Like always, he’s wearing expensive clothes, but his crisp button-down shirt is open at the throat, revealing the tattoos that crawl up his chest to his neck. He is every inch the bratva badass. He carries a small suitcase, which I know from experience contains his implements of torture. Things he will use to master me over and over again, all weekend long.
I slide forward on the modern couch, ready to surge to my feet, but he gives a minuscule shake of his head, his gaze bouncing off me to the line at the front desk.
The explosion of butterflies in my belly makes it hard to think. To decipher. Other than lifting one finger for a half-second, as if to signal me to wait, he doesn’t acknowledge me. He walks past to stand in the line at the front desk. A hot flush floods my cheeks as I sit, my spine straight, tits out, awaiting his command.
I try to push back the pain of his rejection. It’s not rejection. This is a test in obedience. How well do I read his wishes? How good am I at delayed gratification? He’s edging me. That must be it.
Everything the man says or does sends flutters through me. His words are delicious, fantasy-inducing commands. His expressions tend to be dark, bordering on slight disapproval. He’ll give me a flick of his eyebrow, a warning look. He plays the part of my forbidding master to a tee. Except I’m not even sure it’s a part he’s playing. All of our interactions are movie-worthy scenes, but I don’t think this role is very far off from who he really is.
The problem is, I just don’t know. Sometimes I’m not sure I want to know. We’re playing out our fantasies with each other. Why would we want any part of real life in this?
One of the hotel staff brings him a tray with filled champagne glasses. He shakes his head but says something to the man then points in my direction. My hurt fades. He’s still looking out for me, as a good master should. I’m offered more champagne, and I accept, not because I want it but because Pavel had it sent over to me.
He checks in and then strides over. This time I don’t start to get up until I’m sure. Not until he holds out his hand for me. He’s still cool and impassive. No expression whatsoever on the harsh planes of his face. I can’t tell if he’s happy to see me. If he’s pleased or displeased with my outfit or the way I waited obediently. I set the champagne glass down. I don’t need any more—one drink is plenty for a lightweight like me.
My hand is clammy in his as he helps me to my feet. He doesn’t say a word. No kiss. No how are you? Or You look great. Nothing. He’s all business. He drops his suitcase on top of mine, takes my hand again, and leads me to the bank of elevators, rolling both our suitcases with his free hand.
The butterflies become a hurricane, spiraling in frantic flight. I don’t understand him and my need to please—to play this game properly—has me on a knife’s edge.
We step into the elevator, and the doors shut. The moment we’re alone, Pavel turns to me. One hand wraps in my hair, the other on my ass as he pushes me back against the elevator wall. His mouth descends on mine in a demanding kiss. His erection prods my belly, and his tongue sweeps into my mouth. Relief pours through me.
He’s not dissatisfied. He does want me.
I wind my arms around his neck and kiss him back, wrapping one leg around his to draw him closer. We kiss like the world’s about to end. Like if we don’t devour each other’s mouths, we’ll never see the light of day again. It’s only been a week since we’ve seen each other, and it feels like both yesterday and forever ago.
The elevator dings, and Pavel catches my hand, not looking at me as he leads me out, expertly maneuvering our stacked suitcases down the hall to a door, which he opens with his keycard.
He still hasn’t spoken. I guess I haven’t, either, because I’m waiting for him to lead. He’s the master. I’m his slave. At least that’s the game we’ve been playing since we met just over a month ago. He kicks the door shut and resumes our kiss with the same ferocity he left off. My butt hits the wall. The hard lines of his body mold against mine, demanding my yield. I surrender to him. To his skill. His domination, his lead. He catches my thigh and hikes it up, finding the top band of my thigh-highs.
“Hot,” he breathes against my lips. For a first word, it seems appropriate. He strokes my ass, his palm sliding under the hem of the dress. “You look so fucking hot.”
There. That’s what I was hoping for. Why I changed my clothes over a dozen times.
He kisses down my neck as he palms my pussy like he owns it. Which he does. Consensually given, of course. Like always, I’m soft putty in his hands—quivering, ready, awaiting his command.
He doesn’t give one. Instead, he just takes. He slides his fingers inside my panties and strokes over my slit. “Already wet.” His neatly-trimmed beard tickles my ear. His Russian accent is thick—it always grows stronger when he’s turned on. “Such a good girl. Ready to take my cock the moment I want to give it to you.”
A shudder of pleasure goes through me at his dirty talk, and I drink up his praise, even though my state of readiness isn’t something I have control over.
“Yes, sir,” I pant.
“I need to be inside you, blossom,” he says gruffly, rushing to free his erection.
Blossom. I love his pet name. It started because he thought I was too delicate a flower. Too crushable. We were paired by a roll of the roulette wheel at Black Light, and I think he was disappointed to get me. But when he found I took everything he dished—pain and humiliation alike—his disdain for me slowly turned to appreciation. After he broke me, when I humiliatingly lost my shit in a puddle of sub-drop sobs, he declared I belonged to him.
That was five weeks ago.
I don’t help him now because my job is to submit. He drives the train.
He pulls my panties to the side and lines the head of his cock up with my entrance, bending his knees to lower to my height. We don’t use a condom because I’m on the pill, we’re monogamous, and we’ve both been tested and are clean. When he shoves in and up, he lifts me to my toes, sliding my hips up the wall.
I cry out, clutching his bulging biceps for stability.
"Whose pussy is this?" Pavel’s fingers are rough on my ass as he helps lift me to the right height to nail me against the wall.
"Yours, Master!"
He thrusts in hard and fast. My back bangs against the wall. It’s rough and frightening and wonderful. I lift my other leg to wrap around his waist, and he grinds into me, shoving in with each powerful snap of his hips. His teeth score my neck, he sucks and nips as he pounds into me.
I listen to the quickening of his breath. I will come the moment he does—if he allows it. I don’t even think or try—it’s like my body knows its master. It wants to join him in the release.
Pavel’s strokes get harder, driving my body further up the wall. I let out a cry of need. His breath catches, and he slams in deep. “Come.” His command is strangled and guttural as he speaks over his own orgasm.
I relinquish all effort to hold back the squeezing of my muscles around his cock. There is nothing but the sound of his rasping breath, and the sensation of his cock pulsing inside me.
Pavel kisses my temple, my cheekbone, the bridge of my nose. These are the moments I savor. When I’m certain I’ve won his approval. When he’s grateful and gentle and generous with the affection he otherwise holds back. “I needed that.” He squeezes my ass and kisses my neck. “I couldn’t even look at you in that dress when I came in; I knew I’d have the world’s most visible boner walking to the front desk.”