Unmeasured (Unmatched Book 1) Page 10

  His placid tone while slinging that load of crap was the very last draw. “You know what? I don’t need this.” Sam threw her books into her bag. “I’m out of here.” Her temper faltered only long enough to apologize to Maurice again for the marred fabric.

  Oleg’s eyes blazed at her as he tied the top of the pants closed at the very edge of his crotch. Sam tried not to let her gaze linger there, though it seemed to help her stall.

  Stall for what? An apology for him too? Fat chance. She tossed the bag on her shoulder and marched over to Maurice, her hand out.

  He placed the sketchbook in her hand. Samantha was at the door when Oleg finally said something.

  “Stop.” He walked over to her. “I didn’t mean it as an insult.”

  “Really? Well, it definitely wasn’t a compliment.”

  “It was neither an insult, nor a compliment. It was just the truth.” Oleg took her hand and pulled it from the door knob. “Tell me you aren’t lost, and I’ll see if I believe you.”

  Samantha frowned. “I…”

  “Don’t lie.”

  “And what can you do about it if I am? You’ve done nothing but confuse me all day.”

  He nodded and looked away. “You’re right. For that I’m sorry.”

  Samantha’s eyes grew wide with surprise. The words seem to be stinging his tongue.

  “Maybe you’re a little lost too,” she whispered.

  Now it was Oleg’s turn to look surprised, but he led her by the hand back to the sofa anyway. “Stay. I’ll only be a few moments longer, and then we can go downstairs and get what you need from Henri.”

  “And after that?”

  Oleg didn’t give an answer, and Sam strongly suspected it was because he didn’t have one.

  Maurice handed Oleg the full-length leather coat. Oleg shrugged into it and pulled up the hood that shrouded his face in shade. Samantha felt a cold shiver run through her. He transformed into a foreboding deity before her eyes.

  Maurice pressed his painted fingers to his heart. “Ah, magnifique! All you need now is your whip.”

  “And a sub to appreciate a lick from it,” Oleg whispered as if to himself.

  “Who appreciates a whip?” Samantha asked.

  Maurice laughed. “My dear friend, you are definitely keeping strange company these days.” He crouched at Oleg’s feet and checked around the hem. “Are you happy with the length?”

  “Yes. Excellent work, as always.”

  “And the pants?” Maurice turned to Samantha. “What do you think, chérie? He should have them, yes?”

  Sam nodded, her head bobbing up and down like a fool. She caught herself and then simply answered, “Yes.”

  Maurice curled his finger and beckoned her closer. “No one would judge you if you were to join me down here, just to try submission on for size and see how it feels.”

  Samantha was walking to them before she had the chance to think twice about it. As she sunk to her knees, Maurice stood.

  “You can thank me later,” he said and left them alone in the room once more.

  Samantha shifted onto her hip and tucked her legs beneath her. Oleg was a giant from her position on the carpeted floor. She fought the urge to touch him again, because that hadn’t gone so well the first time. Oleg reached down, placed his fingers on the crown of her head and stroked them into her hair. Somehow, he didn’t think he needed to ask her whether he could. She didn’t protest, because she didn’t want him to stop, permission granted or not.

  Oleg still wore the hood, and it served as a veil of darkness over his expression. Only his voice hinted at the tenderness that infiltrated the moment.

  “What do you want from this, Samantha? And don’t say an excusal from your law-school exam. I can already see you couldn’t give a damn about that.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You want someone to make that decision for you, but it’s impossible. A sub has to decide to submit. Otherwise, it’s not a lifestyle. It’s just abuse.”

  Sam remembered the euphoric sensation of Oleg feeding her every bite of food. Why something like that excited her so much, she truly couldn’t piece together. Not logically. But what place did logic really have in the world of BDSM? She had no idea. “Do you really whip people?”

  Oleg laughed. “For punishment…and for pleasure.”

