Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 57031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57031 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 285(@200wpm)___ 228(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
He’s silent for a beat, then says, “Complaint received and noted.” He bites my ear. Not a nip, but a solid bite. A little punishment for my outburst. My panties get wet. He still holds me captive.
“I’m sorry, Master,” I say, now that I’ve expressed myself. “Am I in trouble?”
“Definitely. Lots of trouble.”
I’d be nervous, but I detect the purr in his voice. This is the messiest non-relationship relationship I’ve ever had. It feels like a tightrope walk with no net, but the exhilaration is addictive.
“I’ll save it for tonight.” He slides his hand between my legs, rubbing the seam of my jeans up against my clit. Now my panties are completely soaked. “Right now, I’m expecting an L.A. experience.”
Pavel
The first thing I think when I climb behind the wheel of Kayla’s ten-year-old Camry is that I want to buy her a new car. It’s obscene how much I want to shower this girl in gifts, which is why we’re at the Four Seasons Beverly Hills instead of somewhere even a little more reasonable.
I live a lavish lifestyle right now, but it’s on the pakhan’s dime. Getting sent to America to work for Ravil while I was lying low was the best thing that ever happened to me. Ravil brought benevolence, reason and stability when all I’d ever known before was violence and chaos. He takes good care of his cell. We live in style. I have no living expenses, which means all my earnings go straight into savings. Savings I plan to use to set myself up back in Russia when things cool off there. Another reason I should’ve broken things off with Kayla last night.
After fussing with the radio, she sits on her hands beside me, stealing sidelong glances.
“What are you thinking?” I demand. That’s one of the insane benefits of being a dom. I can make her talk but don’t have to offer a thing myself. It’s cruel and wrong, I know, but suits me to a fucking tee.
Her gaze zips back to the windshield. “Nothing. Just checking.”
I don’t know if I let the smile show, but it’s definitely there, in my chest. My crazy little slave is always checking in with me—making sure she’s pleased me. “We’re good,” I tell her, in case she’s still worrying about our fight back in the hotel room.
I know she wants more from me. She expects me to open up and share something. Maybe not the way she bares her soul to me, but crumbs, at least. It’s just not my way. Never has been.
But as I follow her directions out to the highway, I sense her nervous energy growing more frenetic. She’s a tempest in a teapot, this one. A mercurial ball of energy, fascinating to watch, easy to direct. But also shockingly combustible when I fuck up and miss giving her what she needs.
“Where are we going?”
She shoots another glance at me, like she’s trying to figure out if she got it right. “Venice Beach. Is that okay? I don’t know if you’re a beach person—”
“It’s good,” I cut her off. “I want to see what you like here.”
“I’m not a beach person, I mean, I don’t go swim or lie out in the sun, but I like to walk down the pier. It’s where I go to think.”
My phone rings as I’m driving, and I pull it out of my pocket. “I’m sorry, I’ve got to take this,” I tell Kayla and put it on speaker since her car doesn’t have a hand-free option.
My mom’s lonely voice fills the car. “Pavel?”
“Da, Mama,” I answer her in Russian. “Is everything okay?”
“Yes. I just… hadn’t heard from you for a while.”
Guilt rips through my chest—not just for not calling more, but for not being there. Especially after what I did.
“Sorry, Mama. I’m in Los Angeles. It’s a city in California—with a beach,” I add because my mom knows nothing about America.
“Oh?” She sounds so lost, but it’s nothing new. She’s been lost my entire life. Trauma and abuse have made her vacant and withdrawn. Barely functioning in reality. And she was my good parent. It’s no fucking wonder I’m an emotionless mudak.
“I—” I look over at Kayla, who’s listening raptly, despite the fact that she doesn’t speak Russian. “I’m with a woman.” I don’t know why I’m telling my mom that. I’m making this thing with Kayla way more important than it should be.
“Oh.” My mom’s surprised syllable has a hopeful tint to it. “That’s nice. I’m sure you’re very good to her.”
My skin instantly crawls, heart dives into my stomach. A wave of oily sickness washes over me. Images of my mother cowering against a wall, my hands covered in blood, flash in front of my eyes. Me trying to protect her as just a young boy. She thinks I’m a hero.