Page 12 of Corrupt: XXX Vadim 2
“Another toy?” I wonder, a thrill in my voice.
“Attend to your assignment, Ms. Connors,” he scolds, eyeing me from over his shoulder. “And, I will attend to mine.”
Challenge accepted. I hunker down with his laptop and try to decide where to begin. I don’t feel the need to ask him for direction, at least. He wants me to help him prepare the house for Magda. Predictably, I do a cursory search for girl’s bedroom ideas only to find myself distracted as Vadim rolls up the sleeves of his shirt and casually lifts massive piece of wood, after massive piece from the box and begins to assemble them using the white instruction manual as a guide.
The man has skill. He works methodically, utilizing his hands in a graceful display to manipulate the various pieces and screw or hammer them together. My cheeks flame as he looks up and catches me spying.
“Ten minutes in and you haven’t spent millions? I’m disappointed, Ms. Connors,” he chides playfully.
I scoff. “Watch me.”
I return to the screen, peering through an endless array of furniture listings and design styles. I’m observing a promising pastel color scheme when something flashes across the screen. An email alert? I frown as I scan the subject heading.
“You speak Russian?” I ask, vaguely recognizing the unfamiliar shapes of the Cyrillic alphabet from a brief lesson on the Bolshevik revolution in high school.
“What?” Vadim looks up sharply, setting his tools aside. He grabs the laptop from me and quickly scans the contents of the email. Whatever he reads makes him curse, and he slams the computer shut, turning on his heel. “I’ll be back,” he says in a tone that warns me not to follow.
Seconds later, I hear his voice drift from the bedroom. He must be on a phone call. “You want to play peacemaker?” he demands in a scathing tone. “Keep your dog on his leash. I’ve restrained myself where he is concerned becauseyouasked. I’ve gone to your dinners, and played your game, but if he dares to play his games with me, I’ll end this war for good. I’m warning you both, Milton—” he pauses as if allowing the person on the other end to reply. Whatever they say makes him laugh. “It seems that someone’s been digging around my holdings in Moscow,” he adds. “Who else but Maxim? Unlike him, I’ve kept my enemies in check. How much more am I supposed to sacrifice to keep little Maxi sated? Rest assured, I’ll give him a friendly warning to keep his distance.Adieu.”
He must hang up, because he’s entering the room a heartbeat later, his expression haggard. Spotting me, he clenches his jaw and returns to his scattered tools.
“Change your mind?” he asks as he snatches up two long pieces of wood and secures them to a rectangular base. “You can still use my computer—”
“No,” I say, still stunned by the ferocity I’ve just witnessed. It’s like he flips in some ways, flicking between these two halves of his personality. My mind is burning with questions—what has his brother done now? But something inexplicable warns me from asking.
So I don’t.
“I’m just reassessing,” I say instead. “I think it might be better to make these purchases in person. Find something special. Do you even know what she likes? Dislikes?”
He looks down, his jaw tight. “There is a list in the documentation from her social worker,” he admits.
“You’ve read it?”
He stares off into the distance and slowly nods.
“We’ll look for things together, then,” I suggest, rising to my feet. The real world lingers beyond this room, but I’m selfish. Childish, even. I’m desperate to extend this moment, and I cross over to him without a second’s hesitation, looping my arms around his neck from behind. “Tomorrow we’ll go out and buy some things for her in person. Do I still get my treat?”
He stiffens, but then cups my hips, and any previous tension eases. “Remember when, during your explicit proposal of your demands in exchange for a piercing, that you requested a swing?”
He makes it sound so harmless, but I squeal in utter debauched delight. It’s a relatively effortless gesture on his part, but it betrays an intent that leaves me giddy—more debauched kink. My eyes trace the contours of the rectangular base, and I slowly begin to recognize the makings of a sexual swing set. Just for me.
“I love how you make my fantasies come true,” I murmur near his ear.
He strokes down my hip, and I sense again that something unspoken is being transferred between us. Something hot and sensual that makes me back away.
“Let me be your assistant?” I ask as he turns to face me.
He smirks and directs me to a leather case containing silver tools. I perch beside it and hand him tools one by one at his request. I think he manages to work for a solid hour in peace before the pressure building between my legs becomes unbearable. Being with him is forcing me to rethink all the turn-ons I’d had before now.
A man wearing only a dress shirt, screwing pieces of a sex swing together?Check.
Said man glancing at me every few seconds with hooded, lusty eyes?Double check.
And when he stands and rakes his fingers through a mane of curls glistening with sweat, I shrug off my own shirt and sidle up to him, easing a silver wrench from his grasp.
“I want a demonstration,” I murmur, stroking my fingers along the partially built swing. Then I inch the same hand around to his abdomen and boldly stroke downward. “A taste of all the dirty things you plan to do to me on it?”
In exasperation, he turns to me and captures my chin, his grin dangerous. “I’ll never finish at this rate,” he says, eyeing my front.
I shamelessly display myself for him and cup one of my breasts, thumbing the nipple. “You could always say no,” I remind him.
His eyes narrow as if he’s processing the idea. The next second, he’s stepping into me, his mouth finding mine, his hands gripping my hips. One harsh tug brings my pelvis against his.
I take that response as a yes.
