Mindless, emotionally-charged sex is a unicorn I’m better off not chasing.
“You gave me what I wanted, so thank you very, very much…” I trail off as I finally notice his expression. Dark eyes narrowed, lips pursed in contemplation. I’ve annoyed him again.
“I mean it,” I insist. “It was amazing—”
“Come with me,” he says.
My poor, drunk brain can’t compute a response. All I can think to say is, “Where?”
The grin returns, playfully stern. “To the party, beautiful.”
I smile inwardly at the new nickname. An upgrade from pretty. Then smart, good-girl Tiffany manages to get a stranglehold on lusty-Tiffy just long enough for me to ask, “You want me to meet your family?”
It sounds suspicious. Very suspicious when paired with the fact that I can no longer get a solid read on him. His teasing grin could hide a million ulterior motives.
But when his fingers find a lock of my hair and toy with it, I forget a teensy bit of the paranoia.
“It’s just a party,” he says—though were someone to tell that to my mother about one of her carefully crafted soirees, she just might reach for a kitchen knife with murderous intent. Something in his tone robs all sentimentality from the term, at least in this instance.
“Admittedly, it’s in another city, but I’m willing to fly you there and arrange for your transportation back, all at no expense to you.”
“Could you even get a ticket this late? You’re leaving in…” I glance at a clock hanging on the wall, and a panicked bit of despair leeches into my tone. “Roughly one hour.”
So darn soon. Thus ends Tiffy’s first foray into sexual exploration. And darn was it fun.
“Come with me,” Vadim insists. “It’s a private plane, so no ticket required. We’ll get in by the morning. You can have the day to shop. The party is in the evening, and you can be on a flight back before the night ends. And,” he adds, presumably to present the tempting carrot to my desperate mule. “In exchange, I’ll grant you an exclusive membership to my club. Granted, it’s in Fair Haven, on the East coast, so you will have to find your own way back, should you decide to utilize it.”
I pout and roll off him to contemplate my options. He’s managed to present a multitude of both tempting and grounding proposals in one go, all neatly wrapped with a bow.
A whirlwind day to distract from having to dip my toe in the businessman waters again.
A guaranteed trip back.
A membership to a bona fide sex club.
And, a shopping trip thrown in, presumably all-expenses paid.
But the part I find surprisingly bracing is his casual acknowledgment that we’re done after that. No contact, and should I one day wander into his sex club, it will be on my own dime and time.
Fair enough.
“Will we have sex again?” I wonder. I’m shocked by how much I’m hoping for a yes. A chance to experience him again and give my fellatio skills another go. A chance to see what might lurk beneath his invisible mask.
“No,” he says, dashing my hopes. “I don’t mean to offend you, but I don’t think you’re my type. I hope I didn’t give you the wrong impression.”
I wince. His rejection hurts more than it should, though it certainly explains a lot. His amusement. The invisible wall. The fact that he stopped short of handcuffing me just to keep me off his cock. There certainly is a bit of irony to it, though. I started this night uninterested, only now I can’t get his smirk out of my head. Or those eyes. Or his scent…
Leaving now would be the smart, responsible thing to do.
“What would my shopping budget be?” I ask him instead.
He chuckles. “The sky is the limit.”
Somehow, I keep my eyes from bugging out. Humming in contemplation, I tap my chin, thinking it over. “Tempting, tempting…”
“But you still aren’t sold?” He rolls over and captures my chin, making me face him. Eyes glittering like coals, he takes me in from my hair all the way down to my still curling toes. “What can I do to seal the deal?”
I sigh, suddenly exhausted. The alcohol is finally taking its toll on my brain, dulling my senses and making me sluggish. Finding the strength to answer him at all is a challenge, but one I feel obligated to accept. “Fine. Tell me what about me changed your mind.”
Because he had been interested. I could tell from the way he looked at me in the bar—that quick, fleeting glance when I started to walk away.
“You don’t like redheads? My tits are too small?” I fondle said tits morosely. “I can handle it. Promise.” I lift my pinky in solemn solidarity.
“Don’t take it personally,” he scolds while propping his chin on his fist. The elevated position allows him to stare down on me, unreadable as my eyelids grow heavier by the second. “Personal preference is no insult.”
“I know that.” I’m pouting, but I’m far too gone to care. “Still want to hear it, though.”
“You’re too unpredictable,” he says. “I prefer my trysts to be…uncomplicated.”
“That’s it?” I roll my eyes, and they wind up closing for good. I’m too exhausted to open them again. “Talk about a shitty reason.”
“Oh?”
“Yes,” I snap, suddenly irritated, though the word comes out a slurred mixture between a whine and sigh. “No one likes the predictable. It’s just that some men can’t handle not controlling everything from their lifestyle, to when they come. I’m talking from experience,” I add, in case he decides to challenge me.
But he doesn’t.
Confusion spurs me to muster up just enough strength to crack open one eye to observe him.
And I gasp. He’s angry. Truly, unashamedly angry. Fire crackles through his eyes, gathering in the corners of that supple mouth. I suck in a breath, recoiling.
“I don’t think you’d like how I handle the unpredictable,” he warns. My heart throbs in the face of it, my nerves zapping.
It’s the sexiest, most alarming thing I’ve ever seen.
And it’s the sight that haunts me as I finally pass out.
Chapter Five
I groan, torn between writhing in agony and regretting the life choices that led me to this point. This point being lying on an unfamiliar bed, craving Tylenol with every fiber of my being, and cursing the effects of alcohol to hell and back.
The fact that I don’t know where I am or how I got here can be addressed later.
At the moment, all I can do is peel my eyes open and scan my surroundings for any hint of immediate danger—and, or, a bathroom. Bingo! In a blurred sea of navy blue walls and blinding windows, I spot an open door that looks promising enough.
Somehow, I stagger to my feet, feeling out for whatever I can find to steady my balance. When my bare toes finally leave plush carpeting for what feels like cold tile, I sink to my knees and crawl toward a porcelain basin that has never looked so beautiful before.
From my murky teenage recollections, I remember that the easiest way for me to cure a hangover has been to vomit. Purge whatever is left in my system and then crawl into a steaming hot shower until the life returns to my limbs.