The Soldier (Chicago Bratva Book 4) Read online

  “Good girl,” I praise, strolling close and tweaking one of her pouty nipples now. “I should have asked if you need to eat first. Are you hungry?”

  She hesitates then shakes her head.

  “Words, blossom.”

  “No, sir.”

  “All right. We’ll play. Then I will feed you.”

  I will feed you. Simple words, but saying them affects me. Like she’s my pet, and I decide if and when she gets fed. The control she gives to me—putting me in charge of her body, her wellbeing—is a powerful drug.

  I torture secrets out of men for a living, but I didn’t know I was a sadist until last year.

  No, that’s a lie. I always knew I had this thing inside me. It’s why I had a mountain of rules about never laying a hand on a woman. None of my bratva brothers—at least none of the ones in my current cell—can stomach hurting a woman. But me? My deepest, darkest fear was that I could stomach it. That I might like it. Far too much.

  And I discovered I do.

  To make it worse—or perhaps to make it work—I’m not sure which—I somehow landed the sweetest, most submissive, angel of a slave. Which means I must be constantly vigilant for signs I’ve gone too far.

  I open my suitcase to unpack my toys. Nipple clamps to begin with and a buttplug. I often like to start by claiming her most vulnerable parts while I play with the rest.

  I bought her new nipple clamps—beautiful flowers that will cover her areolas with tiny bolts that tighten against her nips.

  As I approach, Kayla’s stomach audibly growls. I stop and arch a brow, hiding my amusement. "Uh oh. Did you just lie about being hungry?”

  She flushes, guilt scrawling over her expressive face. Her big blue eyes plead with me. She knows I’ll punish her transgression.

  “Lying is a serious offence, blossom."

  Her big eyes get even bigger and her mouth goes slack. She doesn't answer. I put a knuckle under her chin. "Tell me, beautiful. Did you lie because you didn’t want to disappoint me?”

  She doesn’t answer. Her deer-in-the-headlights look will go in my spank-bank for the week. "Or did you lie because you wanted to play before you ate?” When she still doesn't answer, I guess again, “Or was it a combination of the two?"

  She nods and licks her lips, which makes my dick go rock hard. "A combination of the two. —Sir,” she adds hastily.

  She’s so fucking adorable. Like, makes-my-chest-squeeze adorable.

  “All right, here's what we're going to do.” I walk to the dresser to find a room service menu. “I’m going to order us some dinner, and then I'm going to punish you for lying. Hopefully I'll be through by the time the food gets here.” I bring the menu over, sitting beside her on the bed to share the view. “What sounds good?”

  She quickly scans the menu. “I’ll take the Caesar salad, Master.”

  “With chicken?”

  “Yes, please. Master.”

  I brush my lips over her bare shoulder because it looks so delectable and leave to call in our food. “Tell them to knock when they get here and then leave it outside the room,” I instruct. No fucking way I’d open the door with a chance of anyone seeing Kayla like this, even if she was under the covers or in the bathroom. I want her to feel vulnerable with me—not to the outside world. Plus, I’d have to kill anyone who saw her naked.

  Not a joke.

  I return to my suitcase full of toys and unpack a few more surprises then return. “Come off the bed for a minute.” I beckon to her, and she crawls toward me. I hold her elbow as she swivels her legs around to stand on her sexy heels. I sit on the bed and hold her between my legs. Her glorious tits are in my face, nipples pouting, begging to be tortured. I take one in my mouth and suck it to an even stiffer peak.

  Kayla moans softly.

  Sweet little slave.

  I slide the flower plate over her nipple and tighten the screws, watching her face closely to judge when it’s enough. When she sucks in her breath and shifts on her two feet, I give her a second to see if she acclimates or whether I need to back off. She seems to, so I leave it and move onto the next nipple, first sucking it, rolling it around over my tongue, then fastening the plate over the top and tightening the clamps.

  She whimpers a little, her belly shuddering in on a breath. I stroke my hands up and down her sides.

