Page 44 of Control: XXX Vadim 1
If the shower at the hotel confounded me, this one leaves me hopelessly confused as to where to begin—it’s a panel built into the wall in the center of a huge stall enclosed by glass. In the end, I give up and call for help.
An amused Vadim appears at my shoulder seconds later, dressed in the brown suit and blue shirt ensemble he modeled for me last night. His breath tickles my shoulder as he explains how to operate the shower. Once I have the water pressure set to my liking, I lather up, only to realize that—rather than leave the bathroom—he’s seated leaning against a row of marble-topped counters, watching me bathe.
A sly smile tugs on my mouth. I feel like some concubine at the mercy of her captor—and I abuse his attention to the fullest. Closing my eyes, I toss my head into the spray and shamelessly stroke myself with a washcloth. Up and down. Between my legs. I pay special attention to my breasts and the curve of my ass, turning around as I do so that my back faces my audience.
Even above the relentless roar of the water, I still hear his groan.
When I finally finish, however, and step from the shower, he’s gone. I have to pad across the room and grab my own towel from a silver rack. Before any real disappointment can set in, he reappears, a strip of fabric slung across his arm.
“I can’t risk you spending hours to dress yourself today,” he says by way of explanation. He unfurls the fabric, revealing one of my new dresses.
“Do you think green is my color?” I ask, eyeing the selection skeptically. It’s an eye-catching A-line day dress with a modest neckline and black buttons rimmed in gold going down the front. I may have picked it out to wear on my own, but the color is suspiciously close to that of the lingerie I wore last night.
Sporting a smirk, I drop my towel and pull the dress on. Ever the smart ass, he also supplied me with a pair of lace panties it seems—but no bra.
“How scandalous, Mr. Gorgoshev,” I scold as I prance past him into the bedroom, and my nipples promptly harden at the shift in temperature.
I can’t help feeling like the joke is on me, though, as he follows behind and swears under his breath. “Merde.”
Apparently, this dress hugs my ass in a way he appreciates.
Tit for tat.
Downstairs, he fishes a pitcher of orange juice from the fridge and proceeds to pour two glasses. On the counter, someone already laid out a cold spread of delicate glass bottles of jam, a bowl of fresh fruit, and a basket containing an assortment of bread from croissants to a baguette.
“Did you leave these out all night?” I wonder, shooting him a curious glance.
“No,” he says while handing me a glass of juice. “Ena did. He doubles as both my security and my chef when the urge strikes him. He makes himself scarce, and I specifically requested he stay out of sight to avoid startling you. The presence of security can sometimes make those around me uneasy.”
“Ah.” Given how much money he likes to throw around, a highly trained security team makes sense. Is it creepy that some stranger had access to the property without me knowing? A little. “I’m guessing that Ena was responsible for delivering my Chanel the other day?”
He nods and picks through the breadbasket, settling on a piece of the baguette. “As I mentioned, I told him to make himself scarce, but sometimes he gets persistent when he believes I’m not eating enough.”
“Because of your diabetes,” I deduce softly. Reaching out, I playfully tug on his sleeve, surprised when his mouth twitches into a fleeting smile. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those workaholic men who recklessly disregard their health in their pursuit of the almighty dollar.”
“Not quite.” He trails his fingers across the lid of a light-yellow jam as if mulling over whether or not to divulge more about himself than he already has. “Sometimes, I may go days without eating if I am not reminded. It’s not a conscious choice, mind you.”
“Oh?” I watch him, my throat thickening. Could he suffer from an eating disorder?
“When I was a child… Meals did not come regularly.” He deftly opens the jam bottle and slathers a healthy amount onto his bread slice. “I learned to suppress my hunger to escape the torment. And with insulin in short supply, doing so probably saved my life in the long run. Even in my adulthood, I’ve found that it’s been difficult for me to revert from that mindset.”
Building horror tempers my curiosity to ask him more. I don’t like how he looks whenever he recalls his past. He isn’t reminiscing over wonderful Christmases and holidays spent on his uncle’s vineyard, that’s for sure.
Guilt stings as I regret ever needling him at all. To lighten the mood, I snatch a croissant and proceed to shove half of it into my mouth.
He eyes me quizzically, his upper lip quirking, and boom. He’s distracted.
“Try not to choke,” he warns, dabbing at the corner of my mouth with a crisp white napkin. “I may have use for this throat yet.” He grazes the quivering column with his thumb, and my brain threatens to go offline again.
“The things you say,” I scold once I manage to swallow.
He laughs and gathers up the assorted breakfast items, carrying them to the glass dining table. The mysterious Ena must have been the one to set the table for two, as well as put a neat stack of newspapers near the place setting Vadim claims for himself.
“Is this how you impress your other women?” I taunt as he lifts the topmost paper from the stack and proceeds to flip through it. “Proving yourself to be a worldly and knowledgeable businessman?”
He doesn’t look up from his task, but his mouth quirks. Another smile? “I prefer to brush up on the current events every morning. It is my routine.”
“Ah.” I stuff my face with another bite of bread and settle in to watch him. He skims through the major sections of the paper, paying attention to the world news and politics before heading to the business section. As he reads, his expression shifts from thoughtful, to concerned, to neutral again. When he finally thrums through the last stack, he looks up as if surprised to find me still here.
