Page 46 of Dirty Damage

… and a leather-tasseled whip falls at my feet.

Slowly, I drag my eyes up to take in what can only be described as a treasure trove of sex toys. Blindfolds in silk and leather. Lengths of rope hanging from hooks on the walls. And in the back, boxes of condoms in sizes that make my mouth go dry.

Oleg Pavlov isn’t just a beast.

He’s ananimal.

I pick up a length of braided silk rope, mesmerized by how it slides through my fingers. Images flash unbidden through my mind—my wrists bound above my head, Oleg’s scarred face hovering over mine, his voice rough in my ear.

“You signed the contract, Sutton. You’re mine now.”

Heat rushes to my face.

My chest.

Other places, too.

I knew a man like Oleg would have some skeletons in the closet.

I just didn’t think those skeletons would be quite so… kinky.

I slam the doors closed and blink. This isn’t why I’m here—luxurious views, titillating sex toys. I’m here to make enough money to start over and get Sydney away from her asshole boyfriend.

That’sit.

“Stay focused,” I scold myself.

I choose the guest room farthest from Oleg’s sex dungeon and throw myself down on the bed. The mattress folds around me like a cloud, and I again suppress a moan.

Probably not for the last time, once the contract officially begins.

I strangle the devious little voice in my head. I’ll have sex with Oleg only until I’m pregnant, and then I’ll never touch him again. I’ll give birth to his child, write my sister a check to get the heck out of Vegas, and Oleg will be my platonic roommate.

My platonic roommate who has extra-large condoms that taste like raspberry in his closet.

“Shut up, shut up,” I mutter, digging the heels of my hands into my eyes.

I have got to get my thoughts in check. As Oleg had so nicely pointed out, his interest in me is not romantic.

It’s strictly business.

I have to remember that. I have to keep my guard up.

And I most definitely have to abide by the contract I signed.

First things first, though: I need food.

I reach for the phone in my back pocket, hoping I can summon Uri with a text and get him to take me grocery shopping.

But it isn’t my new phone—it’s my old phone.

And Drew’s name is lighting up my home screen.

I open the message just to dismiss it to the lowest circle of hell where he belongs, but my blood runs cold.

It’s a photo of my sister. Even through her oversized sunglasses, I can see the dark bruise on her cheek.

My phone buzzes again, this time with a text.

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