I slipped my finger along the folds of her pussy, relishing her slick heat. “Deny it if you like, but I know you want this. Those big beautiful indigo eyes of yours are telling me. So is this pretty flush on your cheeks. Your open lips and shallow breathing. Your rapid pulse.” I tightened my hold on her wrist and said harshly, “So tell me again you don’t want to fuck.”
Mary bit her lip and swallowed a groan as the tip of my finger teased her clit with soft circles.
I licked the corner of her mouth. “Tell me,” I commanded.
Her brow furrowed. Her beautiful gaze captured mine. “I don’t want to fu—I don’t want you,” she inhaled as she turned her head, breaking our connection. “You need to leave, please.” The final word was uttered as a whispered plea.
“You’re not just lying to me—again—you’re lying to yourself, and your body has betrayed you.”
I released her wrist and drove my fingers into her hair as I spun her away from the wall. Pulling my fingers free of her panties, I held the first two up so she could see them glistening from her arousal. Her pretty cheeks turned pink as she tried to look away. My grip on her hair prevented it. “