I can work with this.
I think.
Hell, I don’t know. I’m out of my depth, but I’m not going to stop or turn back. I’m also not gonna ask for help from Ravil or the cell. I know they’d give it to me. Advice, money, contacts, anything I needed. They’d probably get on a plane and fly here to lend their fists and muscle if I wanted.
But I don’t want to involve them. This isn’t a bratva war. It’s personal. Poval is mine, and I intend to be the one to take him out. If there are repercussions, I’ll be the one who suffers them. Alone.
“This is my stop.” Kat tugs my sleeve.
I pretend to be surprised and follow her off. She holds a hand to her stomach, then turns and pukes in a bush.
Gross. But it gives me a chance to get control of her phone. I’d love to shut it off, so it can’t be tracked. I take my jacket off her shoulders then divest her of the backpack purse, like I’m being helpful. I find a napkin in the pocket of my jacket, which I hand to her then slip my hand in her purse to shut down the phone.
“It’s kicking in,” she tells me cheerfully, as she wipes her mouth with the napkin, like puking is the gateway to fun.
I guess it would be.
“I wish you had some, too.”
I grunt in response. I’m trying to figure out if I should just take her back to my place or go ahead with hers. Maybe I don’t have to grab her tonight. Maybe I take her home and leave—just pick her back up in a couple of days when the ship is ready to sail.
I don’t like that idea, though. She’s seen my face. I need to control everything that happens beyond this point. No letting her tell her dad she met me or somehow looking me up. From this point forward, she’s my prisoner.
Except the line seems fluid. From which point? Do I tie her up right now?
No, she’s tripping. She won’t be able to cause me any trouble now, and tying her up when she’s rolling could make it a very bad trip. I know because they kept Nadia drugged most of her time, and her psychiatrist said it made the trauma worse because her reality was mixed in a dream-like state.
Okay, that’s the plan, then. I’ll take her to my place, make sure nothing happens while she’s tripping, then tie her up in the morning.
“Hey, my place isn’t far from here.” I try to make my voice sound casual.
She bats her lashes at me. Literally. Bats them on purpose. “Are you inviting me over?”
“Yeah.” I tip my head. “This way.”
I take her to the small but bougie cottage I rented. I didn’t need fancy, but it has all the things I require–proximity to Kateryna’s apartment and a ground-floor private entrance, so I could stay low-key. Dima, our hacker, set it up for me using a wire deposit that can’t be traced.
She comes in and looks around. It’s a studio–the kind where the kitchen is just one wall and the bedroom is another, but everything’s done in fine materials. Hardwood floors and granite countertops. I band an arm around her waist and pull her back against my front. “How do you like to be put to bed?” It’s supposed to sound sexy but comes out as more of a gruff growl.
She rubs her soft ass against the front of my jeans. She smells like cherries and warm oatmeal cookies. That can’t be right, but that’s the impression I get. And underneath it, just pleasing female skin.
I bite her neck, and she shivers. She’s dancing again, her lush body squirming and undulating in slo-mo like she’s still up on that platform at the rave, turning on every guy in sight.
“Mmm,” she hums softly.
Good. Her eyes are closed. She’s not taking in the fact that I’m living out of a suitcase here.
Nothing to alert her to the fact that she just walked into the jaws of the trap I set for her.
Kat
Dy-ying.
I’m seriously dying. I finally found a real dom. The rush of love and well-being pouring into my brain from the hit of ecstasy makes this seem like I’ve just found Shangri La. But seriously. I feel like I have.
You’re going to get yourself spanked, little girl.
I mean, how many times did I have to prance around in a schoolgirl outfit before some guy picked up the hint?
The trouble with men–boys, really. Let’s face it, none of these guys are men–is that they see the sexy outfit and think it’s for them. It’s the whole male gaze thing. I learned about it in women’s studies last semester–a class my dad said was bogus. So I’m playing to the male gaze. I’m giving them what they want to see from women. A sexual object to be desired. But I expect something in return.