Chapter 2 - Unhealthy Obsession II

꧁ Marisella ꧂

Inhaling for patience, I grip the cold railing of the balcony. I’d hoped this would be a simple affair. Roll around, get paid, and bounce.

I’ve planned only one tryst to make up for Mom’s bills for the month. Then I’ll use the borrowed time to hunt for job number three.

I move to face him. My back hits his front.

Has he always been that close? My heart thumps as his size registers against me. The back of my head is flush with the flexing pecs of his chest.

The curve of my ass kisses his crotch, a pulsing bar of solid cock pressing between my cheeks.

“Looks like you’re happy with the replacement,” I purr, trying to catch my breath.

He is big. I haven’t been with any man, but I'm not exactly a virgin. I have an arsenal of silicone and plastic hidden in my closet, but the Russian’s size trumps them all.

“I trust you’ve read and understood my tastes,” he bites out.

“I have,” I lie over the rim of my glass.

Sonya had developed an allergic reaction to a new skincare brand. Knowing my predicament, I’d been her first choice as a replacement to her client.

But even she didn’t know him. She’d assured me nothing untoward was on his profile, at most a spank here and there.

I can handle a spank. My skin tingles with anticipation.

What is wrong with me?

“How much to let me do anything to you?” He drags a knuckle down my spine, pausing at the dip of my waist. Heat sizzles in its wake.

I struggle to concentrate. “A-anything?”

“Two thousand.” He offers.

He reeks of money. And I need a lot of it. But I can’t just accept anything.

“Some things aren’t on the table,” I manage.

His words tickle my ear. “Everything is on my table, woman.”

So arrogant.

I am hyper-aware of his presence, his body like a furnace against mine, amplifying every sensation.

“I won’t do anal, or excessive pain.”

“But you’re open to moderate pain, no?”

I swallow.

That wicked-looking gun flashes in my mind. Of course, a man like this would enjoy inflicting pain in every area of his life.

“Five thousand,” he growls in the silence.

My jaw slackens. That’s six thousand in one night! But if he’s willing to part with that much, he can afford more.

Throat burning, I mutter, “Ten.”

“I won’t pay ten for ‘moderate pain,’” his voice has hardened, his knuckle chasing a new, harsher trail up my back.

I take another deep sip of my wine. “Words are subjective. How do I know our definitions of moderate don’t differ?”

“Deal.”

Before I can register his response, his hand drops to my ass. He palms it with a rough grip as though he’s been on a tightrope, waiting for centuries.

A gasp escapes me. A fire that’s been simmering roars throughout my body.

He grabs the hem of my dress, snatching it upward. Cool air hits my skin.

A second hand grips me around my stomach, pressing me to him. He grinds his crotch against my naked body, fist gripping a handful of my hair. My head tilts back.

His harsh whisper sears my neck, “I haven’t even seen your face, yet I’m touching you like I have no other.”

That accent.

My eyes roll back at his desperate kneading of my flesh. He grows impossibly harder, bigger, until I’m genuinely worried for myself.

He snatches the glass out of my hands, leaving me to set it on the counter. I mourn the loss of his warmth.

Spinning around to watch him, I muffle a moan.

A thin, black shirt covers his broad back. Strong, wide shoulders taper into a slim waist just begging to be clutched by my nails.

Black tailored pants hang off that waist, covering a firm ass. Legs for days taper into shiny leather shoes.

His body? Imposing. Lethal.

Movements? Dangerous.

Any regret I’d felt about being hired for intimacy evaporates. I have no issue having this sensual, hardened man as my first and only client.

But still, I dare to imagine he is my crush—my stepbrother.

The Russian accent. The thick shoulder-length hair. The overbearing attitude and punishing grip.

My eyes slide shut, and for a terrifying second, the man behind me vanishes. In his place is Alexei.

I can almost feel the way he used to look at me, with that strange mix of protection and cold indifference.

My stomach twists again with a familiar, sickening shame.

I'm standing in a penthouse, selling myself to a stranger, and I’m using my stepbrother as a fantasy to get through it.

I’m a special kind of broken.

My lips tighten around a wince.

I shouldn’t want him… not like this. But I can’t help it.

And what are the odds I’ve ended up delivered to a Russian hunk, despite my unhealthy obsession with my estranged stepbrother?