I tugged at them.

“Harder.”

I did, moaning when I felt his thumbs at my slit, opening me, so close to breaching me with them. “Inside, Sevastyan. Put your fingers inside me.”

“Have you ever used one of those vibrators to penetrate yourself?”

My face heated, a ridiculous reaction considering what we were doing. But I answered honestly, “Yes. I like to.”

He groaned, bucking faster. “Then why were you a virgin?”

Between panting breaths, I said, “Hadn’t met . . . the right guy.”

“Yet you think you have now?” He started a series of swift pumps, sawing his shaft back and forth over my wet clit.

“Sevastyan!” I could almost pretend that he was f**king me, his stiff rod pillaging my core. He’d f**k and f**k until I was forced to come around his cock. Until he’d forced me to milk that thick length . . . “Ah, God, I’m about—”

He covered my mouth with one of his hands, muffling my screams. He slipped two fingers between my lips, treating me to my own juices. “Suck,” he ordered.

My head fell back and I sucked in delight, imagining those fingers were his cock. Under his sharp thrusts, I began to orgasm. I screamed, I sucked, I never wanted it to end.

Clenching, spasming, each wave brought unbearable pleasure—and a frenzied hunger to be filled. . . .

When I was too sensitive to take any more, he pulled back and pressed my knees toward my na**d br**sts. With me rocking back against the wall, ankles on his shoulders, he yanked my panties to my thighs, baring me. Gaze locked on my swollen flesh, he fisted himself, masturbating that big cock.

Neck straining, arm muscles bulging, he grated, “Watch me come on you.” He was aiming between my legs. The idea of him ejaculating there made me melt all over again, my pu**y quivering and contracting as he watched—

“Fuck, woman, I see you!” Choking back a yell, he began to spurt heavy ropes of cum.

When scorching se**n lapped against my sensitive lips, I moaned, spreading my legs in welcome.

Between gnashed teeth, he hissed, “My greedy girl wants more?” He squeezed his cock, and another ribbon lashed my mons. Over and over, he pumped himself until his shaft was spent, pulsating but empty. . . .

Dazed, wanting to kiss him, I reached for him.

But he pushed my hands away. “Ah-ah.” He palmed me between my thighs—and began slathering his seed into my flesh.

Why? What? How could that be so sexy? As ever, I had no idea what he would do next. Though my arousal had renewed with a surge, I sat docile, allowing him to coat me.

After working my panties back into place, he used his whole palm to give the sodden crotch a good slap—which made me buck for another. With that same look of masculine satisfaction, he said, “You’ll feel me tomorrow.”

Wicked, sexy, domineering man. I couldn’t imagine another male could excite me as much as he did. I needed to wrap my arms around him, to whisper in his ear how he drove me crazy.

But he simply zipped up and turned to go, to leave me like this. “Better focus your attention on someone you can actually manipulate. Speaking of which, have fun with Filip tomorrow.”

When he reached the door, I gave my head a clearing shake. “That’s all you have to say?”

Without turning around, he said, “Do not ever tease me again. I only play games when I make the rules.”

“Rules, Siberian?” Now that I wasn’t stupid with lust, I didn’t love his domineering self. “You can make them, if only to watch me break them.”

“If you tease me again, pet, you will not enjoy the consequences.” He left me, shutting the door behind him.

Note to self: Tease Sevastyan at earliest opportunity, investigate “consequences.”

In that closet, still warmed—and wet—from his attentions, I decided two things:

Aleksandr Sevastyan had to be my first lover.

And I’d let him think he made the rules.

Chapter 16

“You’re Sevastyan, right?” I said with full-on sarcasm when I ran into him downstairs a week later. “Didn’t I see you in the closet the other day?”

Since then, I’d made zero progress with my Sevastyan-pops-cherry plan, a plan that had since been retired. Which was only to be expected since he refused to talk to me, aside from superficial greetings.

He raised a brow at my comment, falling into step beside me as I made my way to Paxán’s study.

I frowned at him. For the last seven days, we’d never been alone. He’d always been close by—yet achingly distant.

