Unmeasured (Unmatched Book 1) Page 9

  His phone vibrated on the table, and while checking it, he spoke in a distant tone. “And you don’t think you should be studying?”

  “Later,” she said and took another big sip, deciding if he didn’t want to look at her, the fake marble statue would get her attention. She thought she’d leave it at that, or that he would, but the more she remained quiet, the bigger the words got in her throat. She had to get them out.

  “How can you kiss me like that and then ask about my exams?”

  “Which part was a problem for you?”

  His gaze was back, and it felt like the sun. Samantha sat more upright in her chair. “Just that you tell me I’m undisciplined, but look at you. You’re all over the place.”

  Oleg frowned then, and the darkness that took over his expression was almost frightening. His eyes though, they flared with something else. The heat on her cheeks felt like sunburn.

  Neither of them noticed the waiters until their plates were placed on the table. Oleg acknowledged them with a quick word of thanks.

  Sam reached for her fork, part reflex, part dare.

  Oleg’s hand was on her wrist before she’d gotten the utensil in her grasp and he’d finished asking for some more bread. His grip was tight, his large hand wrapping the circumference entirely like a cuff. She didn’t pull away, part shock, part gratitude.

  He didn’t let her go. Holding her hostage with his left hand, he picked up a fork with his right and tore at the tender stewed veal. It fell apart with little effort, and Samantha could relate. Her resolve was melting too. She opened her mouth without him having to ask.

  Was it the rich, savory sauced meat or the hand that delivered it there that had her tingling in her seat? She was afraid to decide. “This is good food,” she said and looked at the place where his hand still claimed dominion on her. Her gaze fluttered back to him and though he said nothing, she was sure he’d decided he wasn’t ready to let go. She wasn’t asking him to either. Every slow and gentle pass of the fork he eased into her open mouth while he pressed her arm to the table revealed a little more of Oleg to her. They communicated without words, something entirely new for Samantha.

  He rested the fork on her tongue for a breathtaking moment. A compulsive need grew inside Sam to close her mouth immediately around the delicious morsel, but she waited for him to tip it slightly, waited for his permission each time to take what he gave. When the fork left smoothly from between her lips, she was practically in mourning. It was her mouth that he fed, and parts lower were envious of the way he did it.

  She didn’t dare speak, because anything she could say would ruin it.

  The door at the front of the restaurant opened and brought the light of the clearing sky into the room. Sam’s gaze darted away from Oleg and to the only other patron who was now being led to a seat a few tables away. She pressed her lips in a thin line and cleared her throat.

  Oleg rubbed his thumb against her wrist in a tight circle and leaned in to her ear.

  “Are you here to eat with that man or with me?” he asked.

  Sam recognized a facetious question when she heard it. Her mouth remained closed.

  “Open,” he whispered to her.

  When she didn’t, Sam was sure he would squeeze her wrist tighter as punishment. Wasn’t that how this stuff worked, you obeyed or else? But instead, he let her go.

  She looked down at her slightly reddened skin, which felt quite naked now. He leaned close again and pressed his lips to her neck, which she gave him freely, stretching it long for him like a reflex. His lips were warm against her skin, and then a sweep of his soft, wet tongue graced a small spot near her ear. A puff of breath preceded his quieted words. “I will not make that request again.”

  Her lips parted, and for that matter, so did her legs.

  The smile on Oleg’s face was barely detectable, and yet she was warmed by the knowledge that he was pleased with her. Communicating without words was becoming easy.

  Then her plate was empty and the spell seemed to be broken. Sam filled the suddenly awkward silence. “You haven’t eaten a thing,” she said.

  He picked up his fork and knife and sliced into the rare steak that sat neglected on his plate. At this, he grinned. “You state the obvious because…”

  Sam shrugged. “Isn’t it cold?”

  When Oleg had finished chewing, he took a sip of wine. Samantha did the same, wondering if he would bother to respond. He took another sip and rested the glass back on the table. “I wanted to feed you first,” he said finally. “Now you have me stating the obvious, as well.”

