Page 3 of Control: XXX Vadim 1
His brows furrow, and once again, I feel like I’m the asshole. “You’re beautiful,” he points out in a tone that makes my brain sputter and anger go poof. “I’m not your type. I can tell by your body language—” He nods toward my legs, which were neatly crossed with my hands folded over them. “You’d be positioned toward me if I were. Therefore, a beautiful woman, in a lounge meant only for business professionals, confronting me directly even though she’s not sexually attracted to me…” He smirks, letting the obvious hang in the air.
As Uncle Conroy would say,“That’s check and mate, Tiffy. Know when to quit.”
“Check please,” I call to the bartender, fighting to keep my voice calm. “I’m sorry, I should go—”
“So soon?” I stiffen as, once again, his tone catches me off guard. Not insulted, I think. Just curious. “Whatever your price, I would have paid it,” he adds offhandedly. “I have time to kill before my next flight.”
I falter as two realizations clash in my brain. One, he really does think I’m a prostitute. Two, he’s boldly stated his interest in sex. With me. Now. Sex, complete with a graceful escape built-in by way of him being guaranteed to leave afterward.
My irritation dissipates instantly. I feel like a kid who had Christmas literally fall into her lap.
“You could name your price,” Vadim continues, sparing me another glance. He lingers this time, allowing a hint of appreciation to seep into his gaze where it lacked before. He’s not my type—he was right about that. But there is something about him that makes me do a double take, paying particular notice to his mouth. It’s just so damn pretty. His lips look soft too.
And my brain jumps straight into X-rated territory because restraint is a foreign concept to this new and improved Tiffy. He’s probably amazing at oral. Not that I’d know what oral—amazing or otherwise—from anyone feels like. But that’s the point of going on a sexual adventure, isn’t it? The thrill of discovery.
“I should have known better, I suppose.” Vadim sighs wistfully, his mouth quirked in another teasing smile. “A beautiful woman, approaching me in a lounge primarily inhabited by men older than this brand of scotch, at a particular time when I was considering finding myself a companion…” He stands and fishes a handful of crisp bills from the breast pocket of his suit, placing them onto the counter. “Of course, it was too good to be true.”
He steps past me, emitting a scent of booze and cologne that hits my nostrils like a punch. It’s so deliciously male. So…sexy.
Without thinking, I’m already following after him. “If I was a…” I can’t even say it. “What would you think my ‘price’ would be?”
“Honestly?” He looks me over, his frown thoughtful. “A grand for the four hours,” he says—but from his tone, I can tell that it’s not a boast. It’s an honest gosh darn guess.
“R-Really?”
“You’re confident which betrays a familiarity with high-class clients,” he deduces, stroking his chin as if interpreting me is a task requiring his full concentration. “I’m sure your agency keeps a list of your references, and judging from your outfit, you have the financial stability to be discerning.”
My outfit. It’s one of the few things I splurged on with my first few alimony payments. A hot pink faux fur jacket with a genuineSergio Demassired silk cocktail dress that cost so much money I couldn’t even look at my bank account after. My shoes are vintage Chanel in a rare royal purple I managed to score from one of my mother’s socialite contacts. As far as jewelry, well, the diamond necklace was a present from Uncle Conroy from about ten years back, but it still cuts a striking figure with the right outfit. One could say I’d gone overboard. On the trip here from my less exclusive, more modest hotel across town, I’d caught plenty of women glancing at me with barely concealed smirks.
I hadn’t even blushed. Who cares? I’m free, and freedom comes with the ability to wear whatever the hell you want. And apparently, some rich, beautiful man thinks that I’m worth a grand for just four hours. The joke’s on them.
“Wait!” I don’t even realize he’s halfway across the bar until I finally regain my senses enough to choke out a strangled, “Thank you.”
He cocks his head, his steps slowing. “Please tell me you’ve reconsidered?”
Biting my lip, I think through my options. Explore this avenue a little more or go crawling back to my hotel room? Or, take my chances with baldy across the way. There is no competition.
“Come sit.” I sink back onto my stool and crook a finger, beckoning him with a confidence that sends my inner Bible-self reeling. “You didn’t even finish your drink.”
I snatch up his glass before the bartender can clear it. Held beneath my nose, the smell packs a punch. It’s well beyond the cheap stuff a teenage Tiffy might have smuggled from Mommy and Daddy’s drink caddy. It’s the good stuff. Very good.Uncle Conroy-trying-to-impress-wife-number-six-with-his-wealthgood.
“You could finish it for me,” Vadim suggests, appearing by my side. Dutifully, he regains his stool, copying my position with his back to the bar. “I should keep my head clear. I have a meeting in not too long.”
Curious despite myself, I take a sip and promptly sputter. It tastes like nail varnish. Damn expensive, quality nail varnish.
“So, you’re just passing through? Where are you headed?” I ask, my ears still ringing from the booze. Way, way more dangerous than a glass of wine.Slow down, Tiffy,my inner voice warns. But that voice isn’t face-to-face with a man so pretty it hurts. I find him sexier the more I appraise him. After another tiny sip of whiskey, I’m wondering why I ever considered him unattractive in the first place.
There’s something about his eyes that I find the most enticing. They’re…shadowed. Like he has an invisible wall up, and I’m only seeing a sliver of what lurks underneath—what he wants me to see. And right now, he wants me to see a sheepish, devastating smile.
“Have you ever been?” he wonders.
“Huh?” Another sip of whiskey and my brain is practically buzzing. He could have drugged it, or so says the rapidly diminishing voice of good Bible-Tiffy. But I doubt it. You can’t disguise a roofie in classic, rich bourbon—another one of Uncle Conroy’s pick-up lines. God, I need to get out more.
“You asked where I was headed,” Vadim points out, his voice soothingly deep—stern enough to anchor my floating brain. I shiver as he drags a finger over the back of my hand, and excited goosebumps erupt. He feels electric. “‘The East coast. Then onward to the south of Italy,’ I said. ‘For business, not pleasure, unfortunately. Have you ever been to Europe?’”
“Oh!” Had he really been speaking all this time? I try to look away and form some semblance of a conversation. “Italy? No. But I did some of my schooling in the south of France.”
“Really?” He sounds so amused. The tipsy, redhead “prostitute” summered in Leon for a while. Go figure.
