Page 14 of Silent Ties

“No.” He kisses my pussy. “I want to play with what’s mine.”

I bite my lip, giving in to the sensation. Giving into him.

It’s only been one night but I’m well and truly owned by Maxim.

CHAPTER 4

Russet

Imarried Maxim on a Friday. That night and all of Saturday and Sunday I was his to do whatever he pleased.

He tortured my nipples, slapped my pussy, made me come over and over and over again.

I took everything and more, half-hating myself for wanting the orgasms he expertly coaxed out and desperate for more. At one point I begged him for a nap, my skin damp from the repeated ministrations. A few hours later I woke up to him stroking my nipple, my back against his chest. The bastard knew when I woke and his hand lowered, starting a new round of delicious torture.

Now it’s Monday and Maxim is back to his regularly scheduled life.

Turns out he’s working on an MBA, leaving me to go to class while I stayed in bed, dazed and confused as to what my new life will be like.

The good news is Marissa helpfully shipped a few suitcases. I found them in the ostentatious foyer. Without Maxim’s presence, it’s easier to inspect every nook and cranny.

My first impression is why does any single guy need a penthouse like this? It’s decorated nicely, no doubt with professional help, but it appears more like a celebrity house inArchitectureDigestthan a home for a twenty-five-year-old guy.

Sure, there’s plenty of alcohol in the kitchen, but the place is strangely clean, not a thing out of place. Outside of lamps and throw pillows, there aren’t any ‘things’. No knickknacks or photos.

Only books.

There’s a library with his desk and a computer, one wall filled with bookshelves. And in the living room, built-in bookshelves are also filled to the brim. But they’re all stuffy textbooks or history paperbacks. Memoirs and biographies about war generals.

I pass on those and pluck a red spine out. It’s in Russian.

The elevator dings and an older woman, her face sagging with wrinkles and caramel hair brushed into a chignon, pauses in the foyer. Her eyes flick from the suitcases to the book in my hand. And here I thought, Maxim was the personification of unimpressed. No wonder this is his maid.

I snap the Russian book closed, slipping it back onto the shelf. “Hi. I’m Russet.”

“What is all of this?”

“I’ll move it.” There’s no telling what Marissa decided to pack but I’d love to make sure she included my cell phone. Not that I think there will be any messages, but it’d be nice to have one thing of my old life somewhere.

“You don’t.” The woman speaks in stilted English. If I had to guess she’d have no trouble reading the Russian book.

Outside of hotels, I’ve never dealt with maids. The woman doesn’t look pleased but she grabs a bag and starts to haul it. “It’s heavy.”

“Let me help.” I take the strap.

“You do nothing,” she says with a slight subtext ofyouare nothing.

Well, this is going nicely.

“I’m Olga,” she introduces and then stops at the threshold of the bedroom. “I’ll wash the sheets.”

Cheeks flaming, I drop to my knees, unzipping one of the two suitcases.

“I’ll do that.” Olga already has an armful of sheets, but motions for me to move away from the bags. She’s serious because thirty seconds later, she tries to shoo me away from my own personal items.

“My job.” There’s something about Olga’s tone that makes the words sound robotic and mean at the same time. She motions to a set of pajamas. “We already have these.”

In the closet, there’s everything I could need and more. Pajamas, jeans, lacy bits of underwear. Things from magazines I would love to wear but I’m not sure I could pull off. But it’s all there in this penthouse of a place.

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