  Normally, Sam would have rolled her eyes at that, yet all she could do was smile.

  *

  Outside, the clouds had cleared, making way for a rather pleasant day, though still bitterly cold. He fought the urge to wrap his arm around Samantha again. Feeding her lunch from his hand was about all he could handle. It was time to say goodbye, before he took this any further.

  “I suppose we are done now. It was very nice to see you again, Samantha.”

  She frowned. “It’s only three. I’m supposed to spend the whole day with you.”

  He locked his jaw. “Do you think I have time for this game you and Henri are playing?” He recalled the text Henri had sent him, suggesting that he bring her into the club with him that evening for the drinks and comradery he and his friends enjoyed regularly before the paying customers arrived. It was a terrible idea, bringing an untrained novice into their inner circle. How utterly confusing for everyone—most irritatingly, for himself.

  She pinned him with narrowed eyes. “All right, look. I need something from Henri, and he won’t give it to me unless we spend the whole day together. I can probably sell him on staying until like six or so, but no way is three going to fly. Three more hours. I’ll sit there and be quiet. I promise.”

  “What could you need from Henri?”

  She dragged her hand over her face and huffed. “I need him to write me a doctor’s note.”

  “Why?”

  Her voice was low and stunted. “Because I overslept and missed my exam this morning.”

  “Why are you mumbling?”

  “Because I’m embarrassed, okay? It’s fucking embarrassing.”

  Oleg tried to stifle the chuckle in his throat. “Don’t yell at me. You’re the one who did it.”

  Sam shook her head. “You’re right. This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever gotten myself into.”

  Oleg paused for a moment and considered the crumpled face of the pretty young woman that had him caring about the conundrum she was in. “Do you have your study materials with you?”

  “My bag is in my car.”

  “Very well, you can come with me to my appointment and study for your next exam while my tailor attends to me.”

  “Your tailor?”

  Oleg did smile then. “My suits don’t fit so well by accident.”

  Sam took notice of the glib tone, which was odd to hear from Oleg, who seemed so serious all the time. “I’m sure he has his work cut out for him.”

  “For her.” He began to walk Sam to her car. “And why would you say that?”

  “Look at you. You’re practically a mountain.” Sam waved her flat hand in front of him. “I can only imagine the amount of bulging muscle you’ve got going on under there.”

  Oleg smiled wider at her, entertained, if not flattered. “Maurice is a master technician.”

  He opened her car door, but she stopped before taking a seat behind the wheel. “I thought you said she was a woman.”

  “Some people make their own decisions about who they are,” he said.

  She understood then, and also wondered if his statement was a bit of a jab at her too. How could he know about the struggles she’d been having with that same question? Was she a senator’s daughter with a brilliant career as an attorney ahead of her, or a law school flunker who just wanted to draw pretty clothes all day? Did she follow the rules or break them all? Nothing had ever felt comp
letely right. She wasn’t afraid of failure. Samantha would mark the day she found herself afraid of anything. And she wasn’t a quitter, yet she didn’t want to be miserable the rest of her life doing something that she found so boring. Where was the excitement in any of it? It was a conundrum that needed to be addressed one way or another, and soon. Because sure as shit, Samantha was only thinking about sketching a Botticelli-inspired corset in blush satin with rivulets of dusky-blue voile inlays spilling down the sides in homage to the tacky fountain she would forever link to that afternoon.

  “Samantha.” Oleg called her attention back from the far-off tangent she’d gone to in her mind.

  “Oh, sorry. I got lost in my thoughts for a second. Where is your tailor located?”

  “Just follow me. I’ll get you there.”

