The Professional Part 2 Read online

  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.

  “Are you the head vor of Paxán’s syndicate now?”

  “Depends. I don’t have enough information to answer that yet.” He was starting to shut down again.

  “Do you have any siblings?”

  “No.”

  “Any family living?” I asked.

  “None.”

  “What were your parents like?”

  “Pass.”

  “Is there anything you’ll tell me about your past? Look, I don’t need to know things you did for your job, but I want to know about your childhood.”

  “Why is that so important to you?”

  “I’m a historian, Sevastyan—I’m going to want to know your history.” I scrambled for another question. “When did you know what your particular interests were?”

  He shrugged again. “That’s behind us.”

  I murmured, “Don’t say that. You opened my eyes to all these new things”—for some reason, he flinched at that—“and now I want more. I can’t go back, Sevastyan.”

  “Since you’ll be only with me, you’ll have to.” The walls were coming up.

  “Don’t close me out.”

  He curled his finger under my chin, all tenderness, even as he said, “How could I close you out when I never let you in?”

  As he rose to dress, I recognized a harsh truth: for Sevastyan, confiding in another would be akin to stepping off the trestle.

  Which meant I was falling in love with a man who would never be emotionally available to me.

  Corner, meet Natalie.

  Chapter 31

  Pressure.

  I’d felt it at Berezka, still did. But over the last week, it’d transformed into something different: the pressure of two people who wanted each other—but no longer fit each other.

  Because sexually, he’d changed himself; and emotionally, he remained the same.

  I sensed it building inside him, inside of me. Some precipice loomed.

  This morning, I was alone in the town house yet again. Sevastyan had gotten a text about two hours ago and rushed off to some undisclosed location. Another meeting he won’t explain.

  He had them daily, sometimes twice a day. I figured he was working long-distance on syndicate business.

  After all, a multimillion-dollar operation had recently lost its leader, and I guessed the bulk of responsibility had fallen to Sevastyan. I could handle his long hours, but his secrecy grated on me. When would he trust me?

  Maybe he was trying to shield me? Plausible deniability? If so, I knew nothing.

  I was on the outside looking in, just like I’d been at Berezka. . . .

  He’d taken me out to sightsee a couple of times, but his thoughts had been preoccupied, his piercing gaze assessing potential threats. Still Paris had been amazing, and I’d been
able to check off dream destinations in my tourist guide.

  I’d climbed the Eiffel Tower, sighed over the Arc de Triomphe, shopped for souvenirs along the Champs-Élysées.

  Though he was convinced the danger to me was in fact dwindling each day, he didn’t feel comfortable enough to let me go anywhere without him. So I was stuck here when he left to attend to whatever business he wouldn’t tell me about.

  When I’d informed Sevastyan that I needed to go shop for a new phone, he’d brought one back for me. When I’d told him that I wanted to go out and buy more clothes, he’d simply reordered much of what I’d left behind at Berezka—garments, cosmetics, shoes, hosiery, and of course lingerie.

  He’d even started buying me jewelry. “Shouldn’t I be paying for this?” I’d asked him. Shoulders gone tense, he’d replied, “You think I can’t provide for my own woman?”

  Though we had a maid, a cook, a driver/butler/guard who could procure anything from a replacement birth-control patch to Le Chunky Monkey, this lap-of-luxury mansion was a gilded cage.

  As usual, I was watching the feeds in the panic room, viewing Parisians going about their daily lives. This room was my favorite. I guessed I kind of liked spying on people. I’d imagine stories for their lives, speculating on what they might be talking about.

  Or maybe I was just going crazy.

  With a groan, I put my head in my hands. I was bound to a man who’d given me a glimpse of my true nature only to deny it. A man who wouldn’t confide in me.

  A man I still didn’t know.

  We were both dealing with our grief—separately—and seemed to be living satellite lives. If he was here, he was often on the phone with the mysterious Maksim. I’d overheard him saying enigmatic things like “Protect it with your life” and “She is with me.”

  I’d poured my heart out to Jess about how much I missed Paxán, but Sevastyan was the only one who could truly understand. I’d even told her about Filip. Her assessment: “If he was toxic in life, he’ll still be in death. I forbid you to think about him. You’re lucky to be alive.”

  Not lucky. Sevastyan had kept me alive.

  Jess had also been ecstatic that Sevastyan and I had slept together. “You lost your skin tag! Now you enter into the fun stage of your life.”

  “Fun?” Not so much right now. If Sevastyan and I were going to have a viable relationship, we needed to work at it. But whenever I wanted to talk about his past or his thoughts or, God forbid, his feelings, he clammed up.

  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, fucking 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 fucked 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 fuck 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.

  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 fuck.

  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 fucking.

  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 fuck?” 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 pussy 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.