The Professional Part 1 (The Game Maker Series)

by Kresley Cole

  At that, tension shot through him as if he’d been gut-punched. “Guard your tongue, pet.” His fingers were wrapped so tightly around his glass, I thought the crystal would shatter.

  “Or you’ll do what? Throw me down in a cornfield and feel me up?”

  He clenched his jaw, as if battling for control of himself. “That shouldn’t have happened.”

  Stop arguing with him, Nat. Go—to—bed. Was I so intrigued/aroused by this guy that I’d do anything with him, even fight?

  “If you hadn’t run—”

  “Oh, don’t you dare put that back on me!”

  “A half-naked redhead was spread beneath me, rolling her hips in welcome. I don’t have ice in my veins.”

  I arched a brow. “Don’t you?”

  “Not in that area of my life,” he amended. “Even though you’re far from my type, I was affected.” He used his right forefinger to twist the thumb ring on that same hand. I’d noticed he’d done that before when he’d seemed uncomfortable. A tell? That could come in handy. “Any man would’ve been, so don’t read more into it than that.”

  “Far from your type.” How could that comment wound me? “You’re not exactly mine either, Siberian.” Probably not the best idea to taunt the assassin. I rose. “You seem determined to humiliate me and pick a fight with me. I’m not interested in either.” I turned away and marched down the aisle. “Wake me up when we get there.”

  He called after me, “The only thing I told Kovalev about your personal life is that you have no current lover to leave behind. I won’t mention how eager you were to remedy that situation tonight.”

  I stiffened, turning at the door of one of the suites. “Why were you so angry at the bar?”

  He finally drank that vodka down, which gave me chills for some reason. “I didn’t like seeing the daughter of a great man throwing herself at me, trolling for trouble.”

  “Throwing myself? Are you insane? I introduced myself and offered to buy you a drink.” My ire kept mounting. “And I really hope you’re not going to try to slut-shame me—because I will go off like a bottle rocket!” It was times like this when my virginity embarrassed me.

  He stood, then stalked up to me. With his every step closer, my breaths shallowed. What would he do? I had no idea—excitement warred with uneasiness.

  He towered over me, toe-to-toe, and I craned my head up to meet his heavy-lidded gaze. Whenever he was angry, his eyes appeared hard and glinting, like cold amber. Otherwise, they were molten gold, like now. . . .

  “Of all the men in the bar, you picked me for a reason, little girl.” His voice had gotten huskier, his accent rougher; I responded to it as if he’d touched me. “And it wasn’t to talk about classes.”

  Inner shake. “I picked you because you were a mystery. I can read men with ease, but not you. That made me curious.”

  He rested his hand on the wall above my head, surrounding me with his heat. “When a woman singles me out”—he leaned down to murmur at my ear—“it’s because she wants to get fucked. She looks at the scars and tattoos and knows she’ll get fucked hard.”

  I gasped, melting for him.

  “Is that what you wanted of me, Natalya?” His warm breaths traced over my ear, hardening my nipples even more. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, squeezing my thighs together.

  “Th-that’s not why I approached you.” That might have been why I’d approached him.

  “Little liar. You think I can’t tell when a woman wants me buried deep inside her?” He eased back to study my face. “And when you didn’t get what you wanted, you settled for a nice . . . hot . . . bath.”

  I swallowed, beginning to pant.

  Voice hoarse, he said, “Were you thinking about me when you touched yourself?”

  Between breaths, I said, “I’m not telling you that.”

  “You just did, pet.” He straightened, as if a trance had been broken between us. With a vile curse, he turned from me. “Just go to bed.”

  I watched his broad back as he strode away to pour another vodka. With a curse of my own, I slammed the cabin door behind me.

  That man was going to drive me insane before we ever reached the motherland!

  In a huff, I yanked down the cover and crawled into the sumptuous bed. Then lay there staring at the ceiling, feeling out of sorts, hating that I was forced to wear that man’s clothing.

  Hating that it turned me on.