  Chapter 11

  Maurice’s skills as a tailor were widely coveted in the Paris fetish scene, thanks in no small part to Oleg and his friends. Henri was a saver of lives. He lived in scrubs, but he wouldn’t be caught dead in a suit that failed to fit perfectly. A finely tailored suit was his calling card, and no matter the occasion, he managed to always live up to his interpretation of appropriately dressed. Even Oleg had an assortment of cashmere sweaters and dark wash jeans for off hours, but he had to agree that the newly hired tailor at Henri’s favorite atelier was the best in Paris. They’d offered him the second-floor loft above the club along with a seed investment for his own business. With the rich and kinky frequenting Club Duval downstairs, Maurice had quickly become the go-to resource for custom-fitted, body-hugging leather, lace, gortex and latex. He was a master of it all. He thought to share the story of how they’d met, Maurice disbelieving his offer of building a business together. Oleg had always been adept at spotting a good investment, be it an investment of time, money or energy. So far, the woman following him had him investing with currency he wasn’t accustomed to spending.

  A number of spaces were marked reserved in the lot across the street. Samantha took the one that Paolo usually occupied. For sure, Oleg planned to have Samantha on her way by the time Paolo would need it.

  The entrance to the upper floors of the pre-war building that housed the club he and his friends had built to become the playground of their dreams was tucked beneath an unassuming navy-blue awning. Once unlocked, he held open the door for her. The fact that they also kept apartments there was not common knowledge. Oleg liked to keep it that way.

  “These are from the same artist as the ones in the club, aren’t they?” Samantha said of the small oil paintings framed in gold as they climbed the narrow stairs. The name “Signorino” stood out in neat red print at the corner.

  “They’re Paolo’s. He’s painted half of the city in the nude.”

  “They’re beautiful,” Samantha mused. She had that same look in her eye Oleg had seen so many times when a woman imagined being captured that way. Oleg found himself wondering what it would be like to see her affixed to his wall.

  Maurice’s non-descript door flew open the moment Oleg pressed the buzzer.

  “Were you waiting by the door?”

  “I saw you and this little treat on camera coming up the stairs. Of course, I’m waiting by the door.” Maurice waved them both inside. “I have three new suits and five shirts for you, and that fabulous coat you ordered is also ready to be fitted. But first, please introduce me to this gorgeous young woman.”

  Maurice tapped a long scarlet fingernail at the corner of his painted mouth. The sharkskin suit jacket and trousers, cut precisely for his angular frame, glinted as his right leg crossed in front of the left.

  Oleg pulled his overcoat from his shoulders. “Only because you said please,” he said, draping it over his arm before assisting Samantha with hers.

  “I’m Samantha.”

  A look of shock passed over Maurice’s face, and Oleg knew why. “She is not mine,” Oleg explained, trying to help Maurice understand why she had answered a question she wasn’t asked directly. “In fact, she has absolutely nothing to do with the lifestyle.”

  “I—” Samantha started.

  “You said you would sit on the sofa and be quiet,” Oleg said. He gestured toward the waiting area. How could he explain what she was to Maurice, when he wasn’t even certain he understood it himself?

  “Are you sure she’s not your sub?” Maurice teased. He was the only person in the world who could take that tone with Oleg or any of the three Doms he considered family that he would soon be kicking back with in the club downstairs, for that matter.

  “Yes,” he said emphatically, and was surprised to hear Samantha harmonizing with him as she made the same emphatic pronouncement.

  Oh, how he itched to correct her. The level of discipline required to keep from commanding her to her knees rivalled the effort he normally required from others. The moment he let himself take it there, he’d want to take it all the way to the end, to the place where she became like warm clay in his hands. It would be irresponsible.

  Maurice smiled. “Why do I get the feeling that both of you are lying to me, or to yourselves, or both?” He laughed and disappeared into the adjacent room.

  Standing in front of the gigantic framed mirror hanging from two satin-sleeved industrial chains, Oleg took off his suit jacket and hung it on one of the hangers placed on the nearby coat tree. He removed his shirt next, awaiting Maurice’s return. He glimpsed Samantha’s reflection and caught her staring. “Where are your books?” he asked.

  She reached absently for her bag without taking her eyes off him. “That tattoo is amazing.”

  Oleg didn’t remember the last time he’d seen any more of the black angel wings that covered most of his back than the feather tips wrapping round the front of his hips. Unseen, but not forgotten.

