The Master (The Game Maker #2)(27)

He readily poured. “Like what?”

“Sex?”

“I’m going to make a blanket statement: I like ours. I’m fairly certain you do too. Tonight, you’ve repeatedly touched my back. You even scratched it earlier.”

“Perdón!” I’m sorry! “Did I hurt you? I forget myself with you.” Factory shutdown. “What if I do it again, Máxim?”

The left corner of his lips curved up. “I didn’t say I wanted you to stop. I thought it would bother me, but it doesn’t. I knew you’d forgotten yourself, and I relished every f*cking second of it.”

I exhaled. “You scared me. I thought you were going to have to put mittens on me.”

“That’s your worry?” He reached for me under the blanket, laying a casual palm over my hip, his thumb lazily stroking. “I expected the scars to bother you.”

“They don’t. I’ll grow accustomed to your back—but I will never get over your ass.”

He gave me that glorious full smile of his. I reached over and placed my hand on his face. “I love your smile.”

“Everyone says I’m charming, but I don’t smile or laugh naturally. I think to myself, Would now be a normal time for someone like me to show amusement? Then I force myself to react, as people do when a camera turns to them. But with you, it’s unconscious. I just respond.”

“Truly?” His smile in person did look different from the one I’d seen in pictures. Those never engaged his eyes. I leaned forward to kiss him, but when my lids slid shut, the world went off-kilter. I drew back. “Whoa. I think I need to cool off.” I rose, swerving on unsteady feet, then dropped into the pool.

He followed shortly after, caging me in, with my back against the infinity edge. Steam rose from the water, flickering the lights, making the ocean blue of his eyes glow. “The way your hips and ass move when you walk . . . it’s like a revelation.”

I swallowed, my hands landing on his shoulders, my legs wrapping around his waist.

He slowly rocked into me. “Why can’t I stop touching you?”

Wordlessly, we stared at each other as he took me. Something was occurring between us. More than sex. Something I’d never experienced. I wanted to come; I wanted to cry; I needed to smooth his brow and ease his own thunderstruck look. “Máxim?”

He could only nod slowly, acknowledging . . . something. Never speeding up his pace, he told me, “Say my name in your accent.”

I rubbed the side of my face against his, murmuring, “Máxim.”

“Say you need me to f*ck you like this.”

Between panting breaths, I whispered, “I need you . . . to f*ck me . . . like this, Máxim.”

“Tell me I f*ck you better than any man before.”

“Máxim, you f*ck me . . . better than any man before.” And then he proved it. Even as I buried my mouth against his neck to muffle my screams, I wondered if I could fall in love with someone in one night.





CHAPTER 12




The sun was coming up when I woke against a man’s chest.

I blinked, disoriented. What the hell—

My eyes went wide. I was in the Russian’s bed! And everything from the night before was a fog. I stifled a groan, swearing I would never drink again.

I rose up on an elbow to look at him. He slept on his back, one brawny arm around me, the other over his head. I nearly whimpered. Un hombre magnífico.

How would Máxim be with me this morning? Would he act like nothing unusual had happened? Be embarrassed that we’d been drinking and oversharing? That I’d seen his scars?

What if he looked at me the way he had our first night, waking up to sneer, “You’re still here?”

I cautiously rose, finding a robe in the bathroom, then crept out of the bedroom suite. The housecleaner in me cringed at the mess in the sitting area. We’d hit this place like a hurricane.

I scuffed to the kitchen and found orange juice. Guzzled. Then I took another full glass out by the pool.

I drank it down too, then frowned at my empty glass. I’d thought I’d be a hundred times more hungover than this. Wasn’t too much champagne supposed to mess a person up? I felt great. Maybe because we’d eaten?

Or maybe I was still drunk?

I shrugged, concerned with more pressing matters. Though my memories were foggy, my emotions were pinging clear. I was infatuated with Maksimilian Sevastyan.

No, I hadn’t wanted a relationship. But being with this sensual man in this romantic setting made me wonder what it’d be like to live with and love someone like the Russian.

Seemed my heart wasn’t bulletproof.

Yet I’d also thought I’d loved Edward. Obviously, I was not to be trusted.

I stared out over the ocean. A storm was rolling in, backlit by the rising sun. I hated storms.

Was Edward even now in the city, watching this very sunrise? I exhaled a gust of breath, memories of that last night with him overrunning my thoughts.

Gun in hand and rosary around my neck, I’d reached for our bedroom door, prepared to brazen my way into some answers—I had to know what was in the case. When I entered, my husband was screwing Julia, more impassioned than he’d ever been with me. . . .

“So I’ll be dead by the holidays, cabrón?”