Dirty Damage: Chapter 15

The first and only time I asked Drew to do the dishes, he slapped my ass and told me that if he started doing work around the house, I’d stop feeling useful, and he didn’t want to take that away from me.

Bastard.

But the Beast does dishes.

Apparently, my bar for men is so low that a little housework is all it takes to rev my engine. I’m sitting on my bed, my thighs pressed together, thinking about Oleg Pavlov’s forearms flexing as he scrubbed my plate after dinner.

Those golden eyes burning into me across the table.

His scars deepening when his jaw clenched.

I thought he was going to bend me over right there between the salt and pepper shakers.

The scary part?

I would have let him.

All my big talk about respect and boundaries went up in flames the second he stepped into my space.

The clock on my phone reads 11:47 PM. I check my messages—nothing from Drew, radio silence from Sydney. Hours ago I got a text, but it was just Mara being Mara:

Bored at work without you. Is what they say about big hands and feet true? Report back after you’ve done the nasty with the boss.

I groan and toss my phone aside. Not the distraction I was hoping for.

A buzz cuts through the quiet, and I practically leap for it.

Only, it’s not my phone buzzing. It’s the black phone Uri gave me earlier.

BOSS: Come to my room.

Uri must’ve programmed Oleg’s number into my phone as well. I’ll be changing his name real fast.

Still, something hot and lightning fast zings through me—anxiety? Anticipation?

It’s late. For all he knows, I could be asleep already. I could ignore it, pretend I never saw it.

Except, how the fuck am I supposed to sleep knowing Oleg is a couple rooms away, waiting for me? Expecting me?

Playing hard to get isn’t in the Palmer playbook.

SUTTON: It’s late.

BOSS: And yet you’re still awake.

A second ago, I was ready to jump Oleg’s bones. Now, my hands are shaking as I stare at those five dangerous words.

I signed a contract agreeing to have this man’s baby, but I didn’t exactly think through the mechanics. My brain short-circuited at the number of zeros on that check—at the simple fact that Oleg fucking Pavlov chose me.

He gave me three days to think it over. Then my boudoir photos went viral and torpedoed any chance I had at employment that doesn’t involve a stripper pole.

Oleg became my only option.

My last resort.

If it was just me, maybe I’d have considered bouncing between women’s shelters before selling my soul to the devil.

But Sydney’s bruised face flashes through my mind, those dark circles under her eyes that speak of sleepless nights and worse things.

My phone vibrates again.

BOSS: There’s more we need to talk about.

Right. Because when a man summons you to his bedroom at midnight, “talking” is definitely what he has in mind.

I’m no better.

It’s the last thing on mine, too.

I drag myself to the full-length mirror in the corner, gathering the extra fabric of my pajamas in my hand. Not even a fairy godmother could turn these circus tent PJs into something sexy.

Fuck it.

I strip them off until I’m standing in nothing but a scrap of pink lace that barely covers my butt. I could waste time digging through my duffel, but I know what’s in there: more shapeless clothes meant to hide me from the world. Additional fabric that will only get in the way.

Because Oleg doesn’t want to talk.

And you know what?

Neither do I.

I pull on a white camisole that rides high on my waist and let my hair tumble free from its messy bun. One last look in the mirror confirms what I already know—I look exactly like what I am.

A woman asking for it.

Each step down the dark hallway is another chance to bail, to rethink this bold move and crawl back into my shapeless armor.

But Oleg’s already seen all of me. Twice, actually.

He saw everything, and he chose me.

And I chose this.

I push open the double doors to his suite for the second time today and step inside. Oleg freezes mid-stride by the foot of his bed, like he was wearing a path in the carpet the same way I was.

His eyes devour every inch of exposed skin, and a sound rumbles from his chest that’s more animal than man.

“You didn’t come to talk, princess.”

My instincts are screaming at me to turn and run. That’s what you’re supposed to do when a beast is eyeing you like he wants to devour you whole.

Only… I think I want to let him.

“I found your collection,” I blurt.

My eyes dart to the closet, and he follows the movement, a smirk spreading across his face. His scars sink in deep contrast from the low lamplight.

