The Professional (The Game Maker #1)(83)
Author: Kresley Cole

I could do nothing but cry his name against my gag—accepting the fact that I had leather strapped around my neck, that my arms were immobile, that I’d been wired to a device meant to drive me out of my mind.

That the man I loved had completely dominated me, and I was melting for him.

He drew his hips back, then rolled them forward, sending his c**k even deeper. After another measured stroke, he f**ked harder, grunting with pleasure. His sweating body slapped the oiled curves of my ass—more punishment against flesh that had already been whipped into submission. Conquered.

But I reveled in the sound of our skin colliding, knowing he was about to make me come. And then he would follow. He’d told me he would fill me up with cum. . . .

Yet then he stilled. “Up on your knees.” He lifted me so I was kneeling with my back to his torso. He wrapped an arm across my chest, seizing my left breast in a possessive grip, trapping my bound arms between us.

His free hand trailed down my belly. With the heel of his palm, he cupped the humming vibrator tighter against my clit, then he stretched two fingers farther between my legs. He plunged them inside my hungry pu**y right as he bucked behind me—and it was . . .

Cataclysmic.

He wrenched an orgasm from my core, screams from my lungs. As the pleasure rolled on and on, fierce contractions overtook my lower body.

“I feel you!” With a savage bellow, he joined me, beginning to ejaculate. His fingertips dug into my curves, his hips jerking with each palpable shot of hot cum—one after another as he grated, “Never forget . . . who you belong to!”

Long after he’d emptied himself inside me, he kept thrusting, as if he didn’t want to relinquish his new prize.

Finally, he collapsed over me. In a hoarse rasp, he told me in Russian, “There is nothing left of me. . . .”

Chapter 43

Sevastyan freed me.

He hadn’t nuzzled my neck as he used to, hadn’t shown me his usual affection. He’d merely pulled out of me, leaving me limp on the bed, then started on buckles and straps.

Once he’d removed everything, my arms and jaw were sore. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do or say.

Without a word, he scooped me up and into the bathroom, turning on the shower. In the tangle of my mind, one thought stood out. Nothing has changed.

I was still stuck in this hopeless relationship, devoid of trust and sharing. Except that now, he seemed even more distanced.

There is nothing left of me. What had he meant by that? Did he mean that he’d come his brains out and was empty?

Or that this was all I’d ever get from him? Beyond sex, there was nothing?

I plumbed my emotions and recognized that I was feeling . . . despair.

He carried me into the shower, easing me to my feet to stand with him under the spray of hot water. He poured bath oil into his palms, washing me with his bare hands. “Let me tend to you,” he murmured as he laved my body with such familiarity, as if we’d been together for years.

As a husband would a wife. Like two people who trusted each other.

His detachment dwindled—he couldn’t seem to hold on to it—and soon soothing Russian endearments spilled from his lips. With zero hesitation, he saw to every inch of my body, inside and out, even my bottom.

I would be sore tomorrow, but he hadn’t hurt me. At least, not physically. My eyes pricked with tears.

Once he’d finished with me, he turned to soaping his own body, giving himself a cursory rubdown.

Tears kept forming. I didn’t cry often; God knew I was an ugly crier. I squeezed my eyes shut, resenting every drop that escaped, cursing the tremble in my bottom lip.

“Natalie?” His tone aghast, he demanded, “What is this?” He grasped my cheeks, lifting my face. “Why are you crying?”

I opened my eyes but said nothing. Let him see how it feels.

“I’ve . . . hurt you?” He looked furious with himself, releasing me to ball his fists. “It was too much.”

Tears continued to spill.

“Ah, God, milaya.” He dragged me against his chest, coiling his arm around my nape. Locking me against him, he launched his other fist against the marble. Again and again.

Trapped like this, I could do nothing but wait. Nothing but feel . . .

His muscles moving against me. His chest shuddering with breaths.

I sensed his need to punish, to deliver pain. And for the first time, I realized that the invisible enemy he wanted to strike . . . was himself.

I whispered, “Stop, Sevastyan.”

To my amazement, he did. “I would rather die than hurt you like this.”

I believed him. “I’m not h-hurt.” Tears continued to spill, belying my words. “You didn’t hurt my body.”

“Then I scared you. I’ve made you cry. Tell me how to fix this, and I’ll do it. Anything except letting you go. That I can never do.”

“No, you won’t fix this. You had chances to, but nothing has changed.” I pushed away from him. “Just leave me alone.”

Of course he wouldn’t. He took my wrist, drawing me out of the shower. Reaching for a towel, he began drying off my shoulders and arms, my belly. He knelt, rubbing my legs as if I was the most precious thing in the world. With a kiss against my hip, he said, “It’s been decades since I’ve felt shame like this.”

Shame is more painful than blows. That only made me cry harder.

He rested his forehead against my belly. “You are gutting me, love. You want to leave—you have reason to—but I can’t let you go any more than I can quit breathing.”

Now what was I going to do? Nothing has changed.

I twisted from him, then grabbed my robe, donning it on my way out of the bathroom. I was heading for my closet when he took my hands and gently urged me toward the bed. As he drew back the cover for me, my shoulders slumped with exhaustion.

Maybe I should take a breather for a minute or two. I didn’t remember eating today, and all the emotions I’d experienced over the last several hours had drained me.

What he’d done to me had drained me.

Yet when I acquiesced and climbed into the bed, I felt like a failure, crying even harder.

He drew his pants back on—to be less threatening to me?—then paced at the foot of the bed. “I don’t know what to do with this.” Back and forth, he paced. “I have no idea what to do, Natalie. I need you to help me figure this out.”

He moved to sit next to me, but my watery glare stopped him. He backed up to sit on the end of the bed. “Talk to me.”