  He watched her get up, her diminutive size obscured entirely by his reflection when she came closer. As he unbuckled his belt, her fingers wisped along the underside of his shoulder blade, feeling like a blessing on his skin. “It’s so detailed. This must have taken forever to ink.”

  Oleg pulled his belt out of the loops of his pants. “Did I say that you could touch me?”

  The fingers disappeared.

  “Well, sor-ry!” Sam took her seat back on the sofa for a moment, fished out a stack of books, sorted through them for one and then stacked the rest on the cushion next to her. She was up on her feet again, a single notebook in hand and marching back toward him before he’d finished unzipping his pants. This time, she put herself dead in his line of sight. “Just tell me one thing. What’s with all the goddamn mixed messages? You’re giving me whiplash.”

  It was the way she tossed her hands in the air in front of his face that caused him to grab her wrists. He placed them firmly at her side. “You’re giving me a headache,” he answered, calmly. He could have also mentioned the burgeoning erection she’d inspired when her slender fingers made contact with his skin, but he didn’t. He nodded toward the sofa. Samantha rolled her eyes at him and huffed.

  “Right, whatever then.” She didn’t take a seat, however. Oleg figured it was yet another act of defiance. Instead, Sam sauntered over to Maurice’s cutting table.

  “If he catches you touching anything, you’ll be experiencing whiplash of another kind,” Oleg said while he kicked off his shoes and removed his socks before stepping out of his pants. With care, he folded them in half and hung them neatly on the waiting hanger. Another man might have been self-conscious standing in his low-cut briefs with the evidence of the attraction he’d been trying so hard to ignore pressing forward against the cotton. But he didn’t anticipate any complaints from Samantha, and if she did have some, it was her problem. After all, she’d asked to come.

  *

  Though Sam had heard Oleg, she certainly didn’t want to heed his warning. The fabric splayed out on the table was simply breathtaking. Golden pearlescent silk charmeuse with a snakeskin pattern subtly imprinted in silver metallic? Shut up! How could she not touch it? She reached forward but sto
pped short of sampling the butter-soft material. She didn’t want to heed his warning, but she did anyway. Instead, she opened her sketch book and removed the pen she kept tucked into the spine.

  The strokes of ink seemed to fly on the paper in one continuous scribble that took shape more and more with each pass of the pen. Inspiration spilled forth in the shape of a ruched corset with a sweetheart neckline and cutaway back that would feature the elegant slope of a woman’s spine where it met with her ass. For maximum effect, she added a teardrop crystal at the crest of the cut out.

  “Mmm, yeah… Swarovski,” she murmured to herself.

  Maurice appeared again, wheeling a small clothes rack. “I took the liberty of including a pair of goatskin pants I think will look incredible on you.”

  Sam’s attention was drawn first to Maurice and then to Oleg. She accidentally dropped her pen when her fingers slackened as much as her mouth. What a fucking specimen.

  Oleg answered with a barely detectable smirk, “What have I told you about taking liberties, Maurice?”

  “Oh, come on, you should try them. Don’t you agree, Samantha?” he said and then turned in her direction, catching her trying to dab at the ink stain her felt-tip pen had left on the fabric. Maurice came running. “Merde! What is it?” he asked.

  “I’m so sorry. This fabric is just so beautiful… I only wanted to sketch the idea I had for it. I didn’t mean… So fucking clumsy… Where did you get it? I’ll buy you some more.”

  Maurice yanked the sketchbook out of her hand. “I believe you are supposed to be over there.” He pointed to the sofa.

  “I tried to tell her,” Oleg said.

  “Where did you find this one?” Maurice said, flipping through the pages of her designs.

  “She’s a stray.”

  “Hey,” Sam exclaimed.

  Oleg shrugged. “You show up on my doorstep, pouting over the milk you spilled with some bullshit excuse that Henri sent you.” He took the goat-skin pants off the rack and raised them toward Maurice, who acknowledged him with a press of his hands together and a bow of his head.