  “Over my knee, blossom,” I intone quietly. I’m the type of dom who generally keeps his commands soft. The more trouble she’s in, the quieter I get. It keeps her straining to listen, to hear me, to please me.

  She dives over my lap like a good girl. I take another mental picture because the sight is so fucking beautiful. The thigh-highs have tiny bows at the tops and a thick black seam that runs down the centers of her legs before it plummets into the high heels. They frame her bare ass perfectly. She shifts and squirms a little, arranging her breasts underneath her on the bed. I love the curve of her long slender back as it slopes down from my lap to the mattress.

  I take my time, using the flat of my hand to warm her ass up. I relish the sting on my own palm as I deliver pain to her, which isn’t like me. I’m usually the guy who refrains from exerting himself too much in an interrogation. I stand back and watch Oleg, our enforcer, deliver the pain. Even with my first BDSM partners, I preferred distance from their bodies and the use of an implement. I’d bend them over a chair and use a long cane—maximum pain at minimal effort on my part.

  But with Kayla, everything’s different.

  In one of our late-night virtual sex sessions last week, she confessed she prefers to be over my lap. She likes to be close to me, even when I’m inflicting pain. That’s what this woman is all about.

  She’s not a pain slut. She’s a pleaser. A service submissive.

  Not what I thought I wanted, but now that she’s mine, I would never wish for anything different.

  I stop when she starts to squeeze her ass and wiggle like it’s too much, then I stroke between her legs. She’s sopping wet, her folds swollen, her cunt open like a flower for me. I pry her ass cheeks apart and drop a dollop of lube onto her anus, loving the involuntary squeeze of muscles when it hits. I take a stainless steel buttplug and start working the tip into her ass.

  "Don't ever lie to tell me what you think I want to hear you say,” I tell her. “I can't make good decisions as your dom when you do. I'm not good at reading your mind.”

  "I disagree, sir," she says softly. "Respectfully."

  Unbearably cute.

  Her anus opens, and I slowly push the plug forward. She mewls when it gets to the widest part.

  “Deep breath,” I advise. When she exhales, I push forward again, seating the plug. "Well, I don't know you inside out, yet. We're still learning each other, aren't we?" I pump the plug gently.

  "Yes, sir." Her voice is shaky.

  "You have to give me the facts, so I can make good decisions. If you’re not sure, you could just say I'm hungry, but I'd like to play first."

  “I'm sorry,” she says.

  “Mmm. I like you sorry,” I admit and resume spanking her, harder this time. The smacks on her ass jostle the plug, and she’s quickly gasping and moaning from the mixture of pain and pleasure.

  When I’ve turned her ass a gorgeous shade of pink, I lift her to stand between my knees again.

  Her eyes glisten with tears. Seeing them always delivers a powerful punch. My dick gets harder than stone, and at the same time, I need to comfort her. The fact that she accepts comfort from me never fails to leave me changed. Almost as cracked open as I leave her.

  I cup her hot ass, massaging it roughly as I lean forward and kiss her flat belly. “Are those tears because I hurt you, or are you sad you’re being punished?”

  She swallows. “Punished,” she murmurs, like she can only get the one word out.

  I stroke my palm down her outer thigh. “I know, you’re a pleaser, blossom. You don’t like to get it wrong, do you?”

  She shakes her head, looking even more distraught.

>   Something twists in my chest.

  “Come here, little flower.” I pull her toward me, helping her to straddle my knees. She seems to like the closeness, leaning in to nuzzle my neck, putting those glorious tits in my face. I kiss the side of one and fiddle with the plug in her ass, rotating it, slowly pumping it.

  Her breath rate increases, and she starts to moan softly at the stimulation. Soon she’s humping my lap, rubbing that wet cunt over the bulge of my erection.

  Fuck. I’ve already had her once, but I’m ready to go again. I unzip my pants and pull my dick out again. I sink into her heat for a second time.

  “I’ll let you in on a little secret, blossom.” I pull her over my cock in a slow undulation.

  She pulls back to meet my gaze, to show me she’s listening.

  “You can’t get it wrong with me.”

