Chapter 4 - Commodity

꧁ Marisella ꧂

Alexei stumbles away and out of my line of sight. His panicked breathing reaches me from the living area, footsteps heavy as he paces.

I remain on my knees in bed, mouth gagged, cheek pressed under the weight of my heavy head.

Alexei’s cock had been in me. Alexei…

I shudder at the memory.

The stretch. The weight. His warm sac pressing against my lips. I hadn’t even gotten one thrust—just a sink ’n’ go.

I need him back. No! I can’t. This is horrible.

“Mmmhph…!”

Damned gag.

The air conditioner’s hum lulls me for a second before I begin to hyperventilate. I need to move. Can’t.

Shivers rack my body as I tug on my wrists, but they’re cuffed fast to my knees. My torso can’t straighten, and in the dwindling arousal, the position is uncomfortable, my back sore.

When I turn my head to the other side, my neck cricks.

“Mmhmhp!”

Thunderous footsteps return.

My heart stutters as he wrenches the cuffs off me. The metal bar flies off, striking the wall. My wrists pop free, my knees instinctively drawing together.

Sitting on my heels, I reach for the straps behind my head, working the ball gag out. My jaw aches like a bitch.

Massaging the side of my neck with a trembling hand, I keep my gaze locked on the headboard.

He heaves ragged breaths behind me, sounding like an enraged bull.

I can’t face him.

“Face me, Marisella!” he snaps.

Shaking, I turn.

My breath leaves me.

I hadn’t imagined it.

Alexei Volkov. In the flesh.

Eight years ago, my mother took him in, despite the fact my father had hidden a whole other family in Russia. We’d found out at his funeral.

A year later, after living with us and recovering from acute leukemia, he’d left with a promise to ‘take care of us’.

The care had arrived in the form of ten-thousand-dollar checks monthly, a year after he’d left.

No phone calls. No postcards. No sign of him.

He stabs shaking fingers through his hair with a tortured expression. His other hand is clenched tightly beside his thrumming body.

You’d think he’s staring at a burning pile of his life’s worth rather than the naked body of his stepsister.

Oh… right…

He looks unchanged and different all at once. He’s kept his midnight-black hair the exact same length, barely brushing his shoulders.

But his eyes are darker, deeper, and more intense. They rove over me, licking my skin with searing heat.

Then he hisses and looks away, striking the wall with an open palm.

My traitorous body heats at his obvious distress. My core stubbornly weeps for his erection that has hardly waned.

I lick my lips, hating myself.

“Explain. Yourself,” he croaks, muscles bunching in his neck.

Despite the awkward situation, I admire his body leisurely. Well built and oh-so-tall. Veins snake over his arms, his T-shirt fighting to cover his massive chest. His lean sides and waist, sculpted like—

“STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT.”

I flinch. Then sneer, “Don’t yell at me.”

Shame finally rears its head. I grab at the sheets, snatching fabric to cover my body.

The toys tumble to the floor at the disturbance. As they roll toward his feet, he lets out another enraged yell and punches the wall.

Then he whirls back on me. “You’re a fucking escort now?” he seethes.

My heart trips.

“What happened to college? Your allowances? Does Mom even know?”

I glare. “You assume escorts don’t have degrees?”

He stalks closer. “Don’t fuck with me, Mari…”

“And sell that bullshit to someone else. You’re not better than an escort you patronized!”

All the yelling is getting me hot and bothered. My chest heaves, his eyes blaze. Yet his pants remain tented in the front.

He groans at my stare, palming the front of his crotch.

Striding out of the room, he snaps over his shoulder,

“Get dressed. I’m taking you home.”

The living area doors slam so hard the bed vibrates.

I release a choked breath, deflating instantly.

What had he been doing in Miami? Has he lived here all along? Hours from us? From home?

He’d never once called. We didn’t have a number. At first, I’d raved, swearing I’d never call him for help.

But as the bills piled up and life got harder, I’d found myself pining for him, wishing there was a way to contact him. There’d been nothing about him on the internet. Zero.

Sliding off the bed, I pull on my dress and shoes, then enter the living area.

It’s clean, with no evidence of occupation other than the half-empty bottles of wine and flutes.

I grab a bottle, tipping back until the liquid burns a path down my stomach. Gasping at the heat, I slam the bottle down and gaze out at the pool.

The first day I’d seen him, I’d experienced envy so hot my eyes had watered. He was the most beautiful boy I’d ever seen.

Shiny hair. Plump, rosy lips. Alabaster skin over an angelic face.

Then my mother had all but offered to take care of him. His mother and our father had perished in a plane crash on their way to Hawaii.

Apparently, Bogdan Volkov had been a wealthy man. He’d just preferred to spend his wealth with family number two.

Scratch that—number one. Alexei is older by six years.

They’d come first.