The Player (The Game Maker #3)(54)

“We can figure something out, Dmitri! Just talk to me. Please.”

He drew back from me, then strode toward the bedroom door. Over his shoulder, he murmured, “I am . . . sorry.”





CHAPTER 23

Dazed, I shrugged into a robe, the terry cloth skimming my sensitive nipples. Dmitri had left me in a state, despite my bewilderment.

I curled up in the bed. What should my next move be? My first impulse was to call my sister, but this situation felt too private—as if I’d be betraying Dmitri to reveal this secret.

Wasn’t I betraying him enough already?

Angry Russian words began booming from another room. I really hoped he had made a call and was talking to someone other than himself. Based on the pauses in his tirade, I assumed so.

What had happened to him? What was the source of his damage? I’d never known anyone who’d attempted suicide. Had he?

I gazed down at my ring, and tears welled. There’d been hope in Dmitri’s eyes today, somehow connected to having sex with me. He’d worked and planned, but it hadn’t been enough.

Dmitri’s hopes had been dashed. That wrecked me.

Lightning bolts forked over the Pacific. I got under the duvet and waited for rain. Sure enough, it started to fall. Then pour.

Time ticked by. . . .

I glanced at the nightstand clock. Only nine? The storm still raged outside. Dmitri still raged on the phone.

I reviewed what I knew. Physically, he’d been ready, but not mentally. He’d known difficulties might loom, so this must have happened before. His mind drifted when he felt pleasure.

Benji had once told Karin and me he used to dissociate during sex. I’d looked it up and read cases about sexual abuse survivors who would go into a fugue state of detachment during a sexual encounter, having little to no memory of it.

Benji’s abuse had been on the streets. Once an orphan in India, he’d fallen into the clutches of a ruthless adoption racket. Shortly after he’d arrived in Nevada, the company had shut down, its victims cast to the winds. He’d been defenseless.

When we’d first taken him in, I’d overheard my mom and dad talking about me.

“I’ve never seen Vice so protective of anyone,” Mom had said.

Dad had grated, “Because no one’s ever needed her—or our—protection more.”

But I hadn’t been able to do anything to help my new brother.

Could I help Dmitri?

When he said his mind drifted, did he mean dissociated? Had he been abused?

His parents had died when he was young. Maybe he and his brothers had been shipped off to somewhere dangerous in the remote north of Russia. Who the hell knew what could have happened twenty-five years ago?

This would explain his driving need to be in control. And Dmitri had said his trust had been burned “early along the line.”

I glanced in his direction. My father was right. Marriage cons could feel real, and right now I wanted to murder anyone who harmed my “husband.”

When Dmitri fell silent, I sat up. Would he come back to me or should I go find him?

He returned not long after, much calmer, but he still simmered with . . . something. His hair had dried into tousles—far from his perfect look—but I found him even more compelling this way. He was certainly a mortal tonight.

What should I say? I settled on: “Hi.”

He nodded. In a halting tone, he said, “You must be confused about my behavior. You must be anxious.” He sounded as if he quoted someone. Had Maksim told him that? Whoever he’d called was reasonable at least.

I brought my knees to my chest. “I am.”

“I didn’t mean to frighten you. We’re going to start over now.” He drew the duvet away from me. “Take off your robe.”

Huh? He wanted to have sex without any explanation? I was about to tell him we needed to talk, but then he unzipped his jeans and pulled them off. A breath escaped me.

Dmitri clearly needed to do something other than talk.

He sat on the edge of the bed and reached for me, stroking the backs of his fingers over my jawline. “When I’m inside you, I want you to look at me.”

I met his fierce gaze. As if I can take my eyes away.

He joined me in the bed and drew the cover over us. As he guided me down with him, his hands shook.

There we lay, our heads on the same pillow. He moved even closer, and the head of his dick skimmed my belly.

I shivered to feel moisture daub my skin. I was allowing him to begin seducing me. I wanted him to seduce me. My mind might be in turmoil, but my body wanted his.

He brought our foreheads together. “I would risk anything to have you.” He cupped my face and leaned in, his lips brushing mine. His thumbs rubbed over my cheeks, as if he couldn’t caress me enough, couldn’t feel me enough.

I threaded my fingers through his thick hair. When he dipped his tongue to mine, the contact was as charged as the lightning outside.

He stroked my tongue with his, until we were twining them. Deeply. Sharing breaths.

Oh, dear God, that kiss. I’d known he needed me; he translated that need. He’d given me lifeline looks. Now he was giving me a lifeline kiss.

And it turned—me—inside—out.

I wanted to take him in my arms and give and give and give.

One of his hands descended to cup between my legs. He found me aching for him and groaned against my lips.