  Sam leaned onto his solid calf just a bit before remembering that she might need his permission. She looked up at him, and he gave her a nod. She let her full weight rest against his leg, knowing he wouldn’t waiver, and he didn’t. She rubbed the goat-skin leather edge of his pant leg between her fingers. So soft. “I can understand spanking. There is something patriarchal about it that seems meaningful, seems like concern from someone wiser, someone I should respect.”

  “Is that what you are looking for? Someone to respect? Perhaps a way to respect yourself more?”

  “I really don’t know.”

  “It’s more like you really don’t want to say.” He tightened his fingers in her hair. “Does this feel meaningful, or does it just feel like pain?”

  “Ow!”

  He let go and stroked away the discomfort in her scalp. “You see, you do know what you want.” He rubbed more of those small, gentle circles with the tips of his fingers. She leaned in, because she wanted to.

  Maurice returned, checking his watch. “Okay, have you gotten everything straightened out between you two?” he said. “I hate to rush you, Oleg, but I have another appointment at four.”

  Samantha stood, albeit grudgingly. She’d gotten a sweet taste of domination that afternoon, and if there was one thing she was certain of, it was that she wanted more.

  In what seemed like a single, fluid motion, Oleg dropped the hood and the coat itself from his broad shoulders. The tattoo made another glorious appearance.

  “Can I ask about the angel wings?”

  Samantha thought she might actually get an answer, but the moment passed with Oleg untying the strings of his pants.

  “Or not,” she said quietly.

  Oleg’s tongue made an appearance on his bottom lip, his hazel eyes narrowing at her as he drew out the moment a little longer. Samantha recognized it was her patience that might be needed, though truthfully the concept wasn’t all that familiar.

  “My father was murdered when I was four, and my mother died of an overdose five years later. The wings are my way of keeping them close, even though I can’t see them.”

  “Oh my God, that is horrible.”

  Oleg stepped out of the leather pants and slung them onto a hook. “Everything that happens to us makes us who we are. There is no running from it. I bet you grew up with everything you ever wanted, and that’s why you can’t figure out what’s missing.”

  He slipped into a pair of suit trousers and then one of his new custom-made shirts. The wings and the god-like man she’d knelt beneath were gone, and the cool and collected businessman was back, along with the measured distance he kept between them.

  Chapter 12

  When they walked into Club Duval, Henri was already pouring shots for Ivan and Paolo. He still wore his scrubs, and in this place of pain and pleasure, Samantha had to admit, his attire offered him an ominous quality. That face, however, was purely angelic with soft gray eyes that rounded at the corners, looking like they were questioning the very meaning of life. His smile told a different story of carnal knowledge to which no angel should ever be associated. In the background of this contradiction incarnate, there was a smattering of workers going about their prep-work for the coming evening under the supervision of a slender middle-aged man.

  Paolo relaxed against the back of the barstool and raised his glass to them as they came closer. “Look who’s here.”

  Henri grinned. “So you made it a whole day together, and neither of you chickened out.”

  She watched Oleg’s expression curiously, wondering how he would react to Henri’s teasing. It was a surprise to her when only a small chuff of a laugh esc
aped his lips. He turned to Sam and asked for her coat and bag, which she’d been lugging on her bent arm. The bag he settled on the floor, and a waitress took the coat toward the coat room without delay.

  “Would you like a drink?” Ivan asked, getting up to pull out a barstool for her. Those obsidian eyes locked in her direction, and his gaze covered her like an oil slick.

  She couldn’t help but be a little intimidated, but she found her voice anyway. “Yes,” she said and took a seat. “But I think I should probably have something a little less mind blitzing than straight vodka shots.”

  Henri ducked below for a moment and then held up a carton of cream. “You can handle a White Russian, can’t you?”

  She reddened. That was in fact the biggest question of all.

  Henri smiled and began to mix the drink.

