The Professional: Part 2 (The Game Maker #1.2)(31)

I gasped at his appearance. His unsmiling lips. His clenched fists. His eyes glazed with sexual hunger.

When his straining erection jerked in his pants and a spot of pre-cum dampened the material, I couldn’t stop a moan.

He looked . . . undone. Much as he had that first time he’d watched me in the bathtub.

Like he wanted to eat me up, bit by bit.

He strode toward the bed with a predator’s gait, big hands unbuckling his belt—as menacing a gesture as I’d ever seen.

I steeled myself as he reached for me.

He snatched at my hips, flipping me over on my stomach, then shoved his pants to his thighs. Like an animal, he impaled me with one brutish thrust, mounting me.

His cock had to fight against my clamping walls because I was already coming, his rough invasion triggering my release. “Oh, my God!”

“Is this what you needed from me?” He seized my shoulders, yanking me back right as his hips shoved forward, sending his cock deeper than it’d ever been.

My cry was drowned out by his triumphant roar as he began to f*ck.

His animalistic intensity called to my own, demanding another orgasm, stoking all my heat from before and then some. A new, unknown friction began to simmer deep inside me, until I was clawing the backs of his thighs, spurring him for more, more.

This position forced all my senses into overload. The sound of our slapping skin. The sharp sway of my breasts. The way his sac swung up to smack my wet clit with each buck of his hips.

He grated, “Is this”—thrust—“hard enough”—brutal thrust—“for you?”—savage thrust.

My teeth clattered on that last one, my arms giving out. I lay facedown on the bed, ass up, helpless to do anything more than receive his merciless f*cking.

The idea of him using my limp body like this, a plaything for his lusts, hurtled me closer to the edge, my climax boiling up inside of me.

I panted his name repeatedly, half-afraid of the strength of my coming release. The pressure escalated and escalated. . . . Again I wondered, where would it end?

“This was what you wanted? A hard f*ck?” he bit out, pummeling his cock inside me. “Then show me how you like it! Come again, pet . . . come all over my stiff cock.”

He ordered; I obeyed.

My * convulsed around his girth, spasms racking my muscles. When the rapture hit and my mind registered the force of it, I emptied my lungs on a wild scream.

Screaming. Screaming. Until his roars joined mine and his heat flooded me, his hips whipping against my ass for his final draining thrusts.

Dizziness. Remembering to breathe. Happily picking up the pieces.

He collapsed over me, murmuring my name as he nuzzled my hair. His lips brushed my nape, his breaths fanning perspiration there.

Yet then he tensed, seeming to wake up. He withdrew from me with a curse, climbing off the bed.

By degrees, I managed to make it to a sitting position.

“This wasn’t what I wanted.” He yanked up his pants.

He was acting like what we’d just done was wrong—when it’d been amazing and perfect and exhilarating.

He pointed an accusing finger at me. “You push and push. You don’t know what you provoke.”

I shoved my hair out of my face. “But I want to know!”

When he said nothing, I rose to snag my robe. Time to dig in my heels. Belting the garment around me, I said, “Sevastyan, something’s got to give.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m unhappy. With our relationship, with our sex life—”

“Are you joking? I make you come till you scream. Yet you’re unsatisfied?”

“I want to explore what you showed me before. On the plane, you said I wasn’t supposed to be like this, but I am.”

He stilled. “You don’t know what you are. You’re twenty-four and have never had another lover.”

“You are the one who said I loved it, needed it. You were right! I’m a flesh-and-blood woman, a hot-blooded woman—not some porcelain doll. So why have you changed with me?”

“You’re under my protection. You’re mine,” he said simply.

“Please tell me this is not one of those Madonna-or-whore situations, where you think of me either as a pristine pedestal-topper or a slut.”

He shrugged. No denial. Oh, shit. I pinched my temples. No, no, no, he can’t think that way.

Because I knew such a belief couldn’t be fixed. Not like a broken clock. Not with my sweet, sweet love. Not with all the magic of my vagina. Not with my inevitable ocean of tears. “Look, neither of us is getting what we bargained for. Maybe we should think about taking a break from each other.”

He whirled around. His lowering expression made me back up a step. “You belong to me. There are no breaks.” He swept his arm over the dresser, sending makeup and jewelry flying.

I tensed, ready to bolt for the safe room. Until I remembered that, for all his faults, this man would never hurt me. In spite of his balled fists, I demanded, “Then help me fix this!”

He put a hand to his throat as if he couldn’t get enough air. “There is a need inside me—it’s like a beast that howls. I need to do things to you. I need to control you, command you, punish you. In order to madden you.” He stabbed his fingers into his hair. “I indulged in this before you, but never felt like I couldn’t live without it. Yet now, with you . . .”