Page 4 of Control: XXX Vadim 1
“My mother insisted,” I add with a giggle, facing him again. “She thought it would culture me.”
All it did was put me on a crash course for a quickie marriage and a one-way ticket down heartbreak lane, smack-dab in the middle of wasted potential central.
“Does thinking about it upset you?” Vadim wonders. His voice is starting to sound way too suave. Persuasive. Enough that I might begin spilling my guts rather than offer them up to any millionaire in exchange for a lesson in kink.
“You said I might have spared you the effort of looking for a companion,” I murmur to distract him, kicking my legs out as I observe him again. Damn. My eyes linger over his face this time, and my next breath catches in my throat. His eyelashes go on for days, his lips alarmingly pink. Again, my brain turns to dirty, dirty things. But a part of me almost feels ashamed for putting him in that light—even in my imagination. He looks so innocent.
“For the night, yes,” he says, continuing the conversation and putting my assumption to the test. A wicked grin ignites his soft features, enhancing their intensity. “I have a few agencies I prefer to choose from. I can have my records sent to you via any method you prefer. As long as you are on regular birth control and clean, I prefer not to wear a condom.”
I almost choke at how blunt he is about a subject most people in my life would clutch their pearls at the horror of discussing. More than that, he makes it sound so…orderly. So business-like.
Awed, I find myself murmuring, “You do this often?”
He nods, and I’m instantly suspicious. Someone so pretty, presumably rich, and yet he hires escorts rather than troll for celebrity arm candy? I smell bullshit. He’s young enough—early-thirties I’m guessing—that a desperate actress would hitch her wagon to him in a heartbeat and supply all the sex he could ever need.
Unless relationships aren’t his style.
“I prefer the ease of it,” he says after a moment, seemingly proving my point. “Less hassle. Less potential for any…mess. Simple and clean.”
Simple. We have that desire in common. I inhale sharply, nodding in agreement. Yes, this could work… Only, there is one tiny matter that might prove to be a hitch. “What if I’mnota prostitute—”
“Escort,” he corrects.
“Escort then.” I’m amicable to the name change—it sounds so much classier.
“If you agree to my conditions, then who am I to tell the difference?”
“Conditions?” My eyes narrow. That sounds like a potential speed bump. For instance, Uncle Conroy’s “conditions”—which sent him burning through six consecutive marriages—are that he enjoys threesomes, booze, and little else. Since he’s one of the few millionaires I know personally, I’m hoping his proclivities don’t serve as a template for the lot. “Like?”
“Hmm.” He reaches out and gently pries the nearly empty whiskey glass from my hand. Then he downs the remaining sip in one go. I gape, riveted as his throat works to swallow. Meeting my gaze, he slams the glass onto the counter, resembling a cowboy throwing down a gauntlet. “Come to my room and find out for yourself.”
I stop breathing. Could it truly be so easy? A sexy businessman on my very first attempt?
Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth,Uncle Conroy would warn.Take your shot, girl. Luck doesn’t strike twice.
“Where to?” I murmur, rising to my feet.
His eyes widen—have I caught him off guard? Perhaps not. Already, a beautiful, mischievous expression erases anything else. He cocks his head and stands, offering his hand to me. “To a diversion,” he says. “But first things first…”
He pulls a cell phone from his pocket, and with a series of swipes, he brings up a screen that he tilts for my inspection. It takes me a second to interpret what I see—medical records, digitized for easy access. In crisp, clinical jargon, they proclaim him to have a clean bill of health.
“Oh!” I reach into my purse and withdraw a folded slip of my own dated, printed records, drawn up by my PCP just last week, along with a copy of my birth control injection administration. He looks them over and nods.
“Shall we?” Even as he smiles that charming grin, I sense a warning in his words—that of a firm boundary being drawn between us.
He’s offering up a diversion. Nothing more.
And nothing less.
Chapter Three
The rest of the Six turns out to be even fancier than the lounge—not that I manage to take in much of it, considering that I can barely walk in a straight line. My heels have absolutely no grip against the plush, lush carpeting of the upper floors. I flounder gracelessly. When I nearly careen into a potted plant, a stern figure captures my wrist, pulling me against his slender frame for support.
“Easy,” Vadim murmurs near my ear as I melt into him, relishing his body heat. “Are you alright?”
“Better than alright,” I slur with growing determination. The alcohol running through my veins just makes me more eager for whatever Mr. Pretty might have in store. With the added bonus that if I’m terrible, or if he’s terrible, or if everything is terrible, I probably won’t remember by the morning.
Win, gosh darnwin.
