“That I’ve purchased a young Miami woman, enslaving her in my penthouse.”
Ha. “And what will they have to say about that?”
“My older brother won’t believe me. My younger will see absolutely nothing wrong with this—as long as I don’t get attached.” Dmitri. The one who brought him daily bouts of grief.
“While it’s all fun and games to brag that you’ve purchased a woman, surely you’re done with me by now. You did say you would shake this.”
As if I hadn’t spoken, Sevastyan left the bathroom, returning shortly after. “Before I forget . . .” He held up the chastity belt, modified once more.
I gasped. This time there were two plugs.
CHAPTER 22
Sevastyan was setting me up for a crash landing. And I resented it.
As I changed into my new running gear, I recalled awakening this morning—cocooned by his warmth, his arms like a shield around me.
Before him, I’d been cold and alone and wary. Guess what Catarina was returning to in four days.
It’d be all the worse because I’d tasted a different life. I’d tasted the wickedest pleasures.
Yesterday, he’d kept me in the belt for only a couple of hours, both of us too miserable to deny ourselves for much longer. I’d been on fire, and he’d been more than my match, taking me four times over the afternoon and night.
His shower play and the second addition to the belt had left my bottom sore today—but the constant reminder of what he’d done to me turned me on anew.
A brilliant, gorgeous, billionaire sex god shouldn’t amuse himself by playing with a woman’s feelings. Maybe I’d made an error deciding on this retreat. He would let me go on the twenty-eighth—of that I was sure. If the boundary between our bodies had fallen, somehow I had to maintain the one around my heart until then.
With that thought in mind, I snagged the marker I’d hidden in a shoe box, then marched to the master bathroom to add one more slash.
Beside my marks on the mirror, the bastard had written: It’s so good you should be paying me.
I could all but hear him saying that in his seductive devil’s voice, and it made me tremble. How dare he take over the mirror! That was my gig! Narrowing my eyes, I drew a seventh slash, then wrote: You’re gonna miss this ass when it’s gone.
I left the marker by his toothbrush—your move, Ruso—then marched to my treadmill, intending to make a racket. He slept on, arm stretched out, again as if he reached for me.
My chest went pang. My mind went pendejo!
He’d probably be pissed that I woke him so early on Christmas Eve day. His mood had continued to go downhill—hourly, it’d seemed. But I didn’t care. If he was bothered, then he should sleep in the master suite—instead of getting me used to his big, warm body spooning me all night!
With the room’s remote control, I opened the curtains, revealing the ocean. Today was a Miami stunner. Early morning sunlight glimmered over the ripples on the water’s surface, making them look like diamonds.
Now that I’d feathered my gilded cage, the tower was a dream. Here, I had running, swimming, business journals delivered every morning, a new wardrobe, and an endless supply of decadent food.
Oh, and a dream lover. Except for the fact that he would soon return to Russia, leaving me behind.
I was all but teed up for a crash landing, might as well dive from this tower myself.
With a series of beeps, I angrily set up my workout and the heart-rate monitor. When I started a walking warm-up, I felt his gaze on me.
“Why didn’t I buy you a treadmill on day one?”
I glanced over my shoulder.
He was in no way pissed. He sat up against the headboard, hands behind his head, with that I command all I survey expression. The left corner of his lips curved. I’d noticed that side tilted up when he was amused—and his tricky mind was engaged. “I want to wake up like this every morning,” he said. “Ah, the views go on forever, Katya.”
Facing forward, I started my run, determined to think of anything but his eyes on my body. Ignore him. I needed to get into my runner’s zone, that focused headspace I craved.
After my first mile, I glanced over my shoulder again, found his gaze transfixed on me. He regarded me as he might a gift he planned to unwrap. A distinct bulge tented the cover, but he appeared to be biding his time.
I started to sweat, breaths shallowing. Halfway through, I glanced back. One of his arms had snaked under the cover, that bicep flexing rhythmically. Por Dios, he was stroking himself as he watched me.
I stutter-stepped, the heart monitor beeping like crazy.
The devil knew what that sound meant. He chuckled.
No headspace. I was hyperaware of everything around me. My skin pricked with chills, even as I was burning up inside. I felt every drop of sweat trickling over my body. My nipples strained against my bra.
Running always made me horny. Running with him watching? Made. Me. Loca.
Any time I tried to take a break and process everything that was happening, he invaded my thoughts. All I could see, hear, or feel was him—as if he’d gotten a foothold in my mind and heart and had started swinging elbows.
With difficulty, I finished my miles. As I started my cool down, I wondered what I would find when I turned again. Maybe he’d already jacked off. Maybe he’d leave me alone. When I stepped off the treadmill, I found him sitting on the edge of the bed, his swollen cock jutting. My pussy clenched for it.
But I forced myself to head toward the shower. As I passed him, he caught my hand.