The Master (3 page)

“I was fresh out of crack,” he said in a derisive tone. “What do you think of the view?”

I grinned over the rim of my glass. “I suppose it’s
adequate
. If you like this kind of thing.”

At my attempt at humor, he tilted his head. “I looked you up on your agency’s site.” Only a couple of the items Ivanna had listed about me were true—two-thirds of my
measurements and my status as a CAN, certified all natural, with no surgical enhancements.

I recalled the fake bio she’d read to me:
I like dancing
(I hated dancing)
and yoga
(jogger here).
In my spare time
(as if I had any!)
, I enjoy performance art
(no,
gracias
)
and shopping
(a form of torture).

“Your photo’s unusual,” he said.

“Is it?” Ivanna had taken pics of me on an out-of-the-way beach. I’d worn black boy-short bottoms that rode up my cheeks, no top, mascara only, and my hair piled up on my head.
She’d chosen one taken from the back that I hadn’t posed for.

My head had been turned to the side as I gazed off at something. My eyes had been distant, because I’d been deep in thought—
second
thoughts—about this entire idea. Oh,
and cursing Edward as usual.

The blood arcing across our bedroom . . . those ugly sounds . . .

Shake it off, Cat.

The Russian said, “It’s not your typical boudoir shot with flattering lighting and risqué lingerie.”

“A hobbyist like you would know, huh?” I drank more wine, frowning when I reached the bottom of my glass. “I’m not really a simulated boudoir kind of girl.”

Without a word, he refilled me. “What kind of a girl are you?”

A dogged survivor who believed in living to fight another day. But I told him, “A girl who believes in topless beaches for everyone.
Viva la revolución!
” I thought that
was funny, but he just tilted his head again.

“Your photo makes a man wonder what you’re thinking about. That was by design, no?”

“I didn’t choose the one that was uploaded.” I’d only allowed Ivanna to use it because I’d looked a world away from the last pictures taken of me, when I was still
a teenager.

“You’re twenty-six?”

Ivanna had inflated the number. “Old enough to know better.”

Máxim peered at my breasts. “Measurements: thirty-five, twenty-three, thirty-
six
?”

“Thirty-four and a half on a good day. I didn’t put that up either. I like my size.” I could go braless if I wanted to, but could still produce cleavage when necessary.

His brows drew together. I got the impression he was trying to fit me into a box, and having unexpected difficulties.

I could’ve told him,
My ass won’t fit, yo
.

“You have a marked accent. Not native to the States?”

“I grew up in a Spanish-speaking household.” With
una madre loca
, Catholic to the core. Despite her refusal to learn English, she’d homeschooled me until high school and
kept most people away from our secluded beach. I didn’t like thinking about my childhood, much less talking about it.

“In Miami?”

I shrugged. Questions like this made me nervous. The less anyone knew about me the better. Connections to others were breadcrumbs. That was why I didn’t date, didn’t socialize. Not
that I had time between scrubbing toilets and going to school.

“You don’t care to talk about yourself?” He gave a humorless laugh. “That’s a first.”

“Oh, you don’t want to hear about my boring life. I have an idea: let’s institute a no-personal-questions rule.”

“And you think you can keep yourself from digging about me?”

If it kept him from doing the same? “
Sí.
”

“Very well, then let’s get down to business. I believe this is the part where you upsell me.”

Busted.

“I’ll only need you for an hour or so,” he continued, “but I don’t like to be mindful of such things, so I booked half the night. How much will it cost to let me do
anything I desire to you?”

What would a guy like this—gorgeous, rich, condescending—want? “Some things aren’t on the table.”

A flash of anger. “Everything is on
my
table, little girl.”

This was turning into an issue.
No, no, remember your mantra.
When faced with a difficulty, good businesswomen said, “It’s not a problem,” then went to work fixing
it.

“Though I’d love to get to know your body better”—I gave him a brazen once-over that seemed to surprise him—“I can’t provide some of the services you
might desire. There’s not enough money in the world.”

“Such as?”

“BBBJ. In fact, bareback anything is out.”

“I have no interest in that. You replaced another tonight—I’ll expect you to do what she would have. What I ordered from your agency.”

I recalled Ivanna’s kink specialization: bondage, discipline, submission, and the like. She had gear all over her apartment. Had this guy requested her for more than her looks?

As a vetted hobbyist, he couldn’t be
too
dangerous. If he offered me enough money, could I trust a strange man to tie me up? To make me helpless?

No, gracias.
My ability to trust was broken, like a fractured limb that had never been set, now shrunken and useless. I even refused to trust myself when it came to men.

But I didn’t want to lose out on this money. “Why don’t we take tonight as it comes? See where it leads us?”
See where I can lead you.
“I promise we’ll
both be satisfied.”

He narrowed his blue eyes, and it was like a blast of icy air blew over me. “Do not play games with me. And don’t mistake my intent—I couldn’t care less if you enjoy this
or not, so don’t pretend to.”

What a dick!
Cállate la boca, Cat!
Shut your mouth—

“I won’t tolerate feigned passion.”

So much for Ivanna’s article. Somehow I managed to say, “Understood.”

“Then I’ll pay you three thousand—and you’ll be amenable to my interests.”

My knees almost buckled. That much money would be life-changing! Yet words were leaving my lips: “Make it five, and we have a deal.”

He stilled. Had I angered him? Blown everything?
Mima
, my island grandmother, had a saying: “Pigs get fat, hogs get slaughtered.” I was about to be bacon.

“Deal,” he said.

En serio?
Wait, what had I agreed to? Amenable to his interests?

“I assume you’ll want to be paid in advance.”

Holy shit! “Yes,
por favor
.”

“Follow me.” He returned to the living room, heading toward a stylish briefcase on a console.

