Page 4 of The Wrong Monster

“Good girl,” I murmur.

Her lips part showing me those words affected her. My eyebrow lifts as I close the space between us, moving my hands lightly over her waist, her rib cage, back behind her shoulders. Loosely I wrap a hand around her throat before letting it drop and moving to my knees.

The same sequence in the other direction.

Ghosting touch over her thighs, her tight calves, her delicate ankles.

“Turn around.”

It comes out low and demanding, and I can’t help it. She’s been in the room for less than five minutes and already I’m hard for her, on my knees. Wanting to throw one of those curvy legs over my shoulder and breathe in the scent of her pussy through the skin-tight spandex.

The woman scoffs again, but obeys.

Good.

With the thought comes a smirk…if I said it out loud again, would I see her legs tremble for a moment?

I grip her calves, moving my hands slowly up her legs. Stop just below her ass, cupping each cheek and loving the way the fabric leaves little to the imagination.

This must be the girl I asked for from Harold, who runs the chalet up on Blue Mountain Lake. He runs a joint enterprise and has a whole cleaning crew of mostly green card holders. Those women moonlight as companions to wealthy men like me who have no time for relationships.

Why else would she have walked into this room looking the way she does?

Standing, I take hold of her waist and shift her forward, back toward the door. There’s a moment of resistance where I marvel at the fact that my hands almost wrap around her before she takes a stumbling step forward, letting me brace her against the door.

Neither of us believes that I’m patting her down anymore.

My hips sway forward, my hard-on grazing her ass. I see the muscles there twitch as her shoulders rise and fall with a heavy breath.

“Isn’t this a bit unprofessional?” she snaps, turning so that I can see her profile. That little Zvezda on her cheek like a beacon, like a compass, pulling me toward her.

A dark chuckle slips out of me.

Is this unprofessional for a Pakhan? Yes. But a man like me is dangerous if he doesn’t lose himself in lust and a woman’s touch now and then.

“What’s your name?” I ask, ignoring her question.

She turns in my arms and I brace both palms on the door, blocking her in. Still, she doesn’t seem intimidated.

“You should know who I am. What’s your name?”

Interesting.

She’s ballsy, this one. I’m a little annoyed that she’s right because Harold likely did tell me her name, but I didn’t bother remembering. I’ve never asked any of the dozen women I meet each year what their names are. It doesn’t matter; in a few hours, or in the dark of the night, they’ll be gone.

“You should know who I am,” I parrot back.

Only the tone of voice I use finally quells that overconfidence in her. Her dark brows knit as she stares up at me, and it’s hard not to focus on her lips.

There’s nothing particularly special about them. She isn’t wearing lipstick or gloss; they aren’t voluptuous or shapely. They’re normal, pink and slightly chapped, and before I can stop myself I lean forward and lave them with my tongue.

She gasps, head jerking back so hard it almost hits the door.

“Careful, Zvezda,” I murmur, my palm cupping the nape of her neck. “Can’t have you braining yourself before we’ve even started having fun.”

So fast it makes me blink in surprise. She ducks under my arm and strides further into the room.

A mistake, if this was anything but a tryst. Does she know who I am? Because she’s moving away from the exit, and she’s in a room with a monster.