There’s a calmness around her as she walks out that hits me square in the chest. It’s not the kind of hair-tossing confidence Sasha wields, but she looks grounded. Happy.
I get out to open the door for her, and she leans into me, lifting her face with a smile and big moon eyes. “You’re awfully nice to your slave,” she purrs.
“My slave earned it.” I brush her cheek with my thumb. “How’d it go?”
She exhales with a smile. “Really well. As good as it could have. I did a couple scenes for them, and one made me tear up. It was perfect, honestly. Thanks for the pep talk before I went in. It really helped.”
“You don’t need pep talks, little flower. You already have it all. Believe that.”
She keeps leaning against me, her tits pressing soft against my ribs. My dick twitches against my zipper at the contact. I want to throw her over my shoulder, run back into that building and find some supply closet where I can fuck her brains out one last time before I go.
As if she’s reading my mind, she asks, “What time’s your flight?”
I shrug. “I already missed it. I’m sure I can find another one going out tonight.”
“Do you want me to take you to the airport?”
This is new, too. We’ve always just met at Black Light or the hotel. When it’s over, I take a cab or rideshare, and she drives away.
I know I should tell her no. That I’ll call a ride share. There’s something desperate and clingy about us needing to stay together until the last possible minute.
But the fact is, I do want these last few moments with her. Even after a solid forty-eight hours and more orgasms than I can count, it’s never enough. There’s something thoroughly addictive about Kayla that makes me want to change every plan I’ve ever made.
I brush my lips over hers. “Yeah. That would be nice. Thanks.”
8
Pavel
I get up from the red leather couch in the living room of the penthouse.
“Too much of a chick flick?” Story asks. She’s curled up in Oleg’s lap on the other end of the sofa. She picked the movie playing on the television—The Spy Who Dumped Me. Nikolai’s in the chair beside us.
“Nah. It’s fine.” Although it’s true, now that we have three women in the house, our television diet has changed significantly.
“It’s stupid,” Nikolai says, then holds his hands up when Oleg glares. “I just mean why would you torture someone that way? It doesn’t make sense.”
“You’re just sad you can’t wear a leotard while you question captives,” his twin, Dima counters. He’s at his makeshift desk—a table in the middle of the living room—because he likes to work where all the action is. Or because he can’t stop working. The guy would probably combust if he wasn’t sitting in front of a computer for at least twelve hours a day.
I haven’t seen Ravil, Lucy and the baby since dinner, and Maxim’s fucking Sasha’s brains out, based on the rhythmic sound of furniture banging against a wall in their room.
“I’ll probably be back,” I say. “I’m going to make a phone call.”
“I think the correct term is video-dom,” Nikolai wisecracks. “Show me your breasts, little slave,” he mimics.
One of these assholes overheard me once when I was talking to Kayla, and now I’m fair game.
“I’m calling my mother,” I growl and point at Nikolai. “I fucking dare you to make a joke with that.”
He holds up his hands in surrender. “Wasn’t going to touch it.”
“You’d better not.”
Dima lifts his head and opens his mouth, but when I glower his way, he closes it again. “Yeah, me neither.”
“I’ll probably be back.” I walk out the front door of the suite and down the elevator hall to my bedroom, which doesn’t connect to the main penthouse. It suits me to have a little privacy, since I’m not the most social of the bunch.
I’ve been itchy and restless this week. The life I adored, revered for the past few years, suddenly seems basic. There’s been no one to beat down or torture. Working out and watching television on the couch with my suitemates used to be enough on the off-hours. Now it’s mundane.
Kayla’s all I can think of, but this week, it’s not just about the things I want to do to her. How to torture her. Planning ways to make her scream. Shopping for implements and toys. This week, I’m remembering the things we talked about.
Kayla, I’m not saying no. That’s how I shifted from dom to boyfriend in a heartbeat. Because I’m incapable of saying no to that girl, especially when those big blue eyes fill with tears.
And yes, I would be video-domming her tonight if she wasn’t working a promotion with her housemates.
When I’m in my bedroom, I pull my phone out and call my mom back.
“Pavel! Are you home from your trip? How is the girl?” she asks in Russian.
“She’s good. She lives in Los Angeles. I was visiting her.”
“But how do you know her? What is she doing there? What’s her name?”
“Her name is Kayla. I met her at an event in Los Angeles. She’s an actress. I’ve been going to visit her on the weekends.”
“You’re serious about her.” My mother sounds surprised.
Not half as surprised as I am. I make a non-committal sound.
I’m serious about tying her up and licking her pussy until she screams...
I clear my throat. “How are you, Mama?”
“Oh, you know…”
“Have you left the apartment? Seen anyone?”
“No.”
“You should get out,” I say, but I know she won’t. She’s afraid. My father never let her out of his sight while he was alive. She wouldn’t even know how to go out and build a life. She needs support.
Briefly, my thoughts go to Nadia, Adrian’s sister. She was brought to this country under horrible circumstances—as a sex slave. Adrian tracked her here and burned down the building where she was being held. Then he worked on taking his revenge for what happened to her.
Unfortunately, the bastard Leon Poval, the Ukrainian slaver, is still at large.
But the point is, Adrian got her help. She video conferences a counselor back in Russia. She feels safe here in the Kremlin where everyone speaks Russian. She’s starting to get out. Hell, Adrian even brought her out to one of Story’s band’s shows last weekend after she met Story and her brother and the rest of the band rehearsing in the building.
“Mama, I’m moving you to the United States.”
“Nyet.” She doesn’t hesitate. I’m not surprised by her refusal.
“Da. Everyone in this building speaks Russian. You can make friends. We’ll find you something to do—babysit children, or assist Svetlana, the midwife, maybe. Something to keep you busy. I think it would be good for you.”
“I don’t know…”
It’s better than another outright refusal.
“Please, Mama. I’d like to have you closer to me, so I can look after you.”
“I don’t need looking after.”