Her Russian Brute: 50 Loving States, Idaho (68 page)

L
ESS than two hours later
, one of Bair’s personal guards held open the door to The Benton Chicago’s penthouse suite for her.

“Have a good night, Mrs. Rustanov,” he said, after she’d gone through with nothing but her purse. She never needed anything more than a toothbrush and some make-up for these trips.

“Thanks,” she muttered back.

Another city, another Benton suite, she thought with a sigh as she looked around at this one. Same floor to ceiling window offering spectacular views of the city below. Same gigantic space. Same ultra modern furniture.

Thwump! Thwump! Thwump!

Same former underground fighter beating the hell out of a punching bag.

She looked over to one of the sitting areas, to find Bair going head to head with the punching bag he’d brought with him on all these trips. He was dressed in fighting shorts and sparring gloves and a pair of Beats headphones hung around his neck. With his hair in a tight knot at the back of his head, he looked exactly the same to Thel now as he did back then. Down to the huge tiger tattoo on his back, which rippled as Bair showed the red bag what was what.

“Hi, I’m here,” she called out, starting across the dark brown hardwood floor toward him.

“Strip,” he grunted before she’d made it even halfway into the room.

Sighing, she stopped and put her purse down on top of the nearby bar. With a wistful look toward all the alcohol she wouldn’t be allowed to use to get through this horrible weekend, she stripped out of her blue joggers and flowing tank. Then she took the bra and underwear off, super thankful that unlike last weekend, she wasn’t still on her period.

After she was fully naked, she just stood there awaiting further instruction, which came about a minute or two later.

Bair stopped punching and settled into a nearby leather chair. The piece of hotel furniture was standing so close to the punching bag, it had obviously been placed there for this specific reason. Just like in the other six hotel rooms.

Bair scanned her naked form for a second. His eyes cold as black frost. “Come,” he snarled.

She started forward again. Only to stop short when he said, “You know better than this. Pets walk. Bitches crawl.”

Yes, she been demoted. She’d been told this more than once in the other Benton suites. Yet she could never just bring herself to do it. To get down on her knees and crawl to him until he commanded it.

Trying to ignore the Radiohead song chewing up her chest, she dropped to her knees and crawled to him naked. However, her quiet acquiescence wasn’t enough this time.

When she got to the space between his veed legs, his large hand scooped her chin, forcing her head up. “Next Friday you will not make me tell you what to do when you get here. You already know how this goes.”

Yes, she did, and an image of the hand working the marionette on her mother’s first edition copy of
The Godfather
flashed across her mind as she kept her eyes trained on the old scar on his stomach. It had faded over time, no longer as angry and puckered as it had been when they first met, but it was still there.

Still there…
she thought to herself as she pulled him out of shorts. All their scars were still there, both the ones they could and could not see.

The familiar smell of sweat and anger hit her nose as she took him in her mouth, and she laid her arms across his lap, working her head up and down on his dick. Taking as much as she could while expertly controlling her gag reflex. Just like he’d taught her to do in her twenties.

Not that it mattered. He swelled longer and harder in her mouth, but as soon as the first few drops of pre-cum pearled at his tip, he pulled on the back of her head and pushed her away like a whore he could no longer abide.

“Sit.”

Thel moved quickly to the sectional couch. She’d learned from past experience if she didn’t get out of the way as soon as he gave the command, she could easily get bowled over. Tonight, just like all the other Fridays they’d shared, he moved out of his chair like a big cat on speed.

He pulled his headphones on and was back to punching the bag before she was even fully in her seat. German thrash metal playing so loud, it spilled out of the Beats and floated over to her.

She held herself stiff. Waiting for the next part, which she hated most of all. Even worse than the crawling BJ.

And right on cue, a knock sounded on the penthouse door.

“Oh, hey, wow…I wasn’t expecting this,” a stunned male voice said after the guard let him in.

Thel kept her eyes averted, refusing to acknowledge the new male in the room. It would only be worse for him if she did anyway.