Once fifty bound Benjamins sat tucked in my purse, my fate had been sealed.

He took my empty glass from me, setting it down. I’d drunk that wine too? I might’ve been buzzed, but my nerves prevented it. Now that the thrill of the deal was fading, anxiety took
its place.

He crossed to a suite, saying over his shoulder. “Come. I’m keen to see what five thousand buys me in Miami.”

I stiffened at the reminder.

At the bedroom entrance, he turned to me. “What’s your hesitation? Feigning shyness won’t be tolerated either.”

My thoughts were in a tangle. Two stood out.
You’re going to be a hooker, Cat,
warred with
Five thousand dollars, idiota!
Gut check? Oh, yeah.

But Ivanna was right; I would have sex with this guy for free.

Besides, my situation demanded drastic measures. Nothing this man could do to me would be worse than what Edward would do if he caught me.

Since he was my husband, and I’d foiled his plan to kill me.

With that in mind, I joined the Russian in the bedroom. What I saw on the bed made me freeze in my tracks.

A
ball gag. A crop. Leather restraints.

Ni en broma!
Not on your life.

No, no, surely I could figure out a happy medium. This man had to be interested in more than BDSM. “Explain what you’d do to me.”

He coolly said, “Once you’ve stripped, you’ll go to your knees at the edge of the mattress, buckling the gag on yourself. I’ll bind your arms behind your back, and
you’ll lean forward resting on your forehead. Then I’ll whip your body wherever it occurs to me to. When I’m satisfied with that, I’ll fuck you from behind.”

This sounded like a script. Like he did this with every escort.

He’d said nothing about kissing my nipples, nothing about petting me. In his scenario, we’d share the fewest points of contact possible while still technically having sex. He
wouldn’t see my face or hear my voice. He wouldn’t even touch me to gag me!

I would be just a receptacle. Which he’d pretty much warned me about. A faceless, voiceless receptacle.

I’m not there yet.
So my options were to walk out or try to change his mind. Nothing to lose by the latter. Why not make this into a fantasy? I could be anyone tonight. A femme
fatale, a man-eater.

I told him, “While your script sounds . . . interesting, I don’t think that’s what you really want.”

His brows shot up. “
You
don’t.”

I turned toward the suite’s sitting area. All the windows and doors were open in the softly lit room. Gauzy moonlit curtains fluttered. I sauntered behind the couch. When I patted the back
cushions, inviting him over, his lips thinned.

Long, anxious moments passed as we stared at each other.
Heartbeat . . . heartbeat . . . heartbeat.
Then it seemed like curiosity forced him to stride over.

When he took a seat, I smiled, sidling around in front of him. I stepped forward until he had to make room for me, spreading his knees.

I played with the sash on the side of my dress. “Would you like me to take this off,
Ruso
?” Russian.

Curt nod.

I slowly untied the sash. Letting my dress hang open like a robe, I gave him a curtained glimpse of my provocative black demi bra and thong set.

I couldn’t read him, couldn’t tell if he liked the view or not. He looked so cold.

So why was I getting hot stripping for him? I glanced at his big, masculine hands. What would they feel like squeezing my breasts or cupping my bare pussy? My nipples were taut, my panties
growing moist. I never wore lingerie like this, and I felt hypersensitive after my waxing a couple of days ago.

I shimmied from my dress, tossing it to a neighboring seat. When I faced him in my underwear, he casually draped his arms along the back of the sofa.

“Turn in place for me.” He was so calm, detached even. This was like foreplay with a computer. A DDG computer. “Slowly.”

I reminded myself that I was playing the femme fatale. My two glasses of wine told me I was doing
fine
.

As I turned, I could feel his eyes on my cheeks, exposed in my tiny thong. Which only made me wetter. Furtive lubing would not be a problem. In fact, maybe I should leave my panties on for a
little longer? It’d been a while since I’d had the time or energy to masturbate. What if I lost control?

Like everyone else on earth, when my body got turned on, my brain turned off. But mine was a total factory shutdown, a labor strike. I needed my wits to handle this guy.

I faced him again. Had his breaths shallowed a touch? “Show me your breasts. Let’s see if I like your size as much as you profess to.”

I removed my bra, tossing it in the direction of my dress. I was secretly proud of my pert breasts. They fit my body but were plump, with jutting nipples that were not quite pink and not quite
tan. My small areolas we re raised, giving the peaks a slightly puffy look.

When I squared my shoulders, the Russian’s nostrils flared—finally a hint of passion from him!

“Very nice. I hadn’t thought the view from the front could compete with the back.”

Wow. An actual compliment. My attention was drawn downward. A very large erection pressed against the material of his slacks.
Muy grande.
Maybe
too
big? For all my fooling around,
I’d only had intercourse with Edward, and he was nowhere near as well endowed.

“Continue.”

Strip totally? Deciding against that, I stepped forward, straddling him. I rested my knees beside his hips, my hands on his shoulders. A breeze from the ocean drifted in, mingling with his
intoxicating scent—a blend of sandalwood and simmering man. His scent made me tremble—it was like an unfair advantage, used to drug new escorts.

When I lowered myself atop the thick ridge of his cock, I could feel his heat even through our clothes. My eyes went wide; his narrowed.

I’d be taking his length inside me directly. The idea no longer filled me with hesitation. I shivered with desire. My nipples puckered even tighter, right before his eyes.

I wanted this man, this stranger.

I could count on one hand the number of guys who’d gotten me off. Most times had been accidental when I’d been fumbling in the backseat with a boy or grinding one at a keg party.
Edward had never gotten close. Not that he’d cared. But this Russian—

“I did
not
invite you to straddle me,” he snapped. His body went tense—
angry
tense.