  As the men continued their conversation about the football match playing silently on the small TV in the corner of the bar, Samantha swept her gaze around the room. Though the windowless club didn’t hint of the early hour, the vibe was still markedly less mysterious amongst these men and their casual rapport. The mood was much lighter than she’d expected, not that she’d really known what to expect from any part of the afternoon. She definitely hadn’t expected to find Henri behind the bar. She swiveled back toward him, feeling like her snarky self again. “So, Henri, are you working on a second career slinging drinks?” The smarty-pants grin that went so well with pithy one-liners flew right off her lips when he placed her drink on the bar. The creamy-white liquid swayed just slightly in a shallow porcelain bowl.

  “What’s this?” she asked.

  “I think you know what it is. I also think you know where you are…and who you are with,” Henri said and pushed the bowl a little closer. “And you certainly know what to do with it.”

  Sam looked them all over, searching for the lighthearted expressions that had filled their faces moments ago. Paolo folded his arms across his chest and tilted his head a bit. They were all silent now, all looking back at her.

  This was a test. She was certain of it. But Sam had thought she was all fed up with tests. Wasn’t that why she wasn’t home right now studying for her exam? Only that bowl of spiked cream mocked her as much as all of their expectant gazes. If this was a test, she knew the correct answer, and the one thing Samantha always liked to be was right.

  It was also a dare.

  She could walk right out of there and never look back. No one was stopping her. She’d driven herself here, and her car was tucked neatly into a space just across the street. She suspected that was all part of the test as well. If she did this thing they all seemed to be waiting patiently for, it was because she had chosen to do it. If she left, that would be her choice as well. Boundaries had been presented, and she would need to expose herself to the glaring truth about what she wanted to do about it.

  Samantha tried to rationalize the whole idea, about the reason she leaned forward and dipped her head toward the bowl. As her tongue extended into the cool liquid, she decided it wasn’t that complicated. She liked their hungry looks and meant to see them fed.

  She dabbed at the White Russian cocktail a few times and couldn’t resist seeking out any trace of approval in Oleg’s expression. The soft nod of his head sent a ridiculous shiver over her. A smile eased onto her lips, and she stroked deeper into the bowl, flicking her tongue into the cream with a slow curl.

  “Chérie, surely you can do better than that,” Henri said in almost a whisper.

  Samantha slowly pushed her stool back and away from the bar. She was nearly effervescent with the knowledge that indeed, she could do better, a lot better. It took a fairly strong hop, but she managed to slide her butt onto the ebony bar top. Kicking off her boots, she channeled the six years of ballet her mother had insisted she commit herself to in order to learn balance, grace and the art of femininity. Samantha had rolled her eyes endlessly during those speeches. The hell with grace and femininity, Sam had only wanted to learn to leap and twirl. Yet as she pointed her toes in her ankle socks and extended her legs forward, the hours of practicing finally proved worth it.

  She imagined herself a stealthy feline, moving sinuously into place as she tucked her legs beneath her. Holding eye contact with Oleg, she leaned forward and rested one hand and then the other on either side of the bowl. He smiled softly at her and raised an eyebrow. She dipped her head to the bowl and lapped delicately at the rich and delicious libation.

  He leaned over her, placing his mouth at her ear. “That’s a good kitty. Careful not to spill any.”

  The low rumble of his voice in her ear pierced something secret and hidden inside her. She wanted to purr. When he stroked her head, crown to her neck in a firm sweep of his palm, she did purr. The sound rippled through a slow exhale of breath as tingles blessed her scalp and travelled to her shoulders and down her back. Her ass rose up into the air, and his hand climbed the slope of her spine to find the roundness of her cheek through her leggings. She was dizzy with the game, feeling more and more like a pet the more he stroked his approval over her electrified body. And she continued to lap at the cream, like a contented cat who reveled in all being right with the world.

  “Ah gee, Oleg. Can’t we keep her?” Henri said. His voice had taken on a childish tone, affected with humor. “Huh, huh? Can’t we?”

  “She is pretty perfect,” Paolo said, reaching forward to tuck a piece of her hair behind her ear that threatened to fall into the bowl.