“Hey, bro, nice one,” she heard him say to Bair moments later. “You Russians know how to set a scene. Though you weren’t what I was expecting when my manager told me I’d be fighting some Russian business dude.”

Less than twenty minutes later, the man fell to the floor in front of her. He was actually quite big, she realized when she looked down at his bulky form, covered with tattoos and bruises from Bair’s hits. His face was all messed up now, but he’d lasted a lot longer than a few of the other fighters. The Samoan in Prague. The Hungarian in New York. And so on…all the men she’d watched Bair beat to a bloody pulp were starting to blur.

A large Russian bodyguard—one of Bair’s ubiquitous many—showed up and partially lifted the now unconscious man from the floor. The guy was probably a professional MMA fighter, looking to make a buck or two on the side. She hoped he’d gotten paid a lot, because he’d be spending a good few weeks in recovery.

Thel watched him get dragged away in an underarm grip. Unlike the visiting fighter, the bodyguard’s eyes never once touched her naked form as he pulled the unconscious guy out of the hotel room. He knew better. Everyone who worked for Bair knew better than to look at what he’d put on sadistic display.

Bair, however, also didn’t spare her so much as a glance. Just went back to punching his bag. Like beating the guy unconscious had been a mere blip on his radar.

She let herself relax a little then, settling back on the couch. After six weeks of reliving this exact same scenario all over the world, she already knew she’d be here a while. That was how these things went. Strip, suck, sit, get ignored.

This was just the beginning of what she’d started to privately term “his fucked up workout.” After a couple of hours of kicking and hitting the bag, he’d jump rope, then do like a thousand burpees, power squats, and other old school calisthenics until he finally tired himself out. He’d disappear into the bedroom, leaving her to sleep on the couch. Then tomorrow she’d be expected to eat breakfast and quietly watch him all day as he engaged in an even longer routine. One that wouldn’t end until around five in the evening.

He wouldn’t touch her. Wouldn’t so much as look at her. Or say good-bye when Dexter came to collect her on Sunday morning to take her back to New Mexico.

These weekends were beyond unpleasant for her, and the first of what would probably turn out to be many sad Stevie Wonder songs chewed on her chest when another one of the guards came in with her dinner. Had to admire the way he also studiously managed not to look at the naked black lady as he set up a tray with the first of five meals in front of her.

However, when he moved away from the tray, her eyes widened. It wasn’t yet another gourmet meal…

It was a deep dish pizza from Lou Malnati’s restaurant. The exact place Dexter had been talking about going to earlier.

But how…?

She looked up at the man who gave the order for all her meals, including this one.

Had he…?

He must have, she realized, taking in the sight of the pizza. Neither Dexter, nor any of Bair’s personal guards, would have dared give her this kind of treat without his express permission.

Thel could only shake her head at the tasty offering. See, this was how he’d messed her up so bad the first time. He had a way of figuring out exactly what she wanted, and touching her to her very soul when he gave it to her.

The opera program that had inspired her to sing again after Trevor. Sex that actually made her feel something during the numbest time of her life. And now this.

Memories assailed her then, an unexpected wave of moments that had endeared him to her: the small rectangle of German chocolate he fed her every day whenever he picked her up from school. She’d said she liked it once, and he said he liked how sweet she tasted when she pulled him down to thank him for the chocolate with a kiss.

His arms wrapping around her when she interrupted his studies. Sometimes after a hard day at school or when the sadness threatened to overtake all the defenses she’d set up against it, she’d push his computer aside and crawl into his lap like a child. And he’d hold her for a little while, no questions asked. Even if he was working on a big project.

“One more time,” he used to murmur late at night. “I need you one more time, little siren,” as he pushed into her tender sex. Slow, so as not hurt her, and looking into her eyes with sleepy affection as he moved inside her with long deliberate strokes. His version of putting them both to sleep.

Something was dripping between her legs when the memories finally let her go. So hot and wet that for a moment she wondered if she’d gotten her period. It had stayed weird and sporadic, even after she came out of cancer treatment.

But no, it wasn’t her period.

