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Even so, she obediently settled under the covers with him by her side. There’d be no sneaking down the hall to her own room tonight. She listened to his breathing slow, enjoying the feeling of being wrapped in his arms and knowing she’d sleep like that all night—naked, with their bodies touching at every point. Exhausted, her body relaxed and her eyes drifted shut. Just before she nodded off, she said, “Master?”
“Hmm?”
“I was serious, you know,” she whispered. “I am ready to have sex.”
He chuckled. “Okay, malish. Go to sleep.”
Feeling like she was under some hypnotic spell, the world faded and she slept, sounder than she had in weeks.
A rhythmic clicking woke her. She rolled over and felt the spot next to her was empty. Her eyes peeked open. A glow came from the desk across the room. It took her a full ten seconds to realize it was the computer screen, and the dark silhouette in front of it, Konstantin, twirling a pencil in his fingers with breathtaking fluidity.
“How are you doing that? Is it a trick pencil?”
“No. Just a regular one. It’s a little harder to do with a knife, but not much.” He winked, then chuckled at her skeptical expression.
“A knife?” She smirked. “Were you an assassin before you became a businessman?”
He arched a brow. “Not quite.”
“What are you doing on your computer?” she asked.
“Answering a few emails.”
“In the middle of the night?” Did the man ever rest?
“It’s not the middle of the night at home.” He smiled warmly. “Am I keeping you awake?”
She huddled further under the covers, remembering what had woken her before the clicks. “No. I just had a bad dream.” She’d been sucked under the ocean current, screaming to Konstantin for help. He’d been holding out a hand but she couldn’t reach it.
Varushka shuddered. She could almost feel her lungs sucking in seawater and the chill of being submerged.
Konstantin shut his laptop, then walked to the bed.
“I’m okay,” she told him, feeling bad she interrupted his work. “You can—”
“Shh.” He climbed into the bed. “Come here, my sweet girl.”
The bed dipped under his weight and she rolled into his arms. He kissed her hair several times and held her close. It was so tender and sweet that tears threatened to spill again.
She looked up at him. “Are you still mad at me?”
“Mad?” He frowned down at her. “I was never mad.”
“You were when I disobeyed you.”
“No.” His arms tightened around her and she fought to breathe. “I was disappointed. Not angry. I would never discipline you while I was angry.” When he released her, she sagged against him. “But it’s over now. You took your punishment well.”
His approval was starting to mean everything to her. That glowing feeling—in her chest, in her heart—left sparks shooting all over her body.
“Master?” Although she’d meant to say “Sir,” the word “Master” had slipped out again. The former conveyed respect, but it didn’t seem to fit their relationship as well as the latter did. She bit her lip, unsure how to ask for what she wanted, afraid of rejection, afraid to be humiliated.
“Yes?”
“Um.” God this was hard. “Will you . . . make love to me now?”
His brows rose but he smiled. “Why are you in such a hurry, little bird? I don’t want to be something you regret.”
“I’m not in a hurry. It’s just . . .” How did she explain it? The overwhelming desire to have him inside her, be unified, be fully joined and connected? “I . . . want to show you how I feel about you.”
