“Oh, so the goddess enjoys herself like that, huh?” Vladimir purred teasingly.

In the dark of the night, neither of you made it to the motel as you intended. His rough fingers explored, following the edge of the daringly short plaid skirt and brushing against the ribs and thighs that shook from the cold. Your hand tangled in his damp, sweaty hair, while your other palm scratched against the coarse red brick.

He murmured softly, reminiscent of a contented cat who had eaten a lot of cream: “Mmm, lower your voice.” His smile widened as your soft sounds brought him joy. Vladimir sharply covered your mouth with his large palm, holding your tender cheeks between his fingers. Why? Because he bought you.

As if this wasn't your part-time job as a night butterfly; as if you never worked like a good lass in a bookstore and didn't study philology. Quite the surprise.

He was your damn client, not a burdock burr clinging to your body.

The loud vroom-vroom of a BMW motorcycle reverberates through the area near your workplace. You dive behind the counter, wishing you could vanish through the floor. Who could it be? It's not funny, to be honest. He started treating you like his personal dolljoy. Vladimir forked out for your services several months in advance⎯perhaps he doesn't want anyone else to have you.

Vladimir leans back on the handlebar, tapping his finger on the leather seat. He doesn't remove the shiny black helmet, but you could swear there's a cocky grin on his lips, the boldness of which his adorable dimples can't even soften. Bastard.

“Oops, I'm two minutes behind.” The man's voice drips with honeyed charm. Vladimir flips up his visor when your dainty hands reach for the motorcycle helmet. He squints, as what he says next seems completely out of the blue for him.

“You know, I missed you, sweetheart.”

Then, he grabs your hands and plonks them on his shoulders, making you stand on tiptoe. The leather jacket creaks as his arms wrap around your waist. Uncomfortable, really.