I laughed. "I'm singular? Psst, I'm not the one who gets off on whipping strange women."
He gave me that DDG smile. "This is precisely what I'm talking about. You know what I'm worth, but you still give me lip. It's incredibly refreshing."
For once my sass (as my mother used to call it) was working for me!
"Unlike every single other escort I've been with, you didn't try to upsell me after sex; you simply took my money."
I jutted my chin. "You deserved that."
"Maybe I did," he conceded. "And you didn't feign passion. In fact, you insisted on your own pleasure."
"You're a good-looking man. I find it hard to believe that no one gets turned on when they're with you." I glanced down. When had we gotten so close together? We now sat thigh to thigh.
"They have their reasons. Some have admitted that they keep that part of themselves separate from their clients. I've observed others so busy thinking about upselling me, or even landing me, that they don't relax."
And I'd told him, "Ow! Hold up." I had to stifle a laugh.
"Or else an escort bills herself as a submissive, when she's anything but. I've had many who swear they enjoy discipline and bondage, yet then I would see no evidence of it."
Ivanna had told me that she initially enjoyed it. But one day she'd had five outcalls, had been tied up and whipped by five amateurs. Her experience had soured her on it.
"It's not easy to find a true submissive," the Russian continued. "One who's beautiful and available would be snapped up." He peered at me keenly.
Though I was beginning to suspect that kink with Maxim might just blow my mind, I wasn't ready to sign on. "How did you discover your interest in that?"
He leaned back, glass in hand. "I'm in the business of information. For many years, I've brokered in it. I was investigating a particular man--one I thought I knew well--when I learned of his darker . . . leanings. I wanted to understand what drew him to that type of life. The more I learned, the more curious I became. I tried it and found it suited my needs."
He didn't sound like a man who'd discovered a secret passion and reveled in it. He talked about BDSM almost mechanically. "So you enjoy it."
"It suits my needs," he repeated.
"Then what made you decide to call for me today?"
"I was at a yacht party yesterday, hosted in my honor. Many businessmen attended, and even more escorts. As I had no intention of calling you again--and proving you right--I gravitated toward my usual." He swirled ice in his glass. "But the blondes weren't doing it for me. Figuring my tastes had changed, I approached a petite Latina. Didn't work out either. Still I fought the impulse to call you. I made it to this afternoon. When I pulled up your picture, I decided I'd have what I truly wanted."
Had he slept with the Latina? Me on Monday, her on Tuesday, me on Wednesday night? "So you had a taste test of sorts. I guess I outperformed her in bed?"
"I didn't fuck her or anyone else there."
I exhaled, relieved once more.
"And no one at that party was using a bed."
"It sounds like an orgy." Dios mio. "Do you often attend them?"
"I wouldn't say often." He turned my question back on me. "Do you?"
"I've never been to one." I was open-minded about sex, but an orgy would never be in the cards for me. "That's not my speed."
"Have you ever slept with more than one man at a time?"
"I've never had sex with more than one man." He'd think I was talking about at one time. And he would still disbelieve me. "I don't want to."
"Earlier, you balked hard. That's unusual in your line of work, no? Still, I can see it."
"Why?"
"I'll wager your clients can barely handle you, much less another added to the mix."
"Thanks. I think." I drank.
"Have you ever even tried BDSM?"
I shook my head. "I wouldn't want to be struck."
"There's more to it than that," he said. "Whipping a woman is not a favorite aspect of mine."
"Then why was a crop part of your script?" Maybe because it limited touch even more?
"If you've never tried any of it, then how do you know you won't like it?" He'd deflected my question.
Because of my ineptitude at lying, I dodged and deflected, bobbing and weaving, and I was attuned to similar tactics in others. "I liked Monday night," I told him, dodging his own question. "I liked how the weight of your body pressed down on mine, and our skin touched all over, and I could feel your big muscles flexing." I leaned in, wanting closer to the heat emanating from him. At his ear, I murmured, "When your chest rubbed over my nipples while your cock plunged, I came until my vision blurred."
He inhaled sharply. "We should return. Now."
"We'll ditch--"
"Here we are!" Tiffani said, tray in hand. She was probably puzzled when we both scowled at her.
