The Master (The Game Maker #2)(50)

“Running,” I gasped out. With my shoes still on, my shorts around one ankle, and my bra hiked up, I arched to his touch. “But knowing you watched me, the way you watched me . . .”

He kneaded my sweat-slicked tits and pinched my nipples, ruthlessly, as he had in the shower. “You get me harder than I’ve ever been. For an hour, I wet the sheet with pre-cum, my balls laden for you.”

When he tickled my clit, I moaned, beginning to grind on him. I undulated, impaled, using his shaft.

He pressed his lips to the spot where my shoulder met my neck. With an openmouthed kiss, he licked my sweat, rasping against my skin, “Mine.”

Ay, Dios mío, it is so good! The message he’d written was true. Too good. I needed my boundary!

As if he knew I wanted to resist him, he commanded, “Surrender,” as his fingers covered my clit, rubbing side to side, fast, hard.

My eyes slid closed, my mind shutting down, almost like that headspace I’d craved.

Sensation ruled me.

I was aware of his cock, his hands—and his rumbling voice. I held on to the sound of it, as if he were leading me home. I moved on him like I’d never moved, keening his name. I craned my head back to get his mouth on mine, knowing he’d share the taste of my sweat and brand my mind with memories.

When I came, I was shaken, my cry against his lips plaintive. Don’t do this to me.

In answer, his warm cum flooded me, as if to repeat, “Mine.”

For how long . . . ?

His body quaked with after-shudders, his arms locked around me. He clutched me tightly, as if I were a treasure he’d never part with.

“That merely took the edge off.” He nipped my earlobe. “I’m nowhere close to satiation.” There was a smile in his voice. Someone was having a great morning.

Setting me up for a crash. I disentangled myself from his arms, levering myself off his still hard dick.

He hissed in a breath. “That was . . . abrupt.”

Without looking at him, I stepped from my shorts, toeing off my shoes and socks. I made my way to the shower.

Denying my escape, he joined me under the cascade, dragging me close. He peered down at my face, but I gazed away.

“Ah. I think you enjoyed that too much. I know I did. Does it make you uneasy?”

“Why do you have to sleep with me?” I demanded. “You don’t even like me. You keep your things in the master bedroom. Why don’t you keep yourself there?”

“Hmm. Maybe we should both sleep in my room, the master’s bedroom. Perhaps I’ll have your treadmill and your things transferred.”

I’d wanted separation—not more closeness! “You said you’d be done with me. Why aren’t you? How long will you keep me?”

His hands dropped to my ass, palms covering my curves. “I’ve observed that you’re much more affectionate with the belt—”

“Not today!”

“Why?”

“I need to think.”

“Then I’ll have to coax your affection myself?” He leaned down and pressed his lips to mine so tenderly, kissing me and kissing me and kissing me . . . until I was docile in his hands. He soaped my body, bathing me, exploring. Every touch was its own seduction.

Why was he bothering to seduce me? I was here at his “disposal.” What was his game now?

Soon I was trembling for it again.

He lifted me. “Wrap your legs around me.” With a forearm under my ass and an arm looped around my shoulders, he worked me on his cock.

When we came, with our foreheads together as we shared breaths, I wondered, Why fight this . . . ?

Once we’d dressed, an extravagant breakfast spread awaited us on the pool deck. He’d ordered in advance, what looked like every item on the menu.

“To discover which are your favorites,” he explained.

When he smiled at me, I realized he was responding to my own grin. Dick. Why fight?

Yet then his phone rang. Sevastyan answered with a resigned exhalation. Soon his expression darkened. Must be Dmitri.

I got the impression that Máxim had lost himself for a while this morning, and now was being harshly reminded of . . . something.

He looked increasingly angry—at me, as if I was the one who’d distracted him, from whatever it was he should never forget.


I sat on the couch, reading as a breeze fluttered the curtains and teased the curls around my face. I’d noticed that Sevastyan preferred the doors and windows open whenever possible, so I’d opened the line of them facing the pool.

Since that phone call, he’d been distant, his mood clearly depressed.

All morning, he and I had passed each other, gravitating toward one another, yet saying nothing. He’d read this same business journal by the pool while I was swimming. Or he’d appeared to. In reality, he’d been very interested in my bathing suit—a white one-piece woven from thin strips of material. His fascinated gaze had followed the webbing as it moved with my body.

Now he sat on the other couch with a newspaper open, but he didn’t read it. His ocean-blue eyes were grave as he stared out at the matching water. What was he mulling over?

I could swear he struggled with a decision.

He checked his phone, texted something, then abruptly stood. He looked at me, parting his lips. Thinking better of whatever he was about to say, he turned toward the door. “Vasili will be outside.” Then he left me.