The Professional: Part 2 (The Game Maker #1.2)

The Professional: Part 2 (The Game Maker #1.2)

Kresley Cole



Chapter 18




“Hold on!” I tripped back from Sevastyan as he advanced on me through the billowing steam. He seemed bent on getting me out of my wet clothes.

Hanging out in a sensual sauna, naked, with an off-limits enforcer who happened to make my mouth water: what could possibly go wrong?

And Sevastyan had been all too prepared to take advantage of the storm. The sauna fire had been lit before we’d even arrived. He’d hinted around about planning my seduction, which made me wonder . . . “What’s gotten into you, Siberian? I know the rules—we’re not supposed to be trifling with each other.”

In a low tone, with words like a promise, he said, “I have no intention of trifling with you.”

I frowned. “But that’s why you’ve avoided me, isn’t it? Because you don’t want to risk getting saddled with me. So what is this?”

“It’s simple.” He was almost upon me. “You’re freezing when I can make you warm.”

When I skirted away, he raised his palms, as if to let me know he’d never force anything on me.

I rolled my eyes. Like he ever would have to.

“Then I’ll need to make it hotter in here.” He returned to the fire. After coaxing more warmth and steam, he sat on a nearby bench and began undressing, his manner casual.

I was rapt as he unbuttoned his shirt with those ringed fingers. I didn’t know if it was the vodka in my belly or a growing coil of excitement that was heating me more—just knew my chill had all but disappeared.

When he drew off the wet fabric, the muscles in his arms and shoulders rippled, those tattoos stark across his flexing chest.

I’d researched more about those markings of his. The two stars meant that he was a criminal aristocrat, a man who’d neared the upper echelons of the Bratva. The ones on his fingers signified that he’d been a thief and an assassin. But I also saw scars that I hadn’t noticed on the plane—one from what must be a bullet wound in his side and another slash down the back of his arm that looked like a knife wound.

More reminders of how much pain his body had taken. Yet these scars didn’t detract from his attractiveness; just the opposite.

He raised his chin proudly. The bastard knew how good his body looked.

How masculine.

How sexual.

I found my feet taking me closer to him, my hands itching to touch his damp skin. What woman would be able to resist him?

A better woman than I.

Before I knew it, I’d sat on the bench a couple of feet from him. I felt obligated to say, “I don’t want this.”

He raised his brows. Oh, really? “Take off your jacket.”

With a swallow, I did. My ivory silk blouse was transparent, my stiff nipples and coral-colored areolas visible through my white lace bra.

When he made a low sound of appreciation, I admitted, “I’m scared.”

“Of me?”

Never. I shook my head. “I’m scared of what this means. From what I understand, if we keep fooling around, you’re going to get permanently stuck with me. Like you might as well slip a ring on my finger. Especially if we have sex.”

“You let me worry about that.”

Maybe the threat of mutual saddling had been exaggerated? Like when parents tell kids: “Go outside with wet hair, and you’ll catch a cold.”

Fool around with an enforcer, and you’ll catch forever.

Sevastyan would never risk an everlasting future with me, right? And if I remained a virgin through this encounter, surely I’d be exempt from any mafiya-logic rules.

But maybe my brain was latching on to any excuse to keep this interlude going. Mist suffused the air, making everything feel dreamlike. And wasn’t it easier to be reckless in dreams?

“What do you want from me, Sevastyan?”

He reached down to seize my ankles and pulled them over his lap, making me spin on my ass to face him. “Do you trust me, milaya moya?” My sweet.

Off went one of my boots and the accompanying stocking. “For some reason, I do.” Off went the other.

Then he reached forward to unbutton my blouse with those tattooed fingers. I was still considering a retreat—until I caught his masculine scent.

Game over. I’d been drugged.

When he guided me to, I shrugged out of my clinging blouse, leaving my bra—which highlighted my breasts more than it concealed them.

His gaze dipped, and he rubbed his palm over his mouth. “You control this situation, Natalya,” he said, his voice lulling me until I was staring at his lips. “Tell me what you want.”

Before I could think better of it, I’d gone and told him the truth: “More.”

Cupping my face with both of his hands, he brushed his thumbs over my cheekbones. “Then I will pleasure you as I need to, as you need me to.”

I didn’t know what that meant, just knew it sounded necessary and critical. Like breath. “But I can’t sleep with you.”

He dropped his hands, narrowing his eyes with a blatant flare of anger. “All you can think about is preserving your way out? Then rest assured, I won’t f*ck you until you beg me. But if you’re not strong enough to resist me, then that’s on you,” he said, repeating what I’d told him on the plane.