THE SOLDIER

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.

“Come on, beautiful.”

“Master.” She turns those big blue eyes on me. They’re pleading. My dick turns as hard as marble despite the fact that I’ve already come twice. That’s what this girl does to me.

Calling me Master.

Letting me call all the shots.Content bel0ngs to Nôvel(D)r/a/ma.Org.

“Hmm?” I raise my brows in an authoritative way, making her blush and grow more nervous.

“May I take the buttplug out?”

I didn’t forget. I wondered how much she could take. Whether she’d complain. I like to keep her ass prepared for anal sex. I like to keep her ass plugged in general, just to edge her.

“Are you getting sore, blossom?”

She nods her head.

“Come here.” I sit on the edge of the bed again and hold my hand out to her. She steps between my knees, and once more, I fold her over my lap in her favorite position. She doesn’t like impersonal torture. Or much distance between us. As a man who’s kept everyone at arm’s length for all of my life, it should be a difficult adjustment. But with Kayla, it’s not. If she wants something, she gets it. Because she gives me everything.

The red of her earlier spanking is fading, so I spank her some more, loving the way she wriggles and pants and whimpers.

I grip the head of the plug and gently pull it out, then push it back in. “Who does this hole belong to, little slave?”

Kayla gasps in surprise. “Y-you, Master,” she warbles. I work it some more, fucking her ass with it until she’s humping my lap. “Master, please,” she begs.