The Professional: Part 2 (The Game Maker #1.2)(30)

No true intimacy. No progress toward sharing.

And though the sex was always pleasurable, it was growing less satisfying. He dreaded hurting me or leaving a mark, and I could sense he was just as frustrated by his self-imposed limitations as I was.

Sooner or later he’d go to another to have such deep-seated needs met, unless I could entice him to partner with me. Sevastyan had told me he’d be my last; he’d made no such assertions about himself.

I felt like I was the one with a countdown clock. Tempt him before he strayed.

Emotionally stunted, sexually frustrated. Our two hurdles seemed to be growing taller and taller. . . .

Rising from my command central, I made my way to the bed. As I stretched out across the counterpane, I wondered if he was watching me.

The idea made me shiver. Maybe I should show him what he was missing whenever he left me behind.

He’d watched me masturbate once before, but I hadn’t been able to appreciate it then. Now?

Even if he wasn’t watching, I could pretend he was. Win-win.

Excitement rushed through me as I slipped off my shoes and hose, blouse and skirt, leaving me in only my underwear—a bra and panties cut from transparent nude material.

Lying back once more, I traipsed my hands up to my breasts to give them a squeeze, pressing them together and kneading them hard—like I knew he wanted to do to them.

With a sigh, I drew off my bra, twirling it on my forefinger before slingshotting it toward the camera. Breasts bared, I used one hand to tease my nipples, pinching them as he had; my other hand descended down my torso, dipping into the silk of my see-through panties. I left them on—because Sevastyan would still be able to watch my fingers stroking.

The phone beside the bed rang.

Flashing a smirk at the camera, I answered with, “You’ve caught me at a bad time, babe, ring you back in a sec?”

He sounded like he was calling from the car. “Stop what you’re doing, you little witch,” he grated in Russian. So our driver couldn’t understand? “I’ll be home in five minutes—you will wait for me.”

“Or what?” I gave my clit a defiant stroke that made my hips roll. “You gonna make me sleep with the fishes?”

“Do not test me, pet.”

I put him on speakerphone. “You left me home all alone. What’s a girl to do?” Stroke. “Don’t you want to know what I was fantasizing about? It’s you, f*cking me senseless.” Stroke. “Oooh. Wait, you don’t do that anymore.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You told me on the plane that women look at you and know they’ll get f*cked hard. I’m not seeing it.” Burn!

I could all but hear him grinding his teeth as I continued to finger myself. “Natalie, you are not to come by your own hand.”

“Was that in a rule book or something? I missed our relationship orientation. Come on, play along, Sevastyan. Ask me if I’m wet. No? Then I’ll have to show you.” I raised my knees to my chest, then slipped my panties to my calves. When I rested my legs on the bed, I spread my bent knees, giving Sevastyan a clear view of my soaked curls, which I continued to lazily pet.

He hissed in a breath. “Cease what you’re doing now.”

“Or you’ll punish me? If a dominant like you doesn’t want to see such disobedience—you should stop watching.”

“I’ll never stop watching you. This started with me watching you.”

“That’s right. This is the second time you’ve leered at me masturbating.” Stroke.

“That’s not what I meant. Damn it, woman, you do not want me to lose control.”

“Oh, but I do!” Looked like it was time to bring my A game. Did I have the nerve to do this? What choice did I have? I was playing for keeps. “What if I did . . . this?” I went to my hands and knees before the camera, so he could see everything. I spread my knees, panties tight around my ankles.

“God almighty.”

His reaction and this bare vulnerability—this exhibition—made my mind spin and my body heat, as if my arousal had just downshifted to rocket forward. Apparently I was an exhibitionist—my blood coursed from the thrill.

No longer was this a game; I was desperate to come.

When I bucked to my fingers, he made a choked sound, then bit off some French command to the driver. Probably to go faster, because a series of angry horn honks followed. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

I was lost to pleasure, flicking, flicking. . . .

“Then put your finger inside for me,” he said in broken Russian. “Be my good girl, and f*ck yourself with it.”

With a cry, I snaked my forefinger along my clit toward my opening, curling it between my lips; his heavy breaths on the speaker filled the room, arousing me even more.

When I penetrated myself and began to pump, he rasped, “I’ll show you hard.” The call disconnected.

Only a few seconds after, I heard him downstairs, his boots pounding up the steps to this floor. And for the first time I realized . . .

I should be afraid.





Chapter 32




I drew my fingers away, turning over on the bed. I’d just raised myself up on my elbows when he reached the threshold, seeming to take up all the space in the doorway.