The Master (The Game Maker #2)(7)

He clutched the couch, his long fingers gone white-knuckled. “Is this what you think I need?” His voice alone could make me come. The husky timbre had only deepened. “To be ridden?”

“I think you need passion.” I certainly did.

“Maybe if it wasn’t feigned.”

I nearly laughed. “Oh, I’m not feigning anything.” How to tell him I would climax soon?

“Wait.” He seized my shimmying hips, holding me still. “Up.”

Confused, I put my hands on his shoulders and rose up on my knees. Was he kicking me off again? Then I followed his narrow-eyed gaze.

His slacks, which probably cost thousands, now had a damp spot over his groin. I’d wetted him through my panties.

I should have been worried about his reaction, but I was too far gone to care. I dropped as low as his hands would allow, wanting my * back atop his hot hardness.

He grated, “Blyad′!” Whatever that meant. “You’re truly wet for me. Very wet. You’ve been using me to get off?”

“Por Dios, why are you talking so much?” I said between breaths. “Want to come, Ruso.”

He blinked at me. The cool, detached Russian looked stunned. “Then by all means.” He released his grip. “Continue.”

“Gracias.” I sighed with relief, letting my nipples skim his chest on my way down. If he’d allowed that . . . I threaded my fingers through his hair and leaned in to kiss his neck. When I gave a little suck over his pulse point, his head tipped back.

I lost the ridge of his zipper, so I writhed atop him, hunting for it. Had his hips finally moved? Did he want that contact too?

I found the perfect spot. “Ay, perfección.”

When I set back in, he faced me, his blue gaze flicking from my eyes, to my lips, down to my tits and thong and back.

As I pleasured myself, his own lips caught my attention. They were as attractive as everything else about him. The fuller bottom one had a sexy dip in the middle. What would it be like to kiss him?

Ivanna said it bonded people too much, and that you had to save something special for a lover in your life. I had no lover, and no fear of bonding. Right now, hovering on the edge of orgasm, I had no fears at all! I gazed at his lips, licking my own.

“You think I need to be kissed?” His words were hoarse.

“Doesn’t everyone—”

He bucked his hips hard, rocking his unyielding cock against my panties.

At last! “Oh! Fricción . . . Do it again, por favor.”

He did it again. And again. Soon he was groaning with each thrust, but the sound was pained, as if he were getting punched in the stomach at the end of each one—or cutting himself off.

I’d think about all this—later. “Don’t stop!”

As he shoved against my *, I muttered incomprehensible things, switching from one language back to the other, struggling to communicate that I was on the verge. “Oh, my God. Ay, Dios mío.”

“You’re about to come?” he asked in a strained voice.

“About to combust!” I clasped his face with both hands.

Our gazes locked. His was still defiant and angry, his chin jutting stubbornly—even as he met my undulations.

“No, no, cari?o.” Rubbing my thumb over his bottom lip, I whispered, “No te pongas bravo conmigo. Don’t be angry with me. We’ll both feel good soon.” I leaned down and covered his mouth with my own. His lips were firm and hot. I licked the seam of them, whimpering. My movements quickened until I was bucking over the Russian’s cock.

He parted his lips; the tip of my tongue found his, the spark that set off—

Pleasure. Exploding. Electrifying me.

Currents sizzled through my veins to make way for . . . fire.

“Mmmm!” I cried out into his mouth. Bliss engulfed me, forcing my hips to gyrate on him. Lost, I rubbed my tits against his chest. I moaned, riding him like a toy as my * contracted over and over.

Only as sanity returned and the spasms faded did I realize he wasn’t returning the kiss. I drew back.

He’d gone completely still. That strain within him only grew. “You kissed me. You came. That was not supposed to happen.”

“It was the heat of the moment. No te pongas—”

He wrapped my hair around his fist, forcing me closer till our lips met.

When I gasped, he set in with a fervor. He kissed as if he hadn’t taken a woman’s lips in years, as if he’d only been storing up need. I panted; he heaved breaths. His hands dropped to clench my half-bare ass.

A growl sounded from his chest. An actual growl. The idea of inspiring that kind of lust turned me on so much, my arousal returned multiplied. I held his face between my hands and sucked on his tongue. He groaned, his fingers digging into my curves as I started grinding on him again.

I broke away for a breath. “What are you doing to me?”

“I could ask you the same,” he bit out in a baffled tone. “I detest surprises. I don’t tolerate them. And yet . . .” His brows drew together. He looked . . . not calculating, but something akin to that—as if he were working out the angles of a problem. “Still here,” he muttered to himself. He yanked me close, burying his face against my breasts, lips seeking.

I arched to his mouth.

“The moment I saw these pouty nipples, I feared I couldn’t let you go until I’d sucked them.”