Page 68 of Control: XXX Vadim 1
Masterpiece.
I shudder as he guides me further into the correct position. Then he changes his gloves to a fresh pair and swipes a cool liquid over my mound, fighting to regain his professional composure.
“You will feel some pain,” he warns as he turns back to his selection of tools. He lifts something delicately with a pair of tweezers and holds it up for my inspection. “Is this fitting enough to meet your expectations?”
“Oh, Vadim,” I breathe as I take in the delicately curved piece of metal—the female equivalent to his barbell piercing. “It’s beautiful.”
I watch eagerly as he manipulates his tools and captures the tiny hood of flesh above my clitoris. But as I hold my breath in anticipation, his doctorly persona slips.
“Tell me you want this,” he commands in a gruffer baritone, meeting my gaze.This. That dangerous word contains so many unspoken entities, each one hinted at by the ferocity making his eyes seem to glow.
And I don’t hesitate. “I want this.”
Wordlessly, he guides a needle through a corresponding tool and then sets the piercing in place. The needle drives in easily, but despite any numbing he may have used, the pressure is uncomfortable as hell. I grit my teeth, hissing at the sensation. Thankfully, the discomfort quickly fades into awed admiration as I watch the piercing mark my flesh. A statement of independence if there ever was one. A slight bit of pressure exists but isn’t unbearable, and as Vadim guides me to my feet, I don’t feel too much discomfort.
“No tight clothing for the first week, at least,” he warns, as any professional would. “To err on the side of caution, no rigorous sex for the same timeframe either. Four to eight weeks at most is the typical healing timeframe.”
I pout. “But what shall I tell all of the many horny billionaires wrapped around my finger?”
He frowns as if seriously mulling it over. “Tell them that you are taken,” he suggests, pulling me into his arms. “That you areowned.”
“Owned?” I play with the word on my tongue. It surprisingly doesn’t sound anywhere near as degrading as it should. More than that. Powerful. Owned the way the moon owns the strength of the ocean’s tides—both drawn to each other in an inescapable, magnetic pull. “There is one billionaire in particular who demands satisfaction,” I tell him, standing on tiptoe so I can whisper into his ear. “I don’t think he’ll want to wait a whole week to enjoy me.”
“Oh?” his tone lowers to that dangerous, devious baritone.
I nod, sliding my tongue along my lower lip. “Oh, yes. I suppose I’ll just have to find other ways to pleasure him in the meantime. Starting with…” I blurt out an array of x-rated suggestions, and he laughs, throwing his head back, his eyes gleaming.
“It’s a good thing I took the liberty of special-ordering a few apparatuses specifically for that occasion.” He gestures to the boxes in the corner, and my eyes go wide.
“A kinky room, just for me? Why Vadim, I didn’t know if you had the imagination in you.”
“And then some,” he warns, his upper lip quirked. “You’d be surprised what a quick Google search and an hour’s long consultation with one of the world’s most renowned sexual experts can accomplish...”
Chapter Twenty-Three
It isn’t until midnight that he turns distant again. I catch him brooding through half-closed eyes, and I doubt he’s even aware that I’m watching him. His brows are drawn together, his expression stricken. Two slim fingers massage his temples to no avail. With every passing second, his frown deepens, enhancing the uniqueness of his face that lends to sadness so well. To torment.
I start to reach for him, but he turns away, lying with his back to me. And I know that whatever is bothering him has everything to do with our newfound relationship. Regret?
But why?
I’m too terrified to seek out an answer now. Not freshly pierced and drunk off lust. I drift off instead, and it’s morning when I finally startle awake.
“I need you dressed.”
I look over to find Vadim exiting the closet, already wearing a suit. Over his arm is an array of brightly colored fabric that must be an outfit for me.
“Please,” he urges, spreading out a tweed coral skirt and ruby blouse onto the end of the mattress.
“What’s going on?” I blink my eyes to adjust to the harsh daylight as I sit upright. My piercing aches, but not in an overly painful way. More like a giddy reminder of the hedonistic pledge I made to both him and myself—owned. My brain melts at the memory, and I almost miss what he says next.
“My…meeting.” He cuts his gaze to the door and tugs at his tie. “They are almost here.”
He’s nervous, I realize. It’s such a contrast to his usual icy cool that it takes me longer to process it.
“Okay.” I bound into the bathroom and wash up quickly. Then I change into the clothing he specified, puzzled by the overall effect—modest, yet fashionable. The perfect perky wife to his cold businessman. When I stand beside him, I envision the picture we make.
And I freaking love it.
