The Professional: Part 2 (The Game Maker #1.2)(28)

Loving his response, I said, “I’d be nervous, might try to twist away—”

“Then I’d whip those perfect curves until you submitted to me. Because nothing would stop me from burying my cock balls-deep between them.”

I moaned, so close to coming but never wanting this to end. “You’d start to move inside me . . . I’d go mindless . . . because it’s you, possessing me completely.”

“Your pretty screams would be muffled by that gag.”

“Oh, God, oh, God.” His sweat-slicked hips rubbed my inner thighs, the hair on his legs abrading my calves, adding to all the sensations.

I was panting, hovering on the edge when he said, “I’d pump my hot cum into you, flood you with it . . . never let you forget who you belong to—”

I exploded, arching off the bed. Grinding my breasts against him, I keened with ecstasy, clenching around him.

I was still coming when his back bowed, his chest rising above me. The muscles in his straightened arms were bowstring-taut. Tendons strained in his neck as he continued to pound those hips. The power in his body was awing, the power he held in check for me.

When he ejaculated, he yelled, “Natalya!” His thick cock pulsated as it shot his cum inside me, coating me, filling me up.

Never letting me forget who I belong to.

He collapsed atop me, his body quaking with after-shudders—while I was reset once more.

I was barely capable of moving, of thinking. So I trailed my nails up and down his damp back as he ran his lips along my neck.

I didn’t know how long we lay like this. Once I could process thought again, I reflected on what had just happened, wondering how long a need like Sevastyan’s could stay bottled-up. If he couldn’t fulfill his darkest desires with me, would he eventually go to another?

Would I?

I never would have thought I could come so hard and be so disappointed. During my first night with Sevastyan in that plane cabin, he’d told me, “You weren’t supposed to be like this.”

But I was.

I had “particular interests” as well. And I could now see how well we’d been matched. He’d once been my dream man, one who’d wanted to open my eyes.

Now he was like a mirage. . . .



Later that night, Sevastyan and I lay on our sides, facing each other in the dim light of the room.

Through the open balcony doors, we could hear nighttime Paris awakening. The resident cook had prepared a gourmet meal that we’d taken in bed—between bouts of more lovemaking.

I reached forward to trace a tattoo on his chest. “Sevastyan, why have you been so gentle with me?”

Shrug.

“I’m going to need a verbal answer from you.”

Something in my tone must have alerted him that I wasn’t playing around. He said, “Most women would want a man to cherish them, no?”

“That’s evasive.”

“Very well, then. Do you not want me to cosset you?”

“Up to a point. But not always.” I pressed my lips together. “It’s hard to explain. I want you to be like you were with me those first three times we were together. I want you to be yourself.”

“What if this is my true self?”

“I don’t believe that, especially not after tonight.”

“Couples fantasize and talk about things that never come to fruition.”

Damn, he was slippery. “Why fantasize, when we can have reality?”

His gaze bored into mine. “I will never hurt you. Now, change the subject.”

Discouragement welled—until I realized he’d just given me an entrée. “The new subject is you.”

He exhaled. “I told you that I have difficulty talking about myself.”

“Probably because you never do it. I want to know you, Sevastyan. As well as you know me. And I don’t think that’s too much to ask, considering our circumstances.”

He swallowed. This man had launched himself in front of a hail of bullets to save my life. He’d braved even more to fight off Gleb and secure our escape. Yet he dreaded opening up to me?

How to get him to understand I wouldn’t judge him, wouldn’t run screaming? “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m pretty broad-minded. I wish you could talk to me, confide in me.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re in a relationship. And each secret confided between us is another stone in our foundation. Hey, let’s just start with some soft-pitch questions. If you really don’t want to answer, you can say pass.”

He brusquely said, “Ask.”

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Used to be blue.” He reached forward to twirl a lock of my hair around his finger. “Now it’s red.”

“What do you like to read?”

Still gazing at his twirling finger, he said, “History papers. On women and gender.”

Clever. “Have you been to prison?”

“Twice. Neither time for too long. Paxán got me freed quickly enough.” A flash of anguish crossed his face.

I forced myself to continue. “Those tattoos on your knees . . . you’re a vor yourself?”

He dropped my lock of hair. “Yes.” No explanation. No unpacking.