The Professional Part 2 Page 6

  What had that meant? And why had his very accent changed? It’d sounded like a different dialect.

  Maybe a Siberian one? “Will you please talk to me, Sevastyan? I have so many questions, and I’m so sick of being confused.”

  He exhaled. “Then ask.”

  “What will happen to Paxán?” My voice broke.

  Gaze fixed on the horizon, he said, “If those defending Berezka win, they will see to . . . they will take care of him.” His voice was a rasp. “Once I feel it’s safe enough for you to return, we would have . . . the funeral.”

  I’d never looked at a man and known he was dying inside. But how could I expect anything different? Sevastyan had chosen me to live—over the man he hero-worshipped.

  He’d saved me over his own savior.

  How conflicted he must be. For myself, I felt a deep welling of grief. But it was pure.

  Sevastyan looked like he was slowly crumbling.

  I reached for his good arm. “I only knew Paxán for a couple of weeks. If I loved him this much, I can’t imagine what you must be feeling. I’m so sorry you had to choose.”

  “There was no choice,” he said, but the guilt was plain on his face. “You heard his last words.”

  I tried not to think about that. About being given. A decree sanctified by blood.

  I changed the subject. “Can you at least tell me where we’re going?”

  “I don’t know. Don’t know who we can trust. Everything is different now,” he said. “And though Travkin is dead, there will still be danger until all the players know the bounty has expired. The snake still twists even after it loses its head.”

  Travkin. Just the name made my blood boil. I wanted revenge against that nameless, faceless thug, blamed him so much more than even Filip. My cousin had merely been the deceitful, ungrateful weapon; Travkin had pulled the trigger. “You truly killed him?”

  Sevastyan nodded.

  Then even from the grave, Travkin had effected my father’s death. “How did you get to him? He must’ve had an army of guards.”

  With a menacing look, Sevastyan bit out, “I was unexpected.”

  “That’s all you’re going to tell me?” I asked in disbelief. “Did you know that Travkin had put a bounty on me too?”

  Sevastyan finally turned to me. “I found out five minutes before I walked into his customary haunt and plugged a bullet between his eyes.”

  I swallowed, trying to imagine this man striding into the lion’s den like that. For me. “You could’ve been killed.”

  Gaze back on the water, he said, “You need to rest, Natalie. You were in shock earlier. Go below.”

  “I don’t like below. I’ve never been on a boat like this.” The farther we got from Berezka, the rougher the water had become. Hearing the waves slapping against the bottom of the boat terrified me. Surely it was only a matter of time before the hull cracked like an egg. “I’ve never been out on the water when there’s no land in sight.” Strange, even though I had no visual of the shore—no lights shone in the distance—I still felt like the world was burning all around me. Being close to Sevastyan made that feeling recede.

  When we hit a larger swell, he muttered, “It’s not a boat; it’s a ship. And you’re perfectly safe on it.”

  “All the same.” I climbed up onto the spacious captain’s bench beside him, sitting thigh to thigh. Maybe I needed to be near Sevastyan because of what we’d been through together. Maybe we needed each other because we’d both left pieces of our hearts back at Berezka.

  Time passed. I lost my battle against tears. While I silently cried, Sevastyan stared out into the black.

  Boom. Boom. Boom.

  I woke in one of the cabins, tucked under the covers. I had vague recollections of repeatedly jerking awake against Sevastyan’s side, until I’d gone under for good. He’d moved me? And changed my clothes? I was dressed only in one of his undershirts.

  It was still dark outside, but I had no idea what time it might be; fall in Russia meant vanishing hours of light.

  I could tell we were stationary. Maybe Sevastyan had come down here to rest.

  To grieve.

  Boom. Boom. What was that hammering sound? I rose to investigate. As I made my way toward the source, I wondered how it would be with Sevastyan and me today. Would he expect us to abide by Paxán’s dying wishes?

  Would I abide by them? Accepting Sevastyan as mine? I remembered how I’d felt at the thought of losing him too.

