The Player (The Game Maker #3)(40)

Though this sounded titillating, I wasn’t sold. My head fell to the side, and I sighed. I should just fake it.

Brett had gone down on me one night early in our relationship, and I’d known it wasn’t in the cards, but he’d kept trying, so I’d faked it.

And he’d still massaged his jaw and waggled it with an adorable grin that had made me feel awful. Sex shouldn’t hurt.

Dmitri Sevastyan was a mark; why should I care how he felt? “You can still back out.”

“I’ve made sure you cannot.” He’d bound me tight as hell.

I couldn’t believe I was doing this. Or, rather, that he was doing this to me.

“Unless you use your safe word,” he added. “Otherwise I won’t relent until you’ve come so many times I pity your tender *.”

“You expect multiple times?”

“The only thing I expect of you this night is your submission.” He sat beside my waist, facing my feet, stretching a possessive arm over my torso.

His fingers brushed over my mound. “Never remove this light hair of yours. It drives me wild.” He ogled me so close I could feel his breaths. “Let your legs fall wide. Show me where you’re wet.”

Face heating, I . . . did. I had to bite back a moan when my damp labia parted for him.

He bit out, “You are exquisite. I’m going to learn every inch of you.”

The idea of his eyes on me, roaming over my most secret place, made my spread * quiver.

He must have seen it because he gave a rumbling groan. “You need to do as I say, don’t you?”

Yes. My nipples were so hard, my areolas were raised. My breaths had shallowed. I felt myself getting even wetter, my folds swelling. “I’m trusting you with this.”

“Your trust humbles me, Vika.” He sat up on the bed and removed his jacket, tossing it onto my cheap office chair.

Would I finally see him naked?

He bent to remove his shoes; I heard the creak of costly leather. When he stood, I watched his every movement in fascination.

His clothes were like art to me. He was art to me.

As he shrugged out of his shirt, I was treated to the sound and scent of its starchy crispness. The long lean muscles of his arms flexed as his broad chest was revealed.

My gaze drank him in. His pecs were rigid planes of muscle, his torso defined perfection. Just following the black trail of hair leading down from his navel had me rocking my hips.

He undid his belt and unzipped with fingers that looked masculine and rugged—especially with his busted knuckles—yet they’d played me like an instrument the night before.

His slacks whispered down his muscular legs, his buckle pinging as it hit the floor. His cock bulged in his gray boxer briefs, and sexy precum wetted the material. I could make out the shape of his piercing.

He pulled off those briefs, and his dick bobbed. Oh, my God. He stood before me naked, shoulders squared, letting me look. His body was a bonanza. His shaft jutted ramrod straight, the crown taut. His balls were large and looked in need of cupping. Would he like it if I gently tugged on them?

Or even, not so gently? My fingers clenched and unclenched.

He stalked beside the bed, looming over me. As I gazed up at him, his veined length pulsed so hard it jerked.

Oh my.

My, my, mine.

Seeing him like this made me a thousand times more aware of my bonds. I couldn’t simply walk over and explore him, couldn’t heft the weight of his big dusky balls or fondle his pecs. Couldn’t follow that trail of hair below his navel—with my mouth.

I couldn’t tongue his piercing. I found myself licking my lips as I stared at it.

He caught me. “Again, you show me no mercy.” He gripped his shaft. “Is this what you want?”

“Yes. I wish you’d just let me suck you.”

He rested a knee on the side of the bed. “Perhaps afterward.”

“How long will you do this before we call it?”

“Look at my cock. I’m this hard from mere anticipation. Watch my reactions if you want to know how long I’ll do it.” He leaned down and used the pierced head to rub one of my nipples.

I gasped, arching upward.

“Do you know how difficult it was to clean my cum off you the other night? I wanted my seed slathered on your tits, wanted you to wear my mark.”

I whimpered.

He caressed my nipples, giving them light pinches. “I had to control myself. But not for much longer.” And then what would happen? “We talked last night of getting things solidified. Tonight we will.”

“What does that mean?”

He laid his faultless body beside me, one possessive hand covering a breast.

I couldn’t touch him back. Could only lie back and . . . receive.

“It means you belong to me. You are mine.”

Did he think I needed to be romanced? With lines? “Is that right? For how long?”

His gaze bored into mine.

I swallowed. “You’re not saying what I think you’re saying.”

“I am saying for always.”

To be with this mesmerizing god of a man forever? Then pesky reality caught up with me again. This guy wasn’t a player; he was insane!

And he’d tied me up. It was dangerous to lead him on, to keep seeing him. When I broke things off with this obsessed Russian, would he be as bad as the cartel kingpin?