Pieces go flying, red pawns and black kings alike.
What the hell is up with this guy? Why is he so mad? I consider running, or at the very least, cowering in the wake of his anger.
But I’m strong, I remind myself. I’ve been strong since my mother died. And damn if I’m going to let this huge Russian hockey player take that away from me.
I stand my ground, glaring back at him just as hard as he’s glaring at me.
And he lets out several harsh breaths before asking, “Who was it? Who was so important that you had to break my rules to talk to him?”
“I didn’t break any rules,” I insist. “I only went outside because there’s no reception up here. And it wasn’t even that far—”
“Three hundred thousand. Do you think that little money?”
I cut my eyes to the side. “Obviously not. Or I wouldn’t be here, going against everything in my character to whore myself out to you.”
His expression ices over. “Did you not understand what I said before? You are my pet. Whores are paid by the hour. Pets are kept. Owned. And they must be punished when they don’t obey the rules.”
My throat dries, and my defiant stance falters when he says punish.
“You’re going to hurt me?” I ball my fist at my side, knowing that would be a bridge too far.
“No, krasotka. As I told you before, I would never hurt you,” he answers, dipping his head. But then his face hardens. “However, I will train you.”
I don’t want to ask. But I have to. “How?”
He looks at me for the longest time. “You broke not one, but two of my rules—no, krasotka. No shaking head.”
I don’t realize I’m denying his version of the story with an emphatic shake of my head until he tells me to stop doing it.
“I woke up alone because you had left to make your call. That is one rule you break. The other is my command to strip. You put clothes back on. Maybe this is because you do not understand…”
He walks over to me, devouring the space between us with just a few strides. “I tell you to do something, it stays done. No reversing that order just because you want to make call.”
“That’s so unfair,” I say, my voice shaking. “I didn’t know.”
“Now you do,” he answers, his own voice low and dark. “And as for unfair….”
He fingers the straps of my pajama top. “I like you, beauty pageant accountant. Since first time I lay eyes on you. More than is reasonable. This fire you stir within me. I do not think that is fair. But do I whine about it and sneak off to call another girl—easier girl than you who will obey my commands to the letter? No, I do not. So do not speak to me of fair. This thing between us cannot be fair.”
It’s work to keep myself still as he says this to me. Work not to show fear or shrink away from his touch, which somehow feels like a caress and a threat at the same time.
I don’t understand why he’s saying all of this to me or why he’s acting so obsessed. We only met this morning.
But I want future knowledge more than I need to understand why he’s acting like a possessive gorilla. My accountant mind craves numbers that I can add so that I can predict what comes next. So I ask him straight out, “What are you planning to do to me?”
His green eyes flash, and he regards me for a long moment before answering, “You put your clothes back on without permission, so now you will have to keep them on.”
I look to both sides. Not even beginning to understand how that’s a punishment.
“You are so very beautiful. It will be joy to punish you,” he says, not seeming to notice my totally confused look.
Then he cups the back of my head and pulls me into him for a deep kiss.
A deep, long kiss. I’m gasping by the time he finally breaks it off.
“I am hungry,” he says. “Are you hungry? I will have Vlad order us something.”
Something is Chinese food, which we eat out of cartons in front of the TV while watching a hockey game.
Well, he’s watching a hockey game. I’m taking small bites of Mongolian Beef and trying not to stare at him as he stares at the screen.
He called me so very beautiful, but he’s a work of art—all defined muscle beneath his red shirt.
My body heats with memories of early this morning as the sun starts to sink in the sky behind us.
“Come, sit in my lap, pet, while I figure out how we will defeat my brother’s team.”
I hesitate, but then I remember…
No hesitations, my pet. When I give a command, I expect full and immediate submission. Or else, you will be punished for your insubordination.
I scramble into his lap, not wanting to get into any more arguments with him.
“Is that your brother?” I ask, pointing to the Minnesota Bobcat with RUSTANOV written across the back of his uniform.
“Da,” Cheslav answers. “His name is Artyom. We play his team in home game on Thursday night. Right now, they are most likely team to stand between me and my last Stanley Cup.”
“How do you know it will be your last?”
“I am thirty-five. That is very old for hockey. I train and do right things, but my body is telling me I must stop. And I would rather go out on top of my game, so this is my last year.”
I nod, my heart squeezing with empathy. I had pretty much aged out of cheerleading by my mid-twenties, and I remember how hard it had been to realize that your body would no longer support you in the sport you loved.
We watch the game for a few more minutes. I’ve never seen Cheslav play hockey, but his brother skates like I figure he would. Artyom is strong yet slippery. I watch him relentlessly attack players until he steals the puck. Then he somehow manages to evade the opposing team until he shoots a goal.
Wow, he’s good. Like really, really good.
“Does your brother know this is your last year?” I ask Cheslav.
“Of course he does,” he answers. “I tell my brother everything. We are very close.”
“Knowing it’s your last year, maybe he’ll go easier on you,” I say and hope at the same time.
“Of course he will not,” Cheslav answers with a low chuckle. “His last name would not be Rustanov if he did not make me work for my final glory.”
“Oh…” Cheslav is blackmailing me into several days of sex. But for some reason, I want him to get his final glory. “Well, I hope you get the trophy anyway.”
“Thank you, krasotka. I plan to,” he answers. “I will not let my baby brother stop me.”
We continue to watch the game. Hockey isn’t my favorite sport, but this is fine. Cozy even…until Cheslav brings his hands up and starts massaging my nipples through my shirt.
The pajama top is thin, and his hands are rough. Before I know it, my nipples are pebbled and poking against my top.
That’s when he moves one hand down to my crotch. His hand lasers right back on my pearl. And he rubs at it through the barrier of my shorts.
I was confused before. But it only takes a few moments to fully understand why making me keep my clothes on was a punishment.
My clit throbs underneath his fingers. And my hips lift, rubbing against the bulge locked away underneath his zipper. Soon I’m squirming on his lap and pressing my breast and crotch into his hands.