  As if barbed wire had been tightening around my heart.

  Boom. Boom. I followed the sound to another cabin. When Sevastyan didn’t answer my knock, I eased the door open. I heard the shower running in the attached bathroom—the booming was coming from within.

  As a sinking suspicion took hold, I hastened into the bathroom. I sucked in a breath at the scene before me.

  Naked under the spray of water, with his eyes glazed over and his teeth bared, Sevastyan was punching the stone shower enclosure with his battered fists. The steaming cascade hit his chest as he struck, over and over, as if at an invisible enemy.

  If he’d been granite under pressure, now he was fracturing right before my eyes—just like the stone he pummeled.

  “What are you doing?” I cried. How could he keep this up? His fists bled; more blood trickled from a knot of cloth he’d tied tight around his bicep, his idea of a bandage for his bullet wound. It formed a groove between bulges of muscle. “Please stop!”

  He didn’t.

  “Stop!” I tore open the shower door and scrambled inside, grasping his uninjured arm with both hands.

  He was a killer, volatile and violent, but I felt no fear of him. Not even when he whirled around on me, black hair whipping over his cheek. He was breathtaking. Real. Raw.

  Mine, my mind whispered.

  That sense of connection to him flared like a blinding light.

  Between gritted teeth, he said, “Leave.” His eyes were bleak, his noble face filled with such pain.

  I could ease it. “I won’t leave you like this.”

  “Why? You don’t give a fuck about me. Not beyond what I can do for you.”

  Did he mean beyond pleasure? Beyond his protection? I remembered his parting words after our fight: Beyond sex, anything with me doesn’t appeal to you. “You’re so wrong, Sevastyan.”

  He just stared at me. What was he looking for? Permission? Understanding? Finally he moved, placing his palms on the wall on either side of my head, boxing me in.

  His star tattoos were at my eye level, mere inches away, beckoning me. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and press my lips to his chest.

  Kiss him and kiss him and kiss him until all his pain disappeared.

  Tentatively, I leaned forward to graze my lips over one of his tattoos. He flinched as if I’d struck him, but he didn’t stop me. I chanced a brush of my lips over his neck. He was motionless, a statue on the outside, a brutal enforcer on the inside.

  I nuzzled the rugged line of his jaw. I smoothed those locks of hair away, then kissed the chiseled cheek I revealed.

  When I slanted my lips over his, he shuddered out a breath and drew back. Blazing in his gaze was that bone-deep yearning, the one that called to mine. “What do you want from me, Natalie?”

  How to articulate it? I want to kiss you until you forget your pain for a time, want to hold you tight against me because I can’t seem to get my body close enough to yours. In other words . . . “I want you to make love to me.”

  Before, I hadn’t slept with him because of the future and consequences. I wasn’t sure I would live long enough to enjoy the former, so I couldn’t be bothered with the latter.

  At my admission, his brows drew tight; he looked like he was unraveling.

  I asked him, “What do you want from me?”

  I gasped when he fisted the collar of my dampened shirt. “I want what’s mine.” He tore the material from me with one rip, stripping me.

  I was trembling, bare.

  As
his gaze raked over my naked body, he couldn’t bite back his anguished groan.

  Sevastyan looked at me like a man plummeting toward death would look at a pair of wings. As if I were the difference between life or death for him.

  I laid my palms over his star tattoos; he cradled my face. His forehead met mine. For long moments, we stayed like that.

  When he took my mouth with his at last, I parted my lips in welcome, closing my eyes as he softly kissed me. God, I loved his taste, wanted to drink in the heat of his mouth.

  As ever, I was struck by the contradictions of this man. He was tender, yet carnal. His thoughts were a mystery, but his body told a story—of his restraint: rippling muscles, heaving chest, shaking hands.

  With a groan, he flicked his tongue harder against mine, telling me that he was about to deepen this kiss. Telling me that he was about to claim this part of me, with the rest of my body to follow.

  That he was about to conquer.

  And when I surrendered utterly, he consumed me like he’d been suffocating and I was the sweetest air.

