I can watch or to tell me all her darkest desires. I don’t ask about her work or about her day.
I wouldn’t even know how to have a conversation like that.
Kayla swivels in her seat and scans the crowd, then tips her pretty face up to me. “Do you think it looks like I’m your whore?”
My brows slam down. “What?”
She sucks on her lower lip.
Fuck. These are the moments that shock me. When I find out the alarming thoughts going in her pretty head. Things I never would have considered. Like how I hurt her feelings when I checked in before greeting her.
“No,” I growl. “I think you look like my very hot date. Why would you say that?”
She doesn’t answer. There’s a little furrow between her perfectly waxed brows that I want to rub away. “What am I to you?”
Gah. I rub my forehead, my stomach sinking. This is where I cut her loose, and we crash and burn. I should tell her she means nothing to me. That I was her master, and she was my slave, and I can’t keep flying out to L.A. every weekend. We need to become something else. I already told her the moment she’s over it, it ends.
Except that’s stupid because Kayla’s not the kind to end things.
It’s going to have to be me.
Say it. Now, before we get any deeper with this. Before I learn how to make small talk and ask about her day. Before she learns to depend on me.
Because I’m not that guy.
But those guileless blue eyes train on me. She’s not accusing me of being less than what she wants—that’s not her style, but there’s a pleading in her gaze.
Am I really ready to give that up? Those pleading looks that make my dick hard? Her steady submission. The soft, breathy intones of please, Master? Am I willing to walk away from the perfect situation?
Fuck, no.
Not yet.
And that makes me an even bigger asshole.
I lift my shoulders in a casual shrug. “Lovers. Play partners. Dominant and submissive.” I can only hope it’s enough. That we can keep this arrangement going a little while longer. Another week. Maybe a month. I’m not ready to give her up, even though I should. Even though she’s taking all my focus from the job. Even though I’m using my savings to spend big when I come here—money I planned to use as start-up capital when I go back to Russia. Even though I’m losing face with the boss for being absent so much.
She looks away.
I catch her chin and turn her face to mine. “Not my whore. Definitely not that.”
I’m alarmed when a sheen of tears coats her babydoll eyes.
“What do you want me to say—that I’m your boyfriend? Kayla, I’m not that guy. I’m so far from that guy. I...wouldn’t know how to do the role justice.”
She nods, her throat moving as she tries to swallow. She reaches for her drink and puts the straw to her lips, sucking it down un
til it slurps.
Fuck. I haven’t felt this adrift since I went too far, bloodying my hands without orders, and got sent to America. I haven’t felt this much, period.
“Is that what you wanted me to say?”
She drops her gaze to her empty drink. I signal to the bartender and point at it to get her another, then lean my forehead down to hers and wrap my fingers in her hair. “Don’t lie,” I whisper.
She stops breathing.
I pull back a little to see her face. Her eyes glisten again with tears.
As much as I love seeing her cry when we play, the tears destroy me when we aren’t. They simultaneously make me want to run away very fast and kill someone. I never learned how to comfort a woman—I’ve had to learn it all on the fly with Kayla.
“Kayla, I’m not saying no.”
Christ, what am I saying? Did those words just come out of my mouth? I was going to break things off with her this weekend not step it up. I catch her face with my chin and turn it back to me. “I just think I’d suck at it.” I shrug. “But I’ll try. If that’s what you want.”
Gospodi, am I nuts?
She turns those blue headlights on me. They’re shining now, still bright with tears, but high beams are all for me. This girl destroys me with just her eyes. Every time.
I stroke her cheek softly with my thumb as I lower my lips to hers. I give her a soft, exploratory kiss. It’s a promise, like a handshake to seal the deal. I’m her boyfriend now.
Fuck. I really have no idea what I’m doing. And no business making such a promise.
But when I pull away, her expression steals my breath. “You’re happy now.”
She nods.
Despite a thousand misgivings, my lips turn up, fascinated by the change in her. I can practically feel her joy in my own being, even though it’s not an emotion I’m prone to experiencing.
Ever.
Jesus, how can I possibly make this work? Short answer—I can’t. But somehow, I still have to try.
“You’ll have to be very, very honest with me.” I brush my thumb across her lower lip. “I have no idea what I’m doing, blossom. I’ll probably fuck it up.”
Her smile is smug and satisfied. “No, you won’t.” She accepts the fresh cocktail from the bartender and sips from the straw.
I stroke my hand down her back. I don’t even know what’s different—I don’t know what this means to her, but I guess I’d better figure it the hell out.
“When you said you’d throat-punch anyone who talked to me here…”
I don’t fill in the blank. I don’t know where she’s going with this.
“Would you?” she asks point blank.
I lift my shoulders. “I might. I could, Kayla. Easily. I think you know what I’m capable of.”
“I never asked for nice.” She lifts her chin.
A smile flirts around the corners of my mouth. “Master?” I’m asking, not correcting. Is she still my slave? Or now that she pushed me into boyfriend territory, does she think that’s over?
She blushes, though. Leans into me, her soft tits brushing against my ribs as she purrs, “I never asked for nice, Master.” Sweet as honey.
“Be careful what you green-light, blossom. If it’s a boyfriend you want, I’m possessive as hell. Any man who touches you is toast.”
A shiver runs through her, but she’s got her moon-eyes on. The ones that stare up at me like I’m some kind of hero and not the guy who puts her on her knees and makes her plead for mercy on a regular basis.
