Page 2 of Control: XXX Vadim 1
“T-Thank you,” I stammer, smoothing my fingers over my skirt. He moved so fast. Already he’s back to nursing his whiskey as if he never budged at all. “I’ve probably had way too much wine.”
I groan internally. The fact that I acknowledge drinking at all is a sign I’ve definitely had too much wine. Surprisingly, Mr. Pretty doesn’t seem to mind my sloppiness.
My heart races the more I watch him, and I dare to hope this could be working. He’s handsome enough, and yes, he may be freakishly thin, but I can work with it. Jim—no, not thinking about him.My ex,has the body of a college linebacker five years beyond his prime, so I’m not picky.
Smiling wider, I try to engage the non-cheating, non-asshole person before me in conversation.Say something smart, Tiff.“Is Gorgoshev your first or last name?” I wonder.
Kill me.
“Last,” he says, either oblivious to the stupidity of the question or he must get it a lot. “I’m not inclined to give out my first name to strangers.” A playful smirk shapes his mouth, softening the rejection hidden within his words. Touché.
“I’m Tiffany Connors,” I blurt. It could be the wine talking, but something about him makes me curious enough to extend the conversation, all embarrassment aside. “Age twenty-eight. I like long walks on the beach. I can assure you that I’m not a serial killer—”
“And I’m sure you carry quite the reputation in finance to commandeer a private booth in such an establishment,” he says over me.
I clam up as my cheeks catch fire. Smart man—toosmart, it seems. “I…I…”
“Relax.” He cocks his head back and takes a small sip from his drink. “You’re the first woman under fifty to come in here alone—” He meets my gaze directly, and my heart lurches. “Pardon me for being curious.”
“Oh, yeah...” I flick my tongue along my lower lip, weighing the benefits of further engagement. He seems nice, but his lack of ogling my tits or trying to feel me up leaves me puzzled. Navigating the dating world beyond high school is a brand-new experience for me. Are we in good territory? Bad? Should I cut my losses and move on to an easier mark like the bald guy across the room?
Decisions. Decisions.
Jutting my chin, I decide on the spot to cut the bullshit and go for the balls. “Maybe I’m not a financier,” I confess, eyeing him through my lashes. “Maybe I’m interested in something a lot more fun than comparing business ventures. What do you say? I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
A part of me cringes inside—the good, God-fearing part of me that wishes I was wearing a nice sweater instead of a dress that exploits my cleavage to hell and back. After two years, it’s still hard to shake the old girl.
But as Mr. Gorgoshev’s eyes flicker from my face down to my collar, I suddenly can’t hear anything but the hard swallow contorting my throat. Good girl Tiffy can put a sock in it.
“Vadim,” he says. “First name.”
“Vadim,” I parrot, playing with the syllables. I probably sound more tipsy than sexy, but a thrill runs through me anyway. I swear his eyes narrow slightly. So I say it again.
“Are you alright?” he wonders, a black eyebrow raised.
“Huh?”
“Your voice. It sounds strange.” Frowning, he takes another sip of his whiskey while I pray I might sink through the floor and die. Just when the mortification becomes unbearable, he flashes one of those disarming grins. “If I didn’t know better… I’d think you were coming on to me, Ms. Connors.”
A teensy bit of my panic gives way to an excited flutter in my belly. “And if I am?”
He seems to mull it over, his dark eyes gleaming. “Then I would have to say…” With undeniable interest, his gaze flits over me a second time, and my heart lurches. “How much?”
Chapter Two
“M-Much?” I eye my glass of wine and feel my nose wrinkle. “To be honest, I haven’t really been paying attention to the number of glasses I’ve—” My brain realizes what he’s implying before my mouth does. The second I do, my teeth slam together as a horrible wave of mortification washes over me, so intense, so paralyzing that it brings with it a sensation of déjà vu.
Like the day I strolled past my beautiful white picket fence, in my old beautiful life, and walked up the porch of my beautiful house. And then I found my once beautiful husband sitting at the kitchen table beside his beautiful whore. The joke had been on me. After seven years of changing myself to please him, he’d decided to spring for a younger, newer model.
And together, they had presented their case for a divorce.
I told myself I’d never feel like that again. Not ever. Not even at the mercy of the mysterious figure I once considered fucking.
“I’ve offended you,” he says, the second I lurch from my stool. “Explain.”
Something in his tone forms a wall against the indignation prickling through my skin. It’s like the world just shifted, and even though I’m the one insulted, he’s managed to turn the tables.
“What makes you think I’m—” I glance at the bartender nearby and lower my voice, horrified. “A prostitute?”
