Page 25 of Control: XXX Vadim 1
“Is that so?” His voice drips down to that amused, delicious murmur and something inside me quivers. Fearful? Excited? I can’t tell.
“You’ll have to buy my forgiveness first, and I don’t see any Chanel bags. Besides.” I scoot away from him and shimmy beneath the covers. “You’ll pull your mysterious billionaire act and disappear before the morning, which is just fine with me because I have a plane to catch. Try not to let the door hit ya on the way out,” I add with a forced yawn. “I’m a light sleeper.”
“And if I decide to stay in the room thatmyaccounts are paying for?” he wonders tonelessly.
“You won’t.” True regret slips into my voice before I can help it. “That would require letting down your wall, dear Sir. Something you seem to have trouble doing around me.”
Even now, he’s playing along, saying the right things. But something tells me that’s all he’s doing—playing. The real Vadim hides behind an ironclad façade, and I only see glimpses when I taunt him enough into coming out.
Sure enough, I sense the mattress lighten, suddenly devoid of his weight.
“It would be a shame to waste this room since it’s already been paid in full for the entire week,” he muses.
I burrow deeper beneath the blankets and pout in secret. “Maybe you’ll find some escort to play with while I’m gone?”
“I may.”
I peek from beneath the blankets and watch him leave every bit as inconspicuously as he had arrived at the club. Dominating the entire room.
And then stealing the air with him, making the world feel chilled and suffocating in his absence.
Chapter Ten
Iwake up too hungover to function. All I can do is moan in agony and stumble into the shower. Ritual healing performed, I can start to piece together the events of the previous night, all while trying not to die in utter mortified shame.
I had sex with Vadim again. Technically twice. Once in an alarmingly rough display, I’d pour over later, and then again when I finally got to fellate him for real.
And what an experience that was. I feel like a child who discovered that Santa, magic, and the Tooth fairy are all real—but surprise! You can only see them on a particular full moon, at midnight, only if you stand on one foot and squint in the right spot, and it’s already the morning after. The opportunity has sadly passed, never to return again.
Unfair.
The smart thing to do would be to get on the first plane back to California and put this whirlwind excursion behind me. Luckily, I have a flight leaving in…soon, I think. Frowning, I shimmy into a towel and run through the room, searching for the itinerary documents I had the concierge print out for me. I’m panting by the time I find them, and when I reconcile the time of my booked flight with the current time flashing on the LED alarm clock by the bed, I groan in despair.
“Damn it!”
A second later, the phone rings, and I lunge toward it, hoping beyond hope that it’s an airline representative offering to hold the plane just in time for me to race across town and board.
“Hello?”
“Morning,” a suave voice replies, and I bite down a groan. So sexy. So smug. My heart pangs as my belly clenches—two polar opposite reactions. “It seems you’ve decided to occupy the room another day after all.”
“W-Wrong,” I stammer while collapsing onto the end of the bed. “You’ve just caught me in the middle of packing. I’m on my way to the airport. My flight leaves soon.”
“Wrong,” he counters smoothly. “Your flight has been canceled. The next plane doesn’t leave until tomorrow morning. All of this, you would know if you were already at the airport for your eight am flight, or if you were awake for any one of the ten wake-up calls, the hotel receptionist attempted to place to inform you. I’m alerted by email when you don’t answer, you see. It appears that punctuality is not your forte, Ms. Connors.”
I sigh in defeat. There’s no arguing with that. “I can’t help wondering if you got me drunk on purpose, Mr. Gorgoshev. If you wanted to keep me here so badly, you could have offered me the use of your private jet,” I point out. “I would have gladly graced you with my presence for at least another day.”
But now? I’d consider renting a car and driving cross country myself just to get out of his orbit.
“Where are you?” I ask him before he can reply. “Attending to more mysterious business meetings?”
“Something like that,” he says. “I’m in the process of interviewing women.”
My nose wrinkles. That’s a weird way to phrase it. “For a secretarial position?”
“No. To be my wife.”
I hang up automatically and back away from the phone as if burned.Ouch. Ouch. Ouch. I never knew rejection could sting so badly, and I’ve survived a messy divorce fit for tabloid fodder. Gosh, it’s not even what he said that makes my stomach roil as if I’ll vomit. It’s how he said it. So mockingly. So matter of fact.I’m interviewing women to be my wife—which is a weird concept within itself—but hahaha, Tiffany.You may have fucked me and sucked me, but you aren’t even on my shortlist.