Her body, which had been covered in goosebumps in the air-conditioned room, now felt supple and hot. And she looked down in horror at the slick thing her pussy had become just thinking about the few times Bair had been nice to her…and the wet spot it had left behind on the couch.

Oh, no she didn’t!

Cringing, she jumped to her feet and looked around helplessly. Bair was still going at the punching bag like a maniac, studiously ignoring her. Thank God, but she had to clean this up. As someone who’d spent the last six years cleaning up messes, she simply wasn’t capable of leaving it to some poor housekeeper.

But she doubted a place this nice left cleaning products scattered around for guests to use. Spotting a phone on a nearby desk, she went to it and pushed the button labeled HOUSEKEEPING.

“Yes, what can we do for you, Mrs. Rustanov?”

Her stomach twisted, wondering if she’d ever be okay with being called by that title. “Um, I need an upholstery stain remover. Something like Resolve. It’s for…a stain.”

“Would you like us to send someone up? We’d be happy to take care of it.”

“No, I want to clean it myself.”

“Really, it’s not problem—”

“Um, Mr. Rustanov doesn’t wish to be disturbed,” she lied. “So if I could just have someone drop off the spray…”

“Yes, Mrs. Rustanov,” the voice answered, becoming even more deferential with the Mr. Rustanov name drop. “We’ll have some sent right up.”

“Thanks!” Thel hung up with a sigh of relief.

Only to yelp when she turned around to find Bair towering over her, nostrils flaring in an out.

She clutched at her naked chest. “You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

“What are you doing?” he demanded, eyes sharp on her face. He seemed to be making a concentrated effort not to look down at her naked body.

“Calling housekeeping,” she answered.

“I told you to stay in the chair.”

Thel could feel one of her old smirks tugging on her lips. Yes, she’d blatantly disobeyed a direct order. What was he going to do about it? Fuck her? Obviously not.

But then the smile died on her lips. There used to be a time when she would have said that out loud. Bold as a Rihanna song. And then happily received her punishment with a husky laugh.

But that was then. This was now.

Now she cast her eyes downward and mumbled, “I made a mess and I wanted to clean it up.”

“That is job for maid.”

“No,” she answered, working hard to keep her voice level. “As someone who works in the cleaning services, I don’t believe in leaving things that need to be cleaned up now to be taken care of by housekeeping later. That only makes their job harder.”

He merely grunted, eyes scanning her face hard, like he was trying to catch her in a lie. But a knock on the door interrupted his suspicious assessment.

On the other side of the door, one of the guards said something in Russian.

To which Bair replied with a few terse words, before glaring at her. “Sit,” he told her, pointing at the chair she’d abandoned.

He headed to the door, without waiting for her reply.

The next thing she heard was a woman with a strong Vietnamese accent saying, “Here’s the spray Mrs. Rustanov asked for. Would you like me to come in take care of it?”

She braced herself for Bair to accept the offer, knowing how little he cared when it came to who saw her naked.

“No, we will take care of it.”

“Certainly, sir…” the woman said deferentially, still managing to sound somewhat nonplussed by his refusal. Probably not a lot of penthouse guests who insisted on cleaning up their own messes, Thel guessed.

Bair closed the door and was soon back in front of Thel. The cleaning spray held tight in his hand like a gun. Face even more thunderous than before.

“Why are you not sitting?” he asked.

Another command disobeyed. She could tell she was pushing him to the very end of his patience.

“Because the mess is on the couch and I wanted to clean it up before I sit back down,” she answered.

To her shock, he swung away from her, stalking over to the edge of the sectional couch farthest from his punching bag. Where she’d chosen to sit.

“Grease spot,” he grunted. “I will clean it. Then you will sit.”

Her eyes widened. “No, I’ll do it,” she said quickly.

“No, I will,” he growled back.

Not up for discussion. She didn’t try to argue with him. “Okay, then…”

She started to head for the bathroom.

“Where are you going?”

“To the bathroom.”

“Why?”

She cut her eyes to the side, wondering how she ever put up with his constant micro-managing the first time. Easy, she remembered. Because she’d been broken. And things that are broken don’t protest when you pin them under your thumb.