Page 24 of Control: XXX Vadim 1
Kissing him is a new realm, so different from the sex. He can shield himself from me, even while railing my brains out. But like this? I’m poking through a crack in his wall when we’re like this. Eager to explore, I palm both sides of his head and wiggle my hips into him. His hair feels like silk, his body perfection. My brain swims, overheating, oozing out of my mouth as mindless nonsense.
“You feel so good,” I murmur against his parted lips. How cananyonefeel so good?
But it’s as if my excitement flips a switch in him.Bam!His wall goes up in record time, forcing me to withdraw completely or risk having my tongue sliced in half by the falling action. His jaw hardens against me, his head cocking, that cold expression returning.
“You hate when I praise you,” I point out, waggling my finger at him in disapproval.Bingo.His gaze darkens, withdrawn, and mistrustful. Sighing, I flounce away from him and dive onto the bed.
“Sorry to break it to you, Vadim—” I roll over to face him and deliberately suck in a lungful of air. His brows furrow as if he’s reading my mind, and he starts forward, mounting the mattress in my wake. “You fuck REALLY GOOD!” I scream it at the top of my lungs, cackling as he grips my chin to silence me. I look up at him, enthralled by the planes of his face and those gorgeous freaking eyes. And his mouth, still wet from our kiss. I wonder if he’s one of those guys who hates tasting the results of sex. That could explain the hot and cold action to an extent. But no. Even as I watch, his tongue traces a dangerous path from one end of his mouth to the other.
And my toes curl helplessly.
“You should put your mouth on me,” I tell him, pleading. “Just once. To make up for hurting me. I’d love you then, forever and ever.”
“It only takes oral sex to buy your love?” he wonders mockingly.
“My love? No!” I push on his chest, thrilled when he lets me manipulate him onto his back and straddle him. Between my legs seems to be the one position where I feel like I have the advantage. He’s easier to read from this angle. “My love would cost a lot more than that. Like, the entire new Chanel spring collection in every color levels of dedication. But for now, to buy mymaybeforgiveness, I’ll settle for you telling me why. Why did you go through all of that trouble for something so spiteful? It would have been way easier to just pick up a real hooker on your way there.”
“Why?” He shrugs and palms my hips with both hands, keeping me in place. “My brother brings out the worst in me,” he says.
As if that explains it. Though maybe it does. I know firsthand what it’s like to have someone bring out the parts of you better left buried. Jim is my case and point.
“What happened between the two of you?”
“It’s a story that isn’t worth retelling,” he says with one of those devious, secretive smiles.
“What about the other man? Milton?” I ask. “Who is he?”
His smile wavers. “A friend. More of a brother to me than Maxim in so many ways. Some could say we grew up together…”
He sounds so wistful. Honest. I marvel at the rare hint of vulnerability, and like a vulture, I can’t resist nibbling.
“Tell me more?”
His expression glazes over, and like magic, the wall comes back up. “There isn’t more.”
I frown and poke him in the center of his chest. “Where are my wines?” I wonder, glancing around the room.
“You drank one,” he reminds me. “I left the other…over here.” He shifts beneath me and reaches for a nearby end table, withdrawing my glass from the edge of it.
“Thank you very much,” I simper, holding out my hand for it.
“Should I do the responsible thing and pour it out, I wonder?”
I gasp in mock horror and lean down to steal a sip right from the rim. “It would be a sin to waste such a perfect vintage. But maybe I should slow down just a tad...”
He obediently sets the glass aside while I roll off of him and stare up at the ceiling. For whatever reason, he remains beside me.
“You know, if you kept me around, I could smooth things over between you and your brother in no time flat.” I snap my fingers for emphasis.
“I would hate to dampen your enthusiasm,” he remarks, “but I doubt even your skills could help much in this instance.”
He sounds so sure of that. Disappointed, even?
“Never doubt the skills of a basic bitch from California,” I tell him solemnly. “It’s a damn good thing we aren’t compatible. A mere week with me, and you’d wake up to find your bachelor pad now a pastel hell designed by Laura Ashley, and that you and your brother have a weekly golf game every Sunday.”
“A tempting future,” he murmurs. The weird part? I can’t tell if he’s being serious or not.
Rolling onto my side, I tap his jaw with the tip of my finger. “But you’ll never have it,” I tell him.
