Of course, that would mean having to pay the piper. Was I ready to commit to a BDSM relationship with this man? Part of me wanted to, simply because it would at least be a defined relationship.
As we stood now, everything was up in the air, with zero stability. I was discovering that I liked stability. I'd liked living on one farm my entire childhood with steady-as-rocks parents. I'd liked settling in at one school.
Naturally, Sevastyan would feel differently after his hand-to-mouth existence as a child. But I needed more. . . .
"Talk about something else, Natalie, or we won't talk at all."
"Fine. We'll discuss other things. Such as how you made so much money." I'd had no idea he was independently wealthy to this degree, but it made sense considering he was a vor himself. Now I realized he'd lived at Berezka by choice, to be close to Paxan. The idea of that tugged at my heart. "Will you not tell me how?"
"I . . . fought." He fell silent. I guessed he knew he'd have to give me something more, because he tried again. "In my teens and twenties, I fought in underground mafiya matches. It was lucrative for me."
"I imagine you won lots."
"I never lost one of those match-ups," he said, not with conceit, but almost with . . . regret. In a lower tone, he added, "I am singularly suited to fighting, always have been."
"How so?" Superior bone density? High pain threshold? I recalled Paxan telling me that he'd never seen anyone take hits like Sevastyan, and he'd only been thirteen at the time.
Ignoring my question, Sevastyan continued, "A few years ago, I realized I wouldn't be able to fight forever. I had a business idea, and brought it to Paxan. He encouraged me to use my winnings to develop the scheme on my own."
"What was it?"
"A way to smuggle cheap vodka into the country."
"Isn't Russia the land of cheap vodka?"
"It costs significantly less to buy it from the States, but our alcohol tariffs deter most from importing it. So I came up with a way to disguise the vodka from customs."
"How?" I asked, fascinated.
"I had it dyed light blue with food coloring. Then we labeled the barrels as windshield-wiper fluid. Once in Russia, we reversed the dye."
I grinned up at him. "That's scarily brilliant."
He shrugged, but I could tell he was pleased with my assessment. "It made millions, still does," he said, again without conceit. Then he exhaled, gaze gone distant. "I help get cheap alcohol into the country. Ironic."
"How's that ironic?"
Attention back on me, he said, "Enough questions."
I tilted my head at him. I'd had a victory--he'd told me more about himself than ever before. So should I let him off the hook?
I'd just decided I would when a lustful look arose on his face, the look I now recognized and breathlessly welcomed.
"I want to show you something." He led me up the stairs, then through a foyer to a palatial bedroom suite.
Inside, I saw our bags beside each other. "This is our room?" Staying in hotels with a traveling companion wasn't that big a deal. But it struck me that I was now living with a man.
At his place.
"You don't like it?"
The room was decorated in understated colors, dark blue and cream. The counterpane over the immense bed was lush but refined, the walls papered with a tasteful design.
The furniture was a complementing mix of masculine and feminine. There was a sophisticated dresser for cosmetics and jewelry--that I no longer had--as well as a weathered leather ottoman that looked like it'd been stolen from some duke's retiring room. Yet everything worked together. "What's not to like? Is this what you wanted to show me?"
He shook his head, leading me into an attached office with a bulky door. Inside were a desk, a cot, storage closets, and several monitors displaying camera feeds.
"Is this a panic room?"
"Precisely."
The feeds were from each area of the house. "The whole place is wired?"
"And one hidden outside." It displayed Parisians walking down a side street, most gazing directly at the concealed camera. "I can watch every feed on my phone." Sevastyan held up his cell, clicked an app, then showed me one. "So even when I'm not here, I can watch over you."
Always watching me. "Does it record?" I asked in an innocent tone, but he'd already sensed the direction of my thoughts.
"If we wish it to. Or you could watch a feed live as it occurs." He turned back into the bedroom, picking up a remote. A panel hummed, revealing a huge wall-mounted flat-screen.
With another press of a button, the TV came to life with a crystal-clear color view of the bedroom. The camera must be hidden in the molding on the wall opposite the bed.
He took off his suit coat, then moved to the bed, sitting back against the headboard. "Strip for me." He clicked another button on the remote, dividing the screen between the bedroom and the street. It was as if strangers were with us, gazing directly into the room. With his eyes darkening, he said, "Strip for them."
Oh, game on. This was the first even remote hint of kink since we'd had sex.
I pulled my hair down and shook it out over my shoulders; his gaze trailed over my mane, seeming to follow every curling lock.
With an indolent air, I unbuttoned my blouse; his hand headed south to rub the huge bulge already straining against his slacks.
I turned around when I shrugged off my top, keeping my back to him as I unzipped my skirt. The sound of his zipper joined mine. But I could see him on the TV, his gaze rapt on my ass as he fisted his cock.
God, that man aroused me beyond reason. I had a brief thought that he could be recording even this. The idea just turned me on even more. Any shyness I might have retained had been burned away by nights of his lovemaking, by his ardent gaze, his reverent touches.
This man liked my body and made no secret about it. So what was there to be shy about?
"Do you wish they could see you like this?" he asked as I shimmied from my skirt.
"Then pin me down hard--because I need it."
"You don't know what you're asking," he said, bending down to kiss me, tonguing me with my own taste. He brushed my nipples over and over, then trailed his hand to my mons. His thumb worked my clit until I was moaning into his mouth.
When he finally broke away to drag in a breath, my head lolled, my gaze on the TV screen. I watched him from above, savoring the view of his powerful body as it toiled to sate mine. His back was lathered with sweat, the rigid muscles of his ass flexing as he plunged between my thighs. I could see his shaft disappearing into my pussy, his heavy testicles drawing taut.
As his chest rubbed over my nipples, even more moisture seeped down my cleft. He gripped the curves of my ass with both hands. His spread fingers encompassed the entire width of my ass, holding me steady for his taking.
Just as I wondered if he could feel all the slickness up and down my crevice, he grated, "So wet. My woman needed to be fucked, no?" I'd learned he tended to talk in the throes, and loved it when I talked back.