The morning after the maid’s closet, I’d awakened smiling again, looking forward just to seeing him. I’d called Jess and told her all about him, about everything. She’d focused on one detail: “Nat, you’ve still got your skin tag?” I’d assured her not for long, my friend.

There’d been a bounce in my step as I arrived for breakfast.

Only to find Sevastyan was back to his aloof self, barely acknowledging me. While my body had still been feeling the aftereffects of what we’d done, his mind had checked out.

I supposed if he’d thought what we’d done on the plane was bad, then shoving me into a closet to have his way with me must have been awful in his mind. I’d tried to get him alone, endeavored to get him to talk to me. Nothing.

Disappointment had settled over me. During this lull, my disappointment had begun to feel a lot like anger.

I’d lived without Sevastyan for seven nights. I’d conceded defeat. My infatuation had faded.

It had! “Do you need something?” I asked him in a cool voice. Now he was going to pay attention to me?

Though he was dressed like a dream—dark gray slacks and a formfitting black cashmere sweater—he looked like he hadn’t slept for days. “You and Kovalev are getting along well,” he remarked in a neutral tone.

“He’s easy to get along with.” Paxán and I had been like two peas in a pod, appreciating the same jokes, enjoying the same books and food.

Growing closer every day.

Sometimes we spoke English, sometimes Russian. In both languages, he was sly and witty, and we often laughed to tears. Being with him was almost opposite to how it’d been with my dad. Though I’d never doubted he loved me and Mom, Bill Porter had been a quiet man. He and I used to work on his tractors, passing the time in companionable silence.

It was just as comfortable with Kovalev, only different.

Every morning, we played chess in an open-sided pavilion down by the Moskva River. Sevastyan remained in the background, usually on the phone conducting business, body tense, gaze alert for danger.

The security threat—which no one would talk to me about—obviously hadn’t lessened.

Now Sevastyan told me, “You’re easy to get along with as well.”

Was he for real? “And how would you know?”

He hiked his shoulders. “I see you with him.”

Sometimes when Paxán and I would laugh at something, I’d notice Sevastyan regarding us. At first, he’d appeared surprised. Now he would gaze at us with a satisfied look on his face.

Yet at other times I’d catch him surveying me with an expression that was far from satisfied—and it intensified more each day. I felt as if he was awaiting something. From me.

Like a hunter preparing to strike.

Even Filip had commented on it. “When you’re not looking, he watches you like a stalker.”

I’d scoffed, “A stalker would actually give me the time of day if I asked for it.”

Yet something was building in Sevastyan, like a bomb clock ticking a countdown. But a countdown to what?

“Are you settling in?” he asked.

Was he going to query me about the weather next? I stayed him with a hand on his arm. “What’s up with the small talk, Siberian?” I almost got the impression that he was trying—in his taciturn, enforcer-type way—to chat me up. When he peered down at my hand, I released him.

“Do you like it here?” he asked, his voice dropping a notch. “Enough to stay?”

We’d stopped in front of a rain-slicked window. Outside, fall rains drizzled. There hadn’t been a break in the weather since I’d gotten to Berezka. Shadows from the drops coursed over Sevastyan’s face, filling me with the mad urge to kiss each one.

Inner shake. “Why do you and Paxán and Filip get to leave, but I don’t?”

He scrubbed his hand over his chin. “Because if anything happened to you . . . We simply can’t take chances. You’re so eager to leave?”

“Well, I have to admit I was getting stir-crazy whenever Paxán had to work—I’m not used to all this free time.” Or this much energy. I’d been in desperate need of an outlet when Filip had suggested laps in the Olympic-size indoor pool. Every day, we went together. “But Filip has been doing his best to keep me occupied.”

Those muscles on the sides of Sevastyan’s jaw bulged. He took a step closer. As ever, tension brewed between us. I peered up at his eyes, only to find his gaze on my lips.

“I told you to be wary of him.”

“But not why.” Once I’d shut down my manalyzing, I’d grown comfortable with Filip. Unfortunately, I felt nothing more for him than friendship.