“You went snooping, you mean.”

It’s not a question. But with the way his gaze keeps raking over my body, I’d say we’re more than even.

I’ve shown him mine—several times now.

I deserve a peek in return.

When I lower my attention to the bulge straining his slacks, I get a lot more than a peek. Mental note: tell Mara it’s definitely true about big hands and feet.

Mental note to the mental note: Never tell her a single detail about any of this.

I want to keep this sight all to myself.

“My face is up here, you know.”

Color floods my cheeks. “I could say the same to you.”

Shamelessly, he devours me with another long look, tongue dragging across his bottom lip like he can taste me already. “We can always talk tomorrow.”

He takes a step forward. I fall back instinctively. He stops, eyebrows rising.

“I-I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I⁠—”

I don’t know how to have sex for money. I’ve never sold myself before.

But this doesn’t feel like what Sydney did to survive. The men who paid her would have taken anyone with a pulse and the right parts. They just wanted a warm body.

Oleg chose me.

He wants me, even if it’s not romantically. Something about that soothes the phantom ache in my chest.

He doesn’t look annoyed. Then again, it’s impossible to read anything behind that impassive mask.

“If you need more time⁠—”

“It wouldn’t help.” I swallow hard. “I mean, I’m just nervous. I’ll always be nervous. Until we… Well, I’d rather jump in head first.”

“Head first is my preferred method.”

His golden eyes have gone black with hunger. His lips are parted on heavy breaths, and as long as I can see his perfect, chiseled face—his perfect everything—I’m never going to be able to relax. I’ll implode.

Maybe I already have. It’s the only explanation for what comes out of my mouth next:

“I want to be blindfolded. And bound.”

It’s his turn to arch back, forehead creasing. “You want to be…? Fucking hell. Are you sure?”

“I think it… It will be easier if I don’t look at you.” A frown sears across his face and I scramble to explain. “Not like that. I mean, you’re you. The fewer senses I have to use, the less overwhelming this will be.”

He hesitates, and I’m sure my mania has killed whatever mood he was in.

But then he turns towards the closet. When he returns, he’s carrying a red blindfold and handcuffs that look way too real.

Another bolt of terror-laced anticipation hits me. But it’s too late to back out now.

Oleg circles me slowly, his eyes washing over me like lava. When he finally touches me, electricity arcs through my body. I’ve never felt anything this visceral before. Not with any other man.

He takes my hand, the metal of the cuffs cold against my skin. “You really want this?”

His voice is deep. It reverberates through me, leaving echoes in its wake.

But as nervous as I am, I know what I want.

“Yes.”

The cuff clicks around my wrist with a sharp snap. Oleg tightens it just enough to squeeze, then he uses the other to pull me to his bed.

I follow behind him, stumbling through a dream. This can’t be real.

Oleg lowers me to the edge of the mattress, his broad body between my legs.

I should be intimidated; he’s much bigger up close.

But I want to reach out and touch him, feel his warm skin under my fingertips. I want to prove to myself that this is real.

That I’m really doing this.

He closes the distance between us, pushing me back onto the bed. His hand scrapes along my arm to my wrist…

… then he cuffs one hand to the headboard. And then the other.

Suddenly, my nerves surge back.

“M-maybe I need the blindfold now…”

His jaw clenches. “Do I scare you, Sutton?”

“No.”

That’s a lie.

He knows it, too.

He smirks as he shifts closer. His erection presses against my inner thigh. He parts my legs with his knee and rubs himself against the soaked fabric of my panties until I moan.

“See? No need to be scared. I’ll be careful.” The words are hot in my ear. He nips at my lobe, circling it slowly with his tongue as his hand strokes down my chest. “How fond are you of this shirt?”

“Umm…” I can’t form words. Not when his hands are on my body. His breath in my ear.

Before I can form a sentence, he tears my shirt off in one swift tug. I gasp as my breasts spill free.

His eyes dilate as he takes me in. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so desired, so wanted in my whole life.

“The pictures don’t do you justice,” he growls.

Somehow, the idea of him going through my boudoir photoshoot isn’t nearly as mortifying as it once was.

“Did you like what you saw?”

