Page 46 of Control: XXX Vadim 1
“Can I have a hint?” I ask sweetly.
He blinks and looks up as if remembering I’m even here. Then he casually tugs open a drawer on his end and fishes out a silver pen. “I need to work.”
His tasks this time stretch well into the early afternoon. Again, I think I should be bored, forced to watch him, left with no other entertainment. But damn, even watching this man pour over reports and make phone calls is riveting. It’s almost like observing a ballet dancer gracefully in his element—a master at work.
Eventually, he puts his papers away and seems to take pity on me because he stands and extends his hand to help me to my feet as well.
“Lunch,” he explains, leading me out into the hall. I expect him to take me back to the car, but instead, he turns into a large boardroom set with a spread fit for a king. “I took the liberty of having a few things delivered,” he explains while guiding me to a seat near the head of the table while he takes the one across from me.
“I think I recognize that brand of wine,” I say cynically, eyeing the infamous bottle of vintage that had been my kryptonite back at the hotel suite. “Are you trying to ply me, Mr. Vadim?”
“Yes.” He sits back further, threading his fingers together. A part of me quivers, recognizing that I’m on an unfair playing field. This room, this location is an arena best suited to give him the advantage.
So, like any sore loser, I play dirty. I yawn as if bored and reach up to flick open the topmost button of my dress. Then another. Another. The barest tease of cleavage is enough to dampen his smug grin to acceptable levels. All is fair in war, after all.
“There is something I want to discuss,” he says, cutting to the chase.
“Yes?”
“You teased me about being pierced before,” he begins, laying one of the most dangerous topics on the table. “Were you serious?”
“Yes,” I blurt automatically. A sexy piercing would be the introduction to the kink I’ve been fantasizing about. My relationship with him aside, why should I let a harmless fling stop me? Especially if he’s planning on paying for it.
“But,” I add, still eyeing the table. “I want to renegotiate my previous price—”
“Anything.” The heat in his voice draws my attention, and I sorely regret facing him directly. I got my wish. His wall came down, but I’m no match for what I find lurking beneath it. Dark eyes heavy-lidded and focused, a jaw clenched to brooding perfection and pink lips slightly moistened by a slithering tongue. There’s no way to describe the reaction other than raw, naked lust.
“You really want me to do this,” I whisper hoarsely. Should I be horrified? I’m not. I’m freaking thrilled. My mind skips ahead, imagining him, teasing some delicate silver piercing with his teeth. Even the thought makes synapses in my brain explode and fire at random.
“Yes,” he confesses without shame. “I… I would love to pierce you.”
Holy hell.I have to keep from fanning myself, and all I can think to blurt out is, “Why?”
He sits back, eyeing me objectively. His gaze flickers down my torso, settling where the table obscures. “I am intrigued… No. Ilove—” his tongue fumbles with the word, betraying how little he must say it. If ever. A part of me feels oddly pleased that few women probably ever hear him utter it in this husky, dangerous tone. Overall, I’m more alarmed than ever. “I love the idea of you entrusting yourself to me.”
Heat pools beneath my legs so hotly my brain has trouble catching up. But when it does, I blink, snapping from the daze as something clicks.
“You mean,youactually want to pierce me?”
He raises an eyebrow as if the concept isn’t totally insane. “I would prefer to be the only one to pierce you.”
I shake my head. “Sorry, but I can’t just let anyone put holes into my nether regions.” There are some lines even I’m not willing to cross. “Anyone but a trained professional.”
His mouth quirks into an expression of utter sin. “Luckily for us both, I am a trained professional.”
I scoff. “Really? For real, or did you just learn by watching videos online or something?”
His murky gaze offers no insight, and I feel stunned, more off-balance than ever.
“Let me guess,” I spit in exasperation, “you pierced yourself?”
His smile falls flat, betraying a hint of vulnerability, and my eyes go so wide I’m sure they’ll pop right out of my head.
“You did? You pierced yourself!” I scramble upright and circle the table until I reach his chair.
“There are cameras,” he warns in that unnervingly neutral tone. But I don’t care. I straddle him anyway, forcing him to push back from the table to give me enough room. If there are cameras, I figure my hunched frame shields how my hand slithers between us, finding the front of his slacks.
He watches on in cautious amusement as I tug open his fly and slide my hand beneath the fabric, cupping his shaft. Surprise, surprise, he’s hard, pulsing against my palm. But foreplay isn’t on my mind as I drag my thumb across the crown, gently—very, very gently—probing one of the protruding silver beads capping the bar of his piercing.