  Why him? Why was I so strong in every other aspect of my life and so weak with him? After so many years of holding out for Mr. Right, I would have given my virginity to Sevastyan in the dirt.

  In high school, I’d never imagined I would be a twenty-four-year-old virgin, because I’d been so curious about the deed. And, damn, I’d been game.

  But the drunken boys I’d fooled around with had been ham-handed and slavering, never inspiring me to go further. Sex, it had seemed, wasn’t for me. At least, not with guys like the ones I’d known.

  The problem with growing up in a small town and going to a tiny school? There hadn’t been a big selection of males to choose from.

  When I got to college, I’d felt like I’d won the lottery—starstruck by the assortment of men. My curiosity hadn’t lessened, and I’d been sure I’d lose my virginity before homecoming.

  In preparation, I’d learned all about sex, through voracious reading, rooming with Jess, and my own breathless research. Oh, and my burgeoning interest in high-quality lady porn.

  I’d hooked up with guy after guy, but inevitably each one would do something to prevent me from sealing the deal.

  The one who’d fingered me like he was digging to China.

  The one who’d prematurely ejaculated into the condom he’d been rolling on, then been too embarrassed to ever call me again.

  The one who’d wanted me on top, dominating him, when I was pretty sure my tastes ran in the exact opposite direction. (Confirmed by my recent encounter in the cornfield?)

  Was it too much to ask for an attractive, dominant guy with sexual skill, one who wasn’t a minute-to-win-it two-pump chump?

  When I hit twenty, I’d thought, I’ve waited this long . . . I’d figured I might as well hold out until I experienced blazing, blinding lust for a man who met all my qualifications. But no man had.

  Until tonight.

  Sevastyan ticked all my boxes—yet he’d sneered that I wasn’t his type.

  Okay, was it too much to ask for a guy who met my qualifications, who liked me—and who wasn’t an asshole?

  Sighing, I gazed out one of the windows, saw the moon and the stars closer to me than they’d ever been. Because I was on a plane, heading toward a great big unknown. To my “new life.”

  Damn it, I needed to get my mind off Sevastyan and think about what tomorrow might bring. Just hours ago, I’d despaired of ever finding my biological parents. Now I was on my way to meet my father. Would he like me? Would I like him—despite his occupation?

  Maybe I should look at this trip to Russia as a mini sabbatical from my life, a short time-out from my larger game. Like Jess’s vacation. Tomorrow I could call to arrange for incompletes in my classes and get a pal to cover my teaching. The server jobs had been so grueling and shitty that I wouldn’t waste a long-distance call on either.

  Yes, everyone needed a break now and then.

  The drone of the engines began to lull me, and the worst of my frustration started to fade. I felt like I was floating on the soft mattress, between silken sheets as light as air. Though I’d thought I was too keyed-up to sleep, I soon passed out.

  And dreamed of Sevastyan.

  In a sizzling reverie, he lifted me from my bath, cradling my naked, soaking body to carry me to bed. There, he followed every drop of water with his mouth before settling between my thighs. . . .

  “Natalya,” he groaned right at my flesh—all hot breath and slicked tongue. “Natalya.” He raised his face, licked his sexy lips, and asked, “Are you dreaming of me?”

  Huh? Dr
eaming? I opened my eyes—and found the Siberian staring down at me.

  Chapter 7

  Moonlight illuminated his beautifully rugged face, making my heart lurch. “Sevastyan?” He was lying beside me, head propped on his hand, a position that belied the tension coming off him.

  He wasn’t wearing a shirt. I nearly moaned to behold his bare chest, packed with rigid slabs of muscle. His smooth skin sported wicked-looking tattoos. High on both of his pecs were large eight-pointed stars, intricately shaded. Two Russian domes adorned one brawny arm; on his other, a patterned band encircled his bicep.

  Those markings and the latent power in his body left me spellbound. “What are you doing in bed with me?” And why can’t I manage to be afraid of you?

  His breaths came quickly. He reminded me of a rubber band pulled taut, ready to snap. “I heard you moaning,” he grated. “Came in, saw you rocking your hips beneath the covers.”