  Samantha continued to lap at the cream as they spoke above her. A few drops clung to her chin, and before she could reach for a napkin, Oleg captured her jaw in his hand. “Do you know a kitten that wipes its mouth with a napkin?”

  Samantha shook her head.

  With a swipe of his thumb, he cleaned her chin and then licked the drops from it in one quick motion.

  “She’s a natural.” Henri poured himself another shot and circled it in the drinking glass. He placed the glass to his rounded lips and drained the vodka down his throat. He sighed in the way Samantha had become accustomed to. “But it’s obvious she needs training.”

  “A novice like this will get eaten alive without the right kind of guidance. You know that’s true, Oleg,” Ivan added.

  “Look at her,” Paolo stroked the top of her head, swiped his fingers down her neck and over her spine once, and then again. The arch in her back was reflexive, and it didn’t go unnoticed. “Look at how she loves this. Do you think she’ll just walk out of here and stop putting herself on the market? She’ll end up with the first Dom who crosses her path. She’s hooked.”

  Sam listened and couldn’t disagree. She could stay on top of that bar all night.

  But Oleg sighed heavily and shook his head. “It cannot be me.” He walked away, and suddenly the spell she was under broke beneath the weight of her disappointment. It was a distasteful thought. How could she even let herself be disappointed by him when it was so clear he had no other intentions for her? Samantha sat up and couldn’t get off the bar fast enough.

  She tugged on her boots, feeling her face flame and her stomach roll in on itself with embarrassment. “Just forget all of this, okay?” she said in a rush. “Henri, I’ve done my part, so if you don’t mind, I’ll just take that doctor’s note and get out of all of your hair.” She held her hand out as her heel tapped nervously. Her heel she was able to quiet, but her trembling hand had a mind of its own.

  Henri paused for a few beats before reaching into his monogrammed pocket and pulling a neatly folded piece of paper from it. The moment it was in her hand, she grabbed her bag and headed for the door. They could keep her coat. She had to get the fuck out of there and back to her flat, where there was a chance that the tears stinging the corner of her eyes would seem silly. But right then, she felt hollowed out by the way Oleg had walked away from her, and it didn’t make a bit of sense. This place, his world, she was starting to think it made her really and truly crazy. Reality called, and Samantha went running.

&nbs
p; *

  Oleg didn’t watch her go. If he was honest with himself, it wasn’t because the Knights were ready to score. He ignored Henri’s disapproving scowl directed at the door.

  “That is exactly why I can’t keep her. She’s too fragile, and I can’t have her becoming attached to me.” Nor could he risk becoming any more attached to her. How naturally they had fallen into their respective roles once she gave in to her instincts. It was unnerving.

  Henri poured another shot and held it out to him. Oleg joined them again at the bar. “I didn’t say you should keep her. I said that we should keep her. She can’t get attached to you when we are all training her.” He threw back a shot of his own before continuing, “Unless you’d prefer that we train her alone.”

  Oleg shot him a look that was crystal clear on his opinion about that.

  Henri laughed a little. “I didn’t think so.”

  Ivan pointed at the door Samantha had just walked through. “You’d better decide. I would really hate to see her in the wrong hands.”

  Oleg respected Ivan’s fear. Someone who’d seen untethered sadism up close had a true understanding of what was at stake. On the outside, he looked like the boxing gold medalist turned undefeated MMA fighter all of France both feared and loved, but internally, Ivan was broken in a way only another Dom could relate to.

  Still, Oleg needed a playmate that wasn’t so hard to say goodbye to at the end of a session. The hunger raging inside him was not welcome. Danger might be a good aperitif, but not for the main course, not for a girl like Samantha. She was out of her league. She didn’t belong in his world, not in the club nor around his family. Some things just needed to be left untouched. “Do not touch”, it was a sign he should hang around her slender neck, because there was one nagging truth: when he was around her, he felt things that he didn’t want to know he could feel. She might be in over her head, but in her presence, he was the one drowning. He swore that Samantha would never feel the kiss of his whip, because God help him, he could still feel the sting of her lips.