  Chapter 28

  Sevastyan kissed me until I was dazed, boneless against his hardened body. I clung to him when he yanked my knee to his hip, clamping it there.

  His cock pressed against my belly like a pulsating brand, and I grew wet for it, readying.

  He used his free hand to grip one of my breasts, leaning down to lick its stiffened tip. I whimpered when he suckled it between his lips, still working that clever tongue, forcing more tension to coil low in my belly. He tended my other nipple in turn, tonguing, sucking, leaving both achy peaks straining for more.

  Then his hand trailed down to cup me. He slipped his middle finger inside my spread lips, making me moan, “Yes, yes . . .”

  When he felt how slick I was, a defeated sound broke from his chest and a second finger joined the first to open me.

  Then he withdrew those fingers to his mouth, his lids sliding closed as he sucked clean my cream. Another dip, another suck. As if he was drinking me one drop at a time.

  It was the worst torture to feel his strong fingers filling me, then emptiness. “Inside me, Sevastyan, please . . .”

  He delved them deeper. “This is what you need.” He pumped them into my core until I was clawing at his shoulders.

  I felt light-headed, taken over by a kind of delirium. I needed him to lose control—because I was about to. My hands traveled down his wet body, my fingertips lovingly trailing over his sigh-worthy pecs.

  On the way down, I brushed my thumb across one of his flat nipples, noting his sharp inhalation. As I sifted my nails through the crisp hair of his goody trail, his hand tightened on my pinned knee.

  Once I reached the heavy weight of his cock, he rasped, “Use it.”

  I rocked my hips up as I pulled his shaft to me. When the head made contact with my pussy, he bit out a curse, his length jerking in my hand. Panting, I ran the crown up and down between my swollen, flaring lips.

  “So slick,” he growled. “So ready for me.”

  As I petted my clit with the bulbous tip, his towering body shuddered with need. “Enough teasing. Wanted this too long.”

  He covered my hand with his own, fitting the crown against my entrance, pressing forward just a fraction.

  As soon as I knew without any doubt that I was about to lose my virginity, worries crept in. He was far larger than anything that had ever gone into my body. This is going to hurt.

  He pulled our hands away, then began easing deeper, wedging the broad head inside. My gasp was cut off by his lips, hungry and insistent as he sank his cock farther. Each inch forced me to stretch more and more; where would it end?

  Just as I felt a tendril of panic, he drew back. His smoldering eyes scanned my face, gauging my every reaction.

  Though the hot water had long since run out, I began to sweat. The stretch burned—too big, too big—so I raised myself up on my toes to buy some time.

  He shook his head slowly. “Take it.” His free hand seized my hip to hold me steady.

  I inhaled for courage. Once I’d relaxed a degree, he murmured, “My good girl,” then continued his inexorable possession of my body.

  I felt pain—no surprise, considering his size—but I could bear it. When I’d accepted as much of his shaft as possible, when he was seated deeply inside me, he went still again. Though I sensed in him a ravenous lust—the urge to thrust must be lashing him—he somehow harnessed his aggression, battling his most primal drives.

  Even as his neck corded with strain and his muscles shook.

  Even as I could feel his cock throb inside me with every beat of his heart.

  Voice a harsh grate, he said simply: “Moya.” Mine.

  At that moment I was completely his. I was joined with him, impaled by him, and there was no escape. Like I danced along the edge of a volcano about to blow—or gazed up at a rupturing dam.

  “Moya.” He drew his hips back, then eased them forward. The pain faded, and in its place came a hint of something so incredible—

  He did it again.

  My lids went heavy as wonder suffused me. Rapture. Fullness. Connection. With his next measured thrust, I breathed, “Oh, my God.”

  “You like that, pet.”

  Adore. “I never knew.” My hands relaxed their death grip on his shoulders and began sweeping caresses over his sculpted back.

  “My woman’s getting so wet.” Another roll of his hips had me sinking my nails into the rock-hard contours of his ass.

  When I began to move with him, he bit out, “You want more?”

