Page 9 of Control: XXX Vadim 1
Somehow, we wind up on the floor with me on top of him, his hands on my waist. I marvel at the beauty of his body, feeling up whatever parts of him I can reach. Even his scar. Despite its jagged appearance, the skin feels surprisingly soft to the touch—like silk.
“You’re so pretty,” I tell him, barely able to feel my tongue.
He found another bottle of wine from somewhere, and it tastes even better than what they served downstairs. Dangerously sweet, enough that I’m already on my second glass.
You’re a mess, Tiffy,a part of me scolds. But being a mess is surprisingly fun. Alcohol enhances every sensation to the nth degree. I giggle, relishing the tingling, tightening feel as my body recovers. But Vadim is watching me, eerily alert. Again, I can’t shake this tiny voice warning me that he’s almost too alert. I don’t remember seeing him drink though he lazily pours more into my glass without bothering to sit up.
Whatever. I’ll worry about that later.
“Tell me something,” I slur to distract from the feeling. “Something you’ve never told anyone ever.” When his brows furrow skeptically, I stroke my finger along his chin and add, “I can assure you that there is a fifty percent chance I won’t remember any of this by tomorrow.”
Another dizzying chuckle escapes him. Gosh, he could drug someone on his voice alone. “Only fifty? I hate to break it to you, Tiffany, but you are thoroughly sloshed.”
I concede to that assumption with a nod. “Yeah. Which makes show and tell even funner!”
“Why don’t you start?” he suggests. Extending his finger, he tucks a stray curl behind my ear, lingering near the lobe.
“Okay…” I suck in a breath and exhale it in an involuntary giggle that ruins the gravity of this moment. Here goes nothing. “Ididscope you out on purpose,” I confess. “I’m not a prostitute—but I do want something from you.”
His eyes practically glow, smug. As if he knew as much all along. “Money?” he guesses. “Clout? Protection from an abusive spouse that has you on the run?”
I snicker and raise my hand to tick off each debunked assumption one by one. “First, the abusive spouse is long since divorced. Second, I have all the money I need. And clout—” I burst into cackling laughter and lose track of which finger I was on. “What does that even mean?”
“Power,” he says seriously. “Men in my position possess plenty of power. Some seek to manipulate it for themselves.”
“Hmm.” I hum, brushing my lips along his throat. His scar is surprisingly the softest part of him, and I linger over the contours of it, daring to sneak a taste with a flick of my tongue. “Ilovehow power sounds when you say it. Your voice is so sexy—”
“You are overly affectionate when you’re drunk.” I frown at the obvious distaste in his voice, but when I scan his expression, I don’t find anything but a humored smirk. He’s so good at hiding himself.
I should be worried about that, I think.
Or I can take another sip of wine. Smacking my lips, I set my glass down and nearly knock it over.
“Iamdrunk,” I confess, sadly. “The cat is out of the bag. Such a poor little pussy. It hasn’t been out in ages—”
“So, what was it you wanted from me?”
I shiver, easily distracted. His breath even smells nice, deliciously warm, tinged with whiskey. “I was hoping you were part of a sex club,” I confess against his chest. “Like, the really debauched, really exclusive kind with pillories and such. Super taboo, kinky sex. The kind only rich people can have in utter confidentiality.”
Something weird happens. His face… It’s like he knew exactly what I would say down to the last period. But then drunk Tiffy mixed-up the script, catching him off guard. Even worse, irritating him. My stomach drops to the floor, and I rush to clean-up my own mess.
“I’m sorry—”
“You think you can survive in such a club?” he wonders in a tone that chills me, all ounce of humor gone.
“Maybe,” I say quickly. “But I’ve survived seven years of boring, milk toast sex and utter misery, so I’m ready for a challenge. Joining a place like that is on my list,” I add with solemn seriousness.
“List?” He raises an eyebrow, still so tense. Edgy.
Sighing, I try to find the right words to explain. “My ‘no one owns me, fuck all list.’ It has five items—”
“Just five?” he counters, and I snicker. Is that amusement I detect?
Raising my hand, I start to tick them off. “Yes. Dress how I want. Fuck how I want. Live how I want. Eat what I want. And no relationships.”
That last one is a new addition, but he relaxes beneath me. For whatever reason, I think I’ve given him the right answer. To what question? He’s so mysterious—I wonder if I’ll ever know.
“But I feel bad for profiling you,” I add, tapping his nipple. Mentally, I try to stop myself from using the word “beautiful” to describe the dusky peak. But it is. Gosh, he’s like some alternate version of Adonis come to life. “I now think you’re very straight-laced,” I say, treating the term as a compliment. “I don’t think you belong to a kinky, Godless sex club—”