7
Kayla
The next morning, we sit on the patio of the Four Seasons, enjoying the California sun and a late brunch. I hate Sundays because it means our time is almost over. He’ll fly back to Chicago, and I’ll go back to my other life. The one where I’m not a sex slave or the girlfriend to a dangerous criminal. There’s such a giant fissure between my twin selves now I can barely straddle it.
I’m also cracked open, with no armor, almost no sense of self at all because Pavel just turned me inside out upstairs.
I came without asking again this morning, so he spread my legs, spanked my pussy with the leather strap and then ate me out until I screamed myself hoarse. I feel so vulnerable after intense sessions like that. His seat across the table from me—less than three feet away—feels way too far. When I reach for his hand, he takes my fingers and caresses them. “Come here,” he says, seeming to understand. I stand, and he moves my chair around to the side of the table, right beside him. I scoot it even closer, and drape one of my knees over his.
“You want to go back up to the room for more aftercare?” He’s so patient and attentive with me post-scene. I know it’s not his usual way, which makes it all the more addictive.
Again, my roommates would say this is dysfunctional.
I rest my head on his shoulder. I know it’s ridiculous to be this needy. But I have to lean into Pavel to soak up a sense of safety when I’m this wide open.
My phone rings. I’m going to ignore it until I remember that it could be Lara, and then I lunge for my purse.
It is. I swipe across the screen to answer.
“I got you in, darling,” she sing-songs. “It took me all weekend to get someone to take my call, but you’re in. The audition is in ninety minutes. I’ll text you the address.”
“Oh!” I shoot a glance at Pavel, who must have overheard because he nods and throws some bills down on the table. “Great!” My heart’s already pounding like I’m at the audition. “I’ll be there. Thank you.”
Pavel stands the moment I end the call. “You have an audition?” He slides my chair back as I stand, like a gentleman of a bygone time. The behavior is so at odds with his appearance and normal cocky behavior that it makes me a little swoony. But, of course, I’m already in the swooning state.
“Yes, for a television show. This could be my big break.” I sound breathless. My heart’s still rapping against my ribs like my life is in danger. “I’m sorry, I know this is our last few hours.”
“Don’t be sorry. I’ll drive you.”
“Okay.” I flash a smile at him, as my excitement mounts. “I’ll go change.”
I didn’t bring audition clothes, and there’s probably not enough time to go back to my apartment, so I sort through my suitcase for what I have. I decide to wear the red dress I wore last night, just dressed down with a pair of Converse because it’s daytime. It’s quirky and hopefully will be memorable to the casting director.
Pavel packs his things and stays out of my way as I spin around the suite, touching up my makeup and hair and packing my suitcase.
“Okay,” I say when I’m ready.
“You look perfect.” Pavel stacks both our suitcases and takes them with one hand. With the other, he catches my fingers and twines his through them. “You’ve got this.”
We head down in the elevator, and Pavel checks out as I wait for the valet attendant to bring my old car around. Pavel slides behind the wheel and loads the address into his map app on his phone. As the car sails smoothly into traffic, I shiver a little.
“Are you cold?” Pavel turns on the heater and adjusts the vents.
“No, I’m just…”
He takes his eyes away from traffic to look at me.
“I’m freaking out a little bit. I’m nervous. This is usually where I try to channel Sasha because she’s not afraid of anything.”
Pavel lets out a soft scoff. “Yes, Sasha has a pretty high opinion of herself.”
I look at him in surprise. “Do you not like Sasha?”
“Sasha is Sasha.” He shrugs. “She’s the daughter of my former boss and the wife of a brother. I would kill or die for her.”
I blink, stunned by this little glimpse into his world. His loyalty. A code for living. Would he kill or die for me? Remembering his actions at the convenience store, I’m suddenly quite certain he would. And like that night, it turns me on, even as it scares me.
“You two are friends, though, right?�
�
Pavel shrugs again, like friend isn’t a word he would use with Sasha. “Why are you asking?”
I laugh a little at myself then confess, “I’ve been so jealous of what she has with you.”
He scoffs again. “She has nothing with me. She is my annoying housemate. Nothing more.” His gaze on me is bemused. “You were jealous? Of Sasha?” He can’t seem to believe it.
“She knows you better than I do.”
“Ah.” He sobers. “I understand.” Then he shakes his head. “She knows nothing. You see more of me than I show to anyone else. Don’t ever be jealous of another woman.”
“Why don’t you ever invite me to come to Chicago?”
He gives me a long look. “Because I’m a bastard, and I don’t want to share you. But if you want to come, you’re invited. Any time, Kayla.”
“Okay,” I say softly.
“You don’t need to be like Sasha for this audition,” he says, and I catch a little heat in his gaze. “You’re you.”
Wings flap in my chest.
“I’m just scared because I don’t feel like myself. I still feel … raw from our scene.”
“I see.” He picks up my fingers and brings them to his mouth, kissing the backs of them. “Use it. I called you blossom the night we met because I thought you would be easily crushed, but I was wrong. You are a flower—one that blooms under duress. You open wide. That’s your superpower, malysh. So use it. When you’re in that audition, don’t try to hide that openness. There’s no person on this planet who won’t connect with you when you’re like that, period. And if you don’t get this part, then it’s because it wasn’t the right one for you, not because you weren’t absolutely perfect.”
I blink back the wetness in my eyes, my chest warm and glowy from his words. I’ve been told before to believe it’s not me, it’s just about the part—we actors tell ourselves this all the time to soothe the sting of rejection. But this time, when Pavel says it, I actually believe it.
He pulls up in front of the building, and I take a deep breath.