My scowl faded once she uncovered the dishes. Lobster salad with citrus dressing, and langostinos accompanied by truffle-butter risotto. The bottle of wine sat at my disposal.
I moaned with my first bite. I was indulging in a meal like this--when I'd planned on nothing more than a can of soup. "Esta como para chuparse los dedos. This is delectable."
"I wasn't hungry before, yet now . . . I think you increase all of my appetites," he said, his words loaded with innuendo. But when he met my gaze, I got the feeling he was telling me something more. Between bites, he asked, "Aside from jogging, what are your other interests? And that shouldn't count as a personal question."
What had I enjoyed doing before my life had changed so drastically? "I like to cook." My mother had taught me. It seemed we only got along when we prepared dishes together, neither talking, soft Cuban music playing on the radio. Though I looked so much like her, we'd been opposites in every way. She'd rarely smiled or laughed, yearning for the religious life she'd given up for my father. "I love swimming, reading, and hanging out with friends." Past tense. I missed having friends.
I'd had a great group in Jacksonville--loud and ballsy, each one. I missed swapping dirty jokes. I missed laughing and confiding.
When I'd gotten married, I'd grown apart from them. To bury my head in the sand about my disaster of a marriage, I'd buried myself in school, racking up twenty-one credits a semester, over and over.
"What are you thinking about?"
Edward, Edward, Edward. I shrugged.
"I can't stop wondering what's going on behind those beautiful eyes of yours."
"Nada." He'd called my eyes stunning last time.
"You truly don't enjoy shopping?"
"I hate it. This dress is a loaner." Gracias, Ivanna.
The only fun I had each week was cleaning her condo. As I washed windows, she would paint her long nails and tell me stories about escorting. I got a weekly earful about debauched nights, bizarre clients, and tried-and-true techniques.
But I never told her anything about myself. She had family back in the Ukraine that she was desperate to bring over. If she saw a reward for information about me, she would choose her family over me. I didn't begrudge her, but I also didn't share anything unnecessary.
Sevastyan asked, "Would you want to shop if I said we could go pick up a bauble right now? Get a store to open for us?"
Now he was just screwing with me. I wondered if he did that with other p
eople. "Delaying sex for food is one thing. For dinner and shopping? Silly Ruso."
"You make a valid argument."
By the time Sevastyan and I had finished eating, I'd had two glasses of wine, commanding myself to take it slow on my third.
"I don't have to ask if you enjoyed the meal," he said. "You got a blissful look on your face with each bite."
"That obvious, am I?" It couldn't have been helped. Whenever I was with the Russian, everything felt amplified. The taste of wine. The texture of food. The feel of his fingers tracing my back. The pleasure in a kiss--or a climax.
"I like when I can tell what you're thinking and feeling, dushen'ka."
"What does that word mean?"
"It's a way of calling you 'dear.' " He stretched his arm behind me, and I found myself curling up against his chest. An unexpected sense of ease bloomed between us. Almost like deja vu, as if I'd been with him before.
The last thing I needed was to become infatuated. We were in a transactional relationship--which was going nowhere. Boundaries, Cat. Build the wall.
He trailed his fingers over my arm. "I never thought I'd meet a woman with more secrets than I." His voice was low and relaxed. "And you ask so little about me."
"What should I be asking? What would you ask if you were me?"
"Why I was in Miami in the first place. For politician or mafiya business. You must have read about my syndicate ties."
"I don't think I want to know about the dealings of la mafia Rusa."
"Are you certain?" His tone was coaxing, as if he dangled bait. Screwing with me again. "I'm open to talking about my activities."
I was only going to be with him for another couple of hours, so what did it matter?
"I've never been with a date who didn't dance toward the subject."
Those actresses and models? Or the paid help? I drew back to cast him a bored look. "No thanks. I watched The Godfather once. I'm sure you can't improve on that."
He canted his head. "I guess that disproves Vasili's suspicion."
"Which is?" I reached for my glass, taking a sip.
"He believes you're a plant, paid for by my enemies or the tabloids to dig up information. I think I'm too proud to tell him that you have very little interest in me."
I frowned. Edward had made my pride sing with pain. I remembered yelling at him: "How can you be married to a woman you don't desire? Why won't you go to counseling with me?" Without looking up from his computer, Edward had said, "I'm so sorry, Ana-Lucia--are you still talking?"