Why couldn’t I fall for a guy like him? He said whatever was on his mind, was easygoing, and acted like I hung the moon.

The opposite of Sevastyan.

If I were with Filip, I wouldn’t have felt the just-in-case need to brush up on the finer points of BDSM, studying everything from corporal punishment to orgasm denial to dom/sub rituals.

Sevastyan had talked about obedience and discipline; was he interested in the lifestyle, the equipment, the paraphernalia?

Punishment bars and floggers, handcuffs and canes, nipple clamps and ball gags.

Recalling the way Sevastyan had slapped my ass, I’d watched online videos featuring grown women stretched over men’s laps, spanked like they were wayward creatures in need of correction.

I’d been indignant and outraged!

I’d pictured Sevastyan forcing me across his lap for a similar chastisement; he’d once threatened to do exactly that. And as soon as I’d finished masturbating, I’d been indignant and outraged all over again!

Until I’d masturbated a second time. But that had been before I’d conceded defeat.

“What are you thinking of?” he asked me, his gaze riveted to my face.

I realized my breaths had shallowed, my cheeks heating.

He put his hand on my wrist, touching me with that live-wire grip. His brows drew together, until I could almost imagine he was about to kiss me.

Despite everything, I wanted him to—

Yuri exited Paxán’s office.

I abruptly stepped back, tucking my hair behind my ears, resisting the urge to whistle. As the man passed, I tried not to notice the AK-47 strapped to his back. Even after a week here, I was still uneasy seeing machine guns everywhere. When the brigadiers took tea breaks, they would casually lay their weapons down beside their cups.

I kept telling myself, Roll with it, roll with it.

Sevastyan gave Yuri a chin jerk in greeting. Carry on. While the brigadiers revered Paxán, they seemed to uniformly fear Sevastyan. I’d overheard them talking about “the Siberian” in hushed tones.

Once Sevastyan and I were alone again, sanity resumed. I didn’t need to be kissing a man who’d ruthlessly cut me out of his life. Didn’t need to reward his shitty treatment of me.

Jess had an m.o. for dealing with badly behaving males—she called it ABC: Always Be Crazier. I was thinking my m.o. might be kill ’em with kindness.

When Sevastyan opened his mouth to speak, I gave his arm a brisk pat. “Good talk, buddy! We should do this in another week or so.” I strode off, leaving him looking confounded.

Fifteen minutes later, Paxán and I were sitting in the pavilion at a table topped with tea, delicacies, and our chessboard. A fire in the pavilion hearth crackled nearby. As usual, Sevastyan worked some distance away, fielding phone calls, his watchful eyes scanning for a threat.

The two of us sipped and snacked, wading deeper into our game. “Do you know who is a master player?” Paxán eyed our pieces. “Aleksei.”

“Is he?” I made my tone as uninterested as possible, even as my gaze flicked over to Sevastyan.

He was embroiled in a heated conversation, had begun striding outside into the drizzle. He made his way down to the nearby boathouse—which really should be called a “yacht house” considering the sixty-foot beauty housed inside.

I knew sub-nothing about boats, but I was pretty sure this one had been the villain’s yacht in Casino Royale. Paxán had promised to take me out once the weather—and danger—broke, said we could motor all the way to the Gulf of Finland.

“You should play Aleksei sometime.”

I gave a shrug. Pass. I was trying to get over my fascination with him, not fuel it.

Yet when Sevastyan’s words floated up, dimly echoing from the boathouse, I frowned. “Is he speaking . . . Italian?”

“Ah, yes,” Paxán said proudly. “He speaks four languages fluently. He’s a—what do you call it?—a self-learner?”

I nodded. The bruiser boxer, the feared enforcer, the professional hit man, was an autodidact. Fascination fueled once more. Damn it.

“If only I could interest him in the workings of clocks.” Paxán had begun teaching me, and I’d geeked out, finding it addictive. “So have you given some thought to making this your full-time home?” He’d yet to exert any pressure on me, although I could tell how much he longed for me to stay.