  She blinks. The tears are long gone, replaced by a glassy sheen over her huge, blown pupils.

  “Punishing you gives me pleasure, so I’m never disappointed. I don’t need you to obey me every time or to read my mind or get it right. I just need your surrender, which you give so beautifully.”

  Her expression relaxes.

  I slide backward on the bed and lie back, carrying her with me. “Ride me, blossom. Show me how you get yourself off.”

  She braces her hands on my shoulders and arches her back, giving me a glorious view from below.

  Snap: Mental picture #3.

  Actually, this time it's a mental video clip. Of Kayla working herself into a frenzy over my dick. Of the sounds she makes, keening and desperate. Of the curve of her throat, the bounce of her tits. I release her nipples from the clamps, trying to time the pain she'll experience when the blood rushes back to them with her orgasm. It works. After a few seconds, she slows her hips. She holds her breasts and cries out, her back bowing, head falling back. She stops completely as her muscles spasm and tighten around my dick.

  I don't come. I'm too caught up in capturing every nuance of Kayla’s orgasm for my mental movie. There's nothing more beautiful in the entire universe than watching her orgasm. I will go to my grave with the image of every single orgasm I gave her memorized. She exhibits total abandon, giving herself over completely to the pleasure. Sometimes she can't speak for long moments afterward, like her mind went so far it takes effort to bring it back.

  "Beautiful, blossom." I pull her off me and flip her on her belly. Her ass is still pink from the spanking I gave her and seeing my handprints gives me a surge of pleasure. I straddle her thighs and enter from behind, wrapping my hand loosely around the front of her throat.

  I don't need long. Watching her come is the most powerful aphrodisiac there is. I’m ready to go off the moment I’m inside her. I tug her throat, making her arch her back or get choked.

  She lets out a cry—there’s a little protest in the note but also a stark need, like she could come again in a heartbeat.

  “Come again without permission, and I’ll use my belt,” I warn her.

  “Please!” she gasps, sounding frantic.

  I’m desperate, too. I don’t answer, more because I’m so close to orgasm myself than because I want to make her suffer.

  “Please. Master.”

  “Come.” I force the word out as my balls draw up tight. I’m surprised to hear a gutteral sound come out of my mouth—it’s not like me to reveal too much. But that’s what this woman does to me.

  I can’t help it. The release is too great. I slam home and fill her channel with the small amount of cum that’s regenerated since the last time I fucked her. It’s a hundred times more pleasurable than the first time, but there’s no taking mental pictures or standing back to observe because I’m as far gone as she is, letting her sweet pussy squeeze every last drop of cum out of me as she milks me for more.

  As my consciousness seeps back into my body, I flinch when I realize my hold on her throat might be too tight. I instantly relax my fingers. I will punch my own face if I bruised her neck.

  Could she even breathe?

  Yes. Yes, I remember she was begging to come. She cried out with me. Panted with me. I lower her torso to the bed, following. I kiss between her shoulder blades, shift her pale hair away from her nape to brush my lips along the side of her neck.

  “You okay?” I ask between the tiny kisses I shower along her jaw.

  “Yes. Yes, sir,” she remembers to add. She’s not so far gone this time.

  I pull out and roll her to her back, so I can inspect her throat, fighting back the sick feeling in my stomach at what I could’ve done. I run my finger across the faint marks. “Did I scare you?”

  That’s the last thing I want with Kayla. Nervous, sure. Eager to please. But never scared. Everything hinges on her trust.

  That she gives it so blindly, so easily, often makes me want to smash things. I don’t deserve the trust she puts in me, and I use it to hurt her.

  But she likes it. That’s what I remind myself on a daily basis, every time I’m ready to walk away from this madness.

  Her eyes are unfocused, but she finds my face, shaking her head. “No, Master.” As if she senses my inner dilemma, she assures me, “I loved it.”

  Fuck.

  This beautiful little flower.

  6

  Kayla

  I’m still shaking when Pavel wraps me up in the soft blanket he brought and produces our dinner. I never heard the knock, but then, I was a little busy.