  “Yes, God, yes!”

  He lifted me with an arm looped around my back. “Hold on to me. Legs around my waist.”

  When I locked them there, possessive hands cupped my ass, forcing me to slip back down his slicked cock. His shaft hit me at a new angle, and my eyes went wide. The pinch was fleeting; the pleasure mounted.

  “Surrender, Natalya.”

  I gave a cry, and did. Tonight I was his without reservation.

  His golden eyes held me rapt as he surged against me, into me, cock thickening even more. When my nipples raked over his muscular chest, I tightened my arms around him, unable to get close enough.

  He was inside me; I wanted to be enveloped by him.

  His wicked, tattooed body was working mine, controlling my pleasure, heightening it in every way. The marble on the undamaged wall was smooth against my back. I slid up and down against it, slid up and down his throbbing length.

  I was already racing toward my orgasm when his words ghosted over my ear: “You’re giving me such a hot, wet clutch . . . about to steal my cum from me before I’m ready.”

  He was as close as I was? Even in this position, I began to meet his thrusts, writhing on his cock, grinding my swollen clitoris against him.

  He gnashed his teeth. “Stop, milaya. Or I’ll come.”

  I was too far gone to stop; surely we both were. I squeezed my legs around his waist so I could undulate faster, harder. Water collected at the tight seal where our bodies met, my feverish movements sending it sloshing.

  He splayed his fingers over my ass, grating, “Said . . . to stop.” He dug into my curves to hold me in place, but his punishing grip just turned me on more.

  Mindless, I panted, “Oh, God, oh, God!”

  “Then moan for me, pet. Never get enough of that sound.”

  I did, until screams replaced my moans as I hurtled ever closer. “Sevastyan!”

  He bit out, “I want to feel how hard my woman comes. Wring my seed from me.”

  At that, I crashed over the edge, my inner walls clamping down on his length. He gave a yell and ceased his thrusts; I knew he could feel me milking his cock with rhythmic contractions, demanding everything from him.

  He held himself still as I clenched him over and over; spasms left me unable to do anything but repeat his name as my head lolled.

  He wrapped my hair around his fist, forcing me to look at him. Between breaths, h
e said, “Ty moya.” You are mine.

  Then he threw back his head and bellowed, beginning to ejaculate into me. I could feel his semen jetting inside, like a scalding tide. Only then did he thrust again, bucking his hips in a frenzy to pump himself dry, yelling from the force of his cum. . . .

  Afterward, he clasped me against him so tightly, it was to the point of pain. I needed it, wanted him to squeeze me even harder.

  I don’t know how long we remained like that, hearts thundering together, his hips softly rocking. Hours might have passed. When even the cold water from the tanks began sputtering, he carried me from the shower, arm clasped under my ass, his semihard cock still inside me.

  Hadn’t I once dreamed that he’d taken me soaking wet to bed? Without separating our bodies, he sat at the edge, with me in his lap. He kissed water from my neck, nursing the skin above my pulse point in that way that made me melt. He nibbled on my bottom lip, tenderly sucking on it.

  When he dipped his head down to tongue drops from my puckered nipples, I arched my back with a cry, glorying in the feel of him swelling within me.

  Yet then he lifted me off his cock, turning me, easily positioning me with my back to his chest. “Want to see you better.” He fisted his length to impale me once more.

  “S-see me?”

  He wedged his legs between mine, spreading me till my legs rested against his outer thighs.

  “Look at you.”

  I gazed up. We were in front of the dresser mirror, our damp bodies reflected—as if two more people were in the room with us.

  “Any man would kill for you.”

  My face was flushed, eyes glinting with passion. Behind me, he seemed even more massive and unyielding, while I appeared pale, small, and soft. The dusky shade of his cock was stark against the pink flesh receiving it so eagerly.

  As he hefted my breasts, I gazed at his ragged, tattooed hands against my milk-white skin, at that knot of cloth around his brawny arm. He looked like a dark god, a warrior who’d just returned from battle.