  I flushed, averting my gaze—which fell on his flat stomach, on the dark line of hair trailing from his navel. I had the mad urge to nuzzle it.

  “Just when I think you’re shameless, your cheeks heat.”

  I forced myself to face him. “You’ve explained what I was doing. What the hell were you doing?”

  “Watching you and getting harder by the heartbeat.” He pressed his hips closer to my side, letting me feel his sizable erection against my thigh.

  I gasped, my body going soft when treated to the unyielding heat of his.

  No, no, this man was an asshole! I reminded myself of his ricocheting mood swings. “You can leave now.” I was proud of how resolute I sounded. “I’ll try not to disturb you again.”

  As if I hadn’t spoken, he rasped, “You make . . . you make these sounds. Your whimper, your moan. I hear them, and thought leaves my brain.”

  “You’ve been drinking.”

  “Chut’.” Slightly. “I’ve been replaying how I saw you in the bath, stroking yourself with these fingers.” He peeled my right hand from the cover—which I’d been clutching like a roller-coaster safety bar—then pressed my fingertips against his face. “I only wish you’d finished yourself in front of me.”

  I wished I had too! Then maybe I wouldn’t be overcome with lust right now, falling even further under his spell.

  His hooded eyes flicked over my face, then lower. “What were you dreaming of to make these so hard?”

  I followed his glance down. My nipples were stiff against the fabric of the shirt I wore.

  “Tell me, pet, why were you on the verge of a wet dream?”

  I couldn’t resist him before; now, on this bed, hearing his rumbling, seductive voice, I feared I was defenseless. No! Be strong, Nat. “Why do you insist on calling me pet?”

  “Maybe because you make a man want to collar and keep you.”

  “Right.” I knew he was just being a smart-ass, but the idea gave me shivers.

  “Tell me about your dream.”

  “Why should I? You’ll just give me that disgusted look and go all icy again.”

  “Icy? That’s the last thing I feel right now.”

  I swallowed when he began unfastening the buttons on the shirt, spreading the lapels just shy of baring my breasts.

  “What are you doing?” I demanded. But I wanted them bared, wanted him to see them and desire me.

  Hey, I was on vacation from my life, right? So why couldn’t this man be my fall holiday fling?

  He took the starched edge of the shirt and lightly scraped it over my left nipple. Oh, God, oh, God . . .

  “I caught just a glimpse of your nipples when you were in the bath. Do you know that my mouth watered to suck them?” He’d wanted to put his mouth on them. Picturing that scrambled my thoughts.

  Another scrape.

  “Y-you need to stop that.” I hadn’t thought the tips could get harder. They tightened almost painfully.

  “Yes, tell me to stop and to leave you alone.” Scrape. “Tell me that I frighten you, and I’m not to touch you.” Scrape.

  I choked back a moan. “You don’t frighten me. And the only reason I don’t want you to touch me is because you won’t follow through, and I’ve been sexually tortured enough tonight.”

  Including now, I’d been on the verge of orgasm three times—all because of this man.

  He gave a low, sexy laugh. “You think I’ve tortured you? Maybe I should show you what real torture is.” His tone was forbidding; so why was my pussy clenching with anticipation? “Then perhaps you would rail at me to find me in your bed.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “It’s what I would have expected from you. And if you tell me to leave you, I will.”

  “Answer me, Sevastyan. Is that what you want?”

  He didn’t say a word; scrape.

  “Ahh!” I licked my bottom lip, struggling for words. “You confuse me so much! Since you refuse to tell me anything, I’m going to tell you everything. I find you extremely attractive. When your eyes are like this, all gold and smoldering, you are pretty much irresistible to me. I think you were right; I did approach you in the bar because I wanted to have sex with you.”

  His firm lips parted. Then he shook his head hard, as if to dislodge whatever idea had just taken hold. “You wouldn’t have done so if you knew me better. I am an enforcer, a contract killer, and I pity you for piquing the lusts of a man like me.”

