Page 67 of Control: XXX Vadim 1
He exhales raggedly, tearing his hand through his hair, and I rise up to my knees, concerned.
“What’s wrong?” I ask when he finally hangs up.
He averts his gaze, his expression drawn tight. His stupid wall comes up, up, up, and I feel like a madwoman desperately trying to tear it back down.
“No! Don’t!” I shuffle toward him and loop my arms around his neck, pressing my body to his. “Don’t shut me out. You don’t have to tell me everything, but just give me a hint. Don’t shut me out.”
“A hint?” He sounds so damn exhausted. I lean back, pulling him onto the bed, forcing him to lie beside me. He stares up at the ceiling while I straddle him, stroking his cheek. Finally, his eyes refocus on me, and hesitation transforms his features. He almost looks like a stranger again. Some new man with new secrets to uncover. “I will need my fake wife tomorrow,” he confesses.
Jealousy rises up so swiftly I can’t suppress it—until I remember. I don’t recall him actually hiring anyone to fulfill that role. In fact…the ring is still on my finger, so comfortable there I’d forgotten I’ve been wearing it all this time. Leaning down, I claim his mouth and drag my fingers down his front.
“Me,” I tell him sternly. “I’ll be your fake wife.” I simper, pleased with myself, but his frown deepens, his gaze still distant.
“There is something I need to tell you,” he says seriously. “But I don’t think you’ll stay if I do.”
I shudder at the thought of what. A real wife that he needs a decoy in order to divorce from? Legal trouble, and he needs a wife as a character witness? My brain churns through the possibilities, but I can’t think of any dire enough to make him look so…
Torn.
I come to a decision too quickly to parse through the consequences. “Then don’t tell me,” I say, sealing the request with a kiss. “Not yet. I think I can handle anything—but murder, a secret army of bastard children, or my participation in a ponzi scheme—” I break off as he jolts upright, knocking me off of him.
Dazed, I roll onto my side and watch him. He’s cradling his face in both hands, his expression stricken.
“I said something wrong,” I whisper, reaching for him. “I’m sorry. What did I say—”
“Nothing.” He stands and marches into the bathroom, his shoulders hunched against me. “I… I’ll be back.”
I slump against the pillows, blinking as my eyes burn. I’m stung by the whiplash of his reaction, but more than that, I’m worried. For him. He’s flickering like a candle flame now more than ever. I don’t know which direction to swing in to match him. Playful? Serious? Sensual?
I still haven’t decided by the time he reappears in the doorway, his hair dripping, his face damp. I imagine him standing over the sink, splashing water onto his face until he regained his trademark composure. His dark eyes flicker to me, wholly unreadable.
“Stay,” he commands before entering the hallway, his footsteps resonating. Puzzled, I wait once again in anticipation of which way the flame of his mood will dance. Seconds later, his voice drifts back to me, “Come.”
I stand and follow after him on unsteady legs. He’s just down the hall, in the closed room directly adjacent to the bedroom. The space beyond is just as massive though sparsely furnished. Cardboard boxes are stacked in one corner, each one large and sufficiently mysterious. In the center of the room is a leather chaise with a sheet draped over it. Nearby is a metal folding table upon which is an array of neat, surgical-looking supplies set on top of another white cloth.
Standing with enviable grace, Vadim tugs on a pair of gloves with his back to me.
“Are you ready to accept this?” he wonders, his tone sin.
I quiver, my heart racing with excitement. “Ready to accept what?” I ask innocently as I continue to close the distance between us.
So maybe he wasn’t lying about being a trained professional. His setup looks sterile and organized with clinical precision.
“Impressive,” I murmur, stroking his shoulder. He cocks his head back, a quick, tempered smile playing over his lips.
Whatever upset him before is apparently forgotten.
“Sit,” he commands, gesturing to the chaise. “I need to examine you.”
A thrill runs through me as I practically hop onto the surface and lie back while lifting my nightgown up to my hips. He turns to survey me, his gaze narrowed with focus. Shyly, I spread my legs, giggling as he sucks in a breath. Yet overall, he maintains his steely, doctorly presence.
“Have you ever been pierced before, Ms. Connors?” he wonders while unfolding a medical drape that he places over my abdomen.
“Just my ears,” I reply.
A low sound resonates in his chest as he urges my legs apart and instructs me to bend my knees. “Merde,” he grates, an unprofessional term. Not that I care. The expression on his face… It’s enough to make me bite my lip and consider putting this off long enough to seduce him. His eyes are wide, his lips parted and deliciously pink. I inhale as they move, his voice a low hum, “You are so beautiful.”
I’m drunk off his baritone, dizzy already. Having him peer between my legs is surprisingly more comfortable than I feel it should be. More intimate. He eyes me appreciatively but in a way that doesn’t make me feel like a piece of meat. What was that word he used?