He drags the long, hard length of himself against my panties in answer. “You have no idea.”

Then he rips those off, too.

“Do you plan on ripping off all my clothes?” I do my best to sound annoyed, but I’m breathless. “Because… I’m… gonna run out at some point.”

He chuckles, deep and throaty, sending a vibration through my very core. He could probably knock me up with his laugh alone.

“I’ll buy you new clothes. It was on my to-do list already.”

“Is there something wrong with my clothes?”

His lips tickle their way down my neck. I twist away, just because the sensation of him is too much, but I don’t get far with the cuffs around my wrists.

“Only that you wear too many of them.”

His lips leave my neck for my breasts. As he circles my right nipple, I moan. When he pivots to my left, I arch off the bed.

I’m already straining against my cuffs, desperate to curl my fingers through his thick hair. He smirks up at me, all shadows and amusement.

“You asked for this, Sutton.”

I’d ask for it again, too.

I’d beg.

Plead.

Anything to keep his attention on me. To reach the finish line I’m rapidly approaching.

He sucks my nipple into his mouth, and I cry out. I squirm closer, widening my legs, inviting him in.

But Oleg takes his time. He moves at his own pace, enjoying the taste of my skin and the way I gasp and moan with every new touch.

I know because he keeps praising me.

“You sound so pretty when you’re moaning for me,” he whispers in a hushed tone.

We called this just business. But it doesn’t feel like that. It doesn’t feel clinical.

It feels fucking unholy.

But whatever it is, I’m powerless to stop it as his hand slides between my legs. I know he can feel how wet I am, how ready I am.

He groans when his middle finger disappears into me. Then another.

I thought I wanted to be blindfolded, but watching him thrust his fingers into me—watching him watch his fingers disappear inside of me—is almost enough to send me over the edge.

He’s entranced by the way I take him, the way I roll my hips to take him deeper.

And when he strokes his fingers inside of me, curling against my detonation point, I scream.

Oleg moves with me, one arm banded behind my back, holding me as I dissolve in his arms and on his hand. Wave after wave of the most powerful orgasm I’ve ever felt has me drowning, but he strokes me back to earth with soft caresses and a single kiss to the soft skin of my hip.

I’m sagging from the headboard when his warmth slips away.

My hands strain against the cuffs, desperate to touch him, to pull him closer. I need more—I need all of him.

But I’m bound and at his mercy.

The slide and click of his nightstand drawer cuts through my fog of need. The crinkle of a wrapper.

Oleg holds the condom between his teeth, ready to tear, when our eyes lock.

Understanding hits us both like a bullet between the ribs.

We don’t need it.

I’ve never had sex without a condom. It’s something I should have thought about before now, but my brain has been too busy short-circuiting over the reality of Oleg Pavlov wanting me.

There will be nothing between us. Because we’re not just having sex—we’re trying to make a baby.

His face changes as he stares at the wrapper, something dark and haunted crossing his expression.

“I almost forgot.” The words come out strangled, like they’re meant for someone else.

For the first time, I see a crack in his armor. A glimpse of the man beneath the Beast.

He rolls away abruptly, muscles rigid under his shirt. The condom drops back into the drawer with a finality that makes my chest ache. His shoulders rise and fall with harsh breaths as he stands with his back to me, and I realize he is still fully clothed.

“Oleg…?” His name comes out as a broken whisper.

When he turns, his face is a mask again, but his eyes… God, his eyes are wild with something that looks like panic.

He releases the cuffs with mechanical movements, refusing to meet my gaze.

I rub my wrists, searching his face for any hint of what went wrong. “Did I… did I do something?”

“You did nothing,” he snarls, but the rage in his voice doesn’t match the lost look in his eyes.

For a split second, those golden irises meet mine, and I see too much—fear, want, pain.

Then he blinks, and all of it disappears.

“Get some rest.” It’s a command that leaves no room for argument. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

I start to slide off the bed, but his voice cracks like a whip.

“No. Stay here. I’ll go.”

The comforter lands over me like a shield, hiding my body from his view. He turns away instantly, like he can’t bear to look at me anymore.

Then he’s gone.