My Russian Master (Service & Submission Book 3)(5)

By: Megan Michaels



He wrapped his arms around her soft body, her head buried in his chest. She was still sweaty from the energy expended during her orgasms and whipping, and he brushed her hair back, gliding his fingers through the silky strands, brushing her forehead with light kisses. He hummed a little, gently rocking her, slipping small pieces of chocolate into her mouth and following it with water. Her eyelids would flutter, her eyes regarding him briefly, then closing again, her soft hum resembling the low purr of a cat.

Contented.

He loved seeing her in this state, totally at peace, without a care or concern.

He felt similarly after one of these sessions. The steady rhythm of the whip or belt with the resounding crack accompanied by the mewls and whines of a sub brought him back in touch with himself, his primal need as a man. It reinforced his need to subjugate and subdue, with the power only he could control — and slowly release. The need to control was strong in him, and yet he loved nothing more than to care for and comfort a woman afterward.

Keeping a tight rein on his restaurant and the students under him satisfied this need too, yet the desire to wield a whip or strap pulled at him daily. He loved knowing that by sheer willpower and control, the whip could be harsh or sensual. He delighted in watching a woman dance and shout in pain — and in contrasting ecstasy — all by his control of the implement.

Viktoria’s eyes weren’t glazed over anymore, and she smiled at him when he met her gaze. “You came nice, no?”

“Yes, Maxim.” Her cheeks blushed. “It was good and loud, right?”

Maxim laughed, “Yes, it was loud. Neighbors will be looking to see if the cat is okay.”

She slapped his chest with her small hand. “Not funny. You make me come so hard. It is ridiculous how I sound on American video.”

“Americans love the videos, and you screaming when you come makes it hot. People like to watch Viktoria come loudly. You and your beautiful ass.” He squeezed those gorgeous globes, and then swatted one of them, hard.

She scooched her hips forward, trying to avoid another swat. Like that would work.

“Don’t remind me, Maxim. It scares me to think I may have sex, shouting with orgasm in American hotel, and people recognize me, no?” She shook her head, nuzzling it against the center of his chest.

He ruffled her hair, fisting the silky strands in his hands, pulling her head back until she was forced to make eye contact. “What do you care about people you never meet? Eh? No worries. Come. Time for you to go. I have to read email and then go to restaurant.”

She kissed him on the cheek, climbing off the bed and grabbing her purse. She made it partway out of the door when he shouted after her, “Next week. Thursday, ten thirty. We do this again.”

“Yes, Maxim. I will see you then.” She waved and shut the door.

He started the computer and opened his email, scrolling through the familiar names and deleting the spam. One item caught his attention, an email with the subject line:



Wanted: Fitness Chef for CEO. Pays Well.



He opened the email and quickly read. He no longer had any difficulty with English.



Full time. Lives in Manhattan. Requires Green Card or American citizenship. Chef and fitness trainer to Caroline Turner. CEO of Turner Marketing. Pay will be—



He blinked, reading it again. That couldn’t be? Was that right?

So far, everything looked fine. He had his green card, and although he lived in Moscow and was trained to be both a chef and fitness trainer in that city, he had lived in the States for a while. None of this was an issue. And the pay. Well, the pay would be fabulous. He didn’t want to lose his chance at this job. He found his phone and dialed the number immediately.

“Turner Marketing. Sammi speaking. Can I help you?”

“Yes. Hello. My name is Maxim Volkov. You sent an email to me for fitness chef, yes?” He knew he had spoken slowly, but it was the only way to be sure that he used the appropriate English. Most people didn’t have trouble understanding him, but he wanted to be sure. Accents were hard to decipher over the telephone.

“Oh, hi Maxim. Yes, we’re interested in a fitness chef for Ms. Turner. Caroline would like someone on a live-in basis at her home. You’d have your own living area — kind of a wing, actually — living room, kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom. I included the pay, right?”

She spoke very fast and seemed almost overly friendly.

He took a deep breath, hoping he remembered everything she had said. “Yes, you told me about the pay. That would be acceptable.”

Acceptable? It’s more than you could hope to make in five years!

“You didn’t say anything about living there,” he said. “But if I have my own area, that should be fine.”

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