  He left the plug in my ass, leaving me still enervated and horny, despite my—how many times did I orgasm? I can’t even think.

  Pavel places the tray beside me, uncovers my plate, and sets it on my lap, somehow knowing that my fingers aren’t steady enough to pick it up yet. He leaves his own plate untouched, moving the tray away to sit beside me, drawing me against his side.

  I lean into him, needing his strength to steady my wobble. This is the most terrifying part of every scene. It’s not the nerves leading up to it—although those kill me. It’s not the surrender—that part’s easy for me. It’s not the pain, when there’s pain. And humiliation doesn’t bother me.

  It’s the vulnerability when it’s over. The sense of having been cracked open and poured out, like a raw egg in the mixing bowl. That’s when the separation of our bodies—the distance between us, no matter how small—feels too great.

  The night Pavel won me at the roulette wheel, I totally lost it when he pulled away.

  He knows better now.

  He stays close. Holds me until I stop clinging. And this is when I get the real Pavel. At least, I’ve decided this is the real Pavel. He doesn’t show his cards often—his expression is usually dark and brooding or inscrutable and blank. He can be a dick. Honestly, I think that’s his natural state. But after he’s bared me, pulled me apart, shattered my defenses, after we’ve both come, when I’m in danger of crashing hard, that’s when he turns tender. Grateful. Terribly protective.

  In my darker, more jaded moments, I fear it’s not because he cares, it’s just because he wants more. He does what he’s learned he has to do to keep me, no more, no less. He’s a sadist, he needs a slave. This isn’t a relationship—it’s an arrangement.

  He unwraps my silverware from the linen napkin and stabs a piece of chicken on my salad with the fork, then holds it to my mouth. I accept the bite, hungrier than I knew. He continues to feed me until my plate is empty, and only then does he reach for his plate of food—a club sandwich which he polishes off in no time.

  I steal a glance at the hard planes of his face. He notes it, impassive as ever.

  It’s the same way he punishes me. Always even-tempered. Cool. He’s quite suave and manicured for a man who’s covered in crude tattoos that I think must represent heinous crimes.

  “You don't get mad do you?” I dare ask him. He’s not talkative by nature. I have to push and pry to get anything out of him.

  “Rarely.” He slides his dark gaze to mine. Sometimes I catch a tortured look on him after we play. Like he’s
afraid of what he’s done.

  The truth is, I’m always a little scared of him—that’s half the excitement. But I’d never run. I need this as much as he does. I crave the emotional tumult of being broken apart and put back together over and over again by him.

  He picks my plate up off my lap, stacks it on his and sets them both back on the tray. “First of all, blossom, if I ever was actually mad, I wouldn't touch a hair on your head. That's a promise.”

  I was right. He’s making sure I know I’m safe.

  “I know you wouldn’t hurt me.” I don’t know why I’m so sure, but I am. He’s too conscientious a dom for me to believe he’d ever harm me in anger.

  “I am dangerous, Kayla.” He shoots me a look that seems to convey a warning of some kind. That I’m too generous in my opinion of him. “But it won’t be an issue. I don’t get mad.”

  “You get even?” I quirk a smile.

  His lips twitch. “Precisely. I’m not the type of guy who runs hot. Except when my dick is in your mouth.” He gives me one of his rare bad-boy grins. It makes him look at least five years younger.

  My heart flutters at the sight.

  Pavel

  “I guess I’d better take you downstairs for a drink. You’re too beautiful to be hidden away although I’ll throat punch anyone who tries to talk to you.”

  Kayla’s laugh is nervous, like she’s not sure if I’m joking.

  I’m not.

  I’m a jealous, possessive motherfucker. Strange for a guy who’s never had a girlfriend in his life.

  But ever since the moment I broke her at Black Light, when Maxim, my bratva brother told me I own her now, I’ve been possessive as hell.

  It’s irrational because the possibility of this working out longer than another five minutes is slim.

  Kayla climbs off the bed and pulls on another sexy dress—a red one this time. “No panties,” I tell her when she starts to pull them on. She steps back out of them and smooths the skirt of her dress.