Page 8 of Preferential Treatment

“Ms. Pasternak,” he greeted her, pronouncing her name with that Russian inflection. His voice was deep, a little gravelly, but totally professional. An outside viewer could easily mistake this for a business meeting of some sort.

Well. That’s what it was, at its core, wasn’t it? He wanted to pay her for services rendered.

Kate rose from her seat to face him, keeping her expression just as unreadable as his. “Mr. Volkov,” she returned, just as politely. “How was Seoul?”

He tilted his head from side to side, an indecisive gesture. “Busy,” he finally said. “Would you come to my office? We can speak privately there.”

“Lead the way.”

His office was upstairs, on the second story. The wooden floor was less elaborately parqueted than the downstairs hallways, but a gorgeous, jewel-toned oriental rug covered most of it. The far wall was filled with wooden shelves, stuffed with books. Two button-tufted leather chairs sat before a wide, polished, mahogany desk, behind which, a sleek leather desk chair sat. Another colorful rug covered the wall behind the desk, a design choice that struck Kate as very Russian. To the left of the desk, a row of tall, narrow, leaded-glass windows overlooked the backyard. Kate’s glance was drawn there for just a moment, landing on the birds. Their simple presence steadied her.

“Please, take a seat,” Mikhail gestured to the chairs.

Kate didn’t want to sit. Even when they were both standing, he towered over her. Despite the fact that she was a relatively tall woman, and she was wearing heels, she still had to tilt her head a bit to meet his gaze. If she sat, he’d seem like a giant. Instead, she propped her hip against the desk, placing her purse on it, and crossed her arms, giving him a bold once-over.

He was dressed more casually than he’d been at the office two weeks ago, wearing charcoal gray dress pants and a pale blue oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He stood still under her blatant perusal, hands in his pockets, gaze locked on her face.

“You sit,” she said, using her foot to push out the chair in front of her.

To her surprise, he acquiesced. When he sank down, stoic face tilted up to her, that looming feeling faded, and suddenly Kate could relax.

“Alright. We’re speaking privately now. You made it clear this is a sexual arrangement. What exactly do you want from me?”

A flicker of some emotion passed over his face, too quickly for her to read. “It’s not what I want from you. It’s what you want from me.”

Kate frowned. “That would be…?”

“Anything,” he said flatly. “Anything you want. I would be yours to command and control. To reward when I please you and to punish when I do not.”

Kate found that hard to believe. He radiated dominance and power. It was evident in the flintiness of his gaze, the confidence in his posture, the comfort with which he occupied the world. There was nothing deferential, nothing servile, in the way he looked at her now. She could believe that he enjoyed a woman taking sexual initiative, but she doubted very much that he liked being told what to do otherwise.

Testing her theory, she said softly, “Get on your knees.”

Without hesitation, he eased his big body from the chair to kneel at Kate’s feet. He looked up at her, hands resting on his thick thighs, just the faintest hint of something dangerous glimmering in those cold, remote eyes.

“Hands behind your back,” she said.

He obeyed, clasping them together behind him. There was no resentment in his gaze, no stubborn pride, no rebellion. Just quiet interest. He was simply waiting for whatever came next.

“What if I told you to stay like this for an hour?”

“Then I would obey you,” he answered readily.

“What if I told you to stay like this for an hour, then I went home, and that was the end of it? No sex. No gratification.”

He licked his lips. His gaze darkened. “Then I would obey you.”

She raised her brows, skeptical, and let the silence speak for her.

“Although,” he relented, “I would prefer to serve you more actively. To make you come.”

Her brows rose higher.

“As often as you wanted. Whenever you wanted.”

Kate sank back against the desk, taking that in. Her gaze traveled over him—Mikhail Volkov, the powerful tech billionaire, kneeling at the feet of some Midwestern trailer-trash nobody, asking to make her come—wanting to pay for the privilege to do so.

This couldn’t be real. And yet, she had ten grand sitting in her checking account that said otherwise.

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