  In a soft voice, I said, “But you piqued mine too. So what do we do now?”

  “If you knew the thoughts in my head, you would not be so welcoming. You wouldn’t like it in my bed. I have particular interests, and I demand obedience.”

  “Obedience.” Was that my titillated tone? “Like my doing whatever you command?”

  He nodded, eyes alight at the prospect.

  Why did that sound so unbearably erotic? I’d never relished being ordered around at my jobs. But in this context—in bed with a domineering man—the idea excited me. “Why do you demand it?”

  “I don’t like surprises. If you do as I say, there will be none.”

  I nibbled my lip, giving this some thought. “What kind of interests?”

  “I need to do filthy things to your body, Natalya. And I know I never can.” His voice was almost . . . forlorn.

  Filthy? That sounded so freaking hot. “Why can’t you?”

  “You are taboo to me. No woman is more so.”

  Because I was the boss’s daughter? Was this why Sevastyan had been running hot and cold with me? “We’re in this cabin alone. No one ever has to know what goes on between us. Maybe we should try to get this out of our systems before we land.”

  He looked like he was actually considering my proposal. “Have you ever relinquished control of your body to a man?”

  Breathless, I shook my head. I’d wondered what it’d be like to be dominated; this man could relieve my curiosity. And that was the great thing about vacation flings: you could go crazy, do things you never would otherwise, and suffer zero consequences.

  Right?

  Did I have the nerve to try this? I recalled when I was twelve, the neighboring farm boy had dared me to jump off a train trestle into the creek below. Atop the tracks, I’d been terrified, shaking like a fledgling. But I’d forced myself to step off that ledge into nothing.

  Into a free fall.

  I remembered screaming with fear all the way down. Then I remembered kicking up through the water and breaking the surface, triumphant, to cast that boy a suck it grin.

  All the terror had been worth it, just for that reward. Would the same prove true tonight?

  “Could you give me absolute obedience, Natalie?”

  Gut check. Could I step off the ledge once more? My honest answer: “I won’t know until we try.” I reached for his chest, stroking over a tattoo. His muscles rippled to my touch.

  When my thumb brushed his flat nipple, he inhaled sharply. “I’ve warned you of what I’ll expect, I’ve warned you about what kind of man I am. And you still push? I’ll give you a t
aste that will send you fleeing from me. This will be out of your system—because you will fear me. . . .”

  Chapter 8

  Fear him? I swallowed audibly. Did I dare go along with this?

  “Spread your thighs,” he commanded, rising above me.

  It seemed I was still under the influence—of him; I tentatively opened my legs.

  He positioned himself between them. Clutching the shirt lapels in his fists, he snatched open the rest of the buttons, yanking the shirt from me—until my naked breasts quivered before his predator’s gaze.

  My body was completely bared and defenseless, and his behavior should have made me nervous. Instead, I had to concentrate to keep my hips from undulating.

  “If you want more, then put your hands behind your neck.”

  I blinked up at him. “What?” Make my position even more vulnerable?

  “Do it, and do not move them. Sdavaisya.” Surrender.

  “I-I don’t know.”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  I hesitated, but then curiosity and this aching horniness demanded I do as he said.

  When I laced my fingers at my nape, he said, “Good girl.” For long moments, he stared at me with such a possessive gaze, it was almost palpable. Finally his hands descended on me, gripping my waist. When his fingers almost touched, I was struck by how much larger he was than I, how much larger he was than anybody I’d ever fooled around with. Would he think me too small?

  He rubbed his rough palms up my sides, pronouncing me “ideal’niy.” It meant perfect, or, more specifically, unimprovable.

  I sighed with pleasure. “I thought you didn’t like the way I look.”

  He raised his face, all consternation. “When did I ever give you that impression, pet?”

  “Far from your type? Ring a bell?”

  “I meant that—literally. You are different from the women I’ve been with.” More to himself, he said, “Night and day.”

  I imagined him with cool, statuesque beauties from the north, felt like a runt in comparison. That feeling was short-lived—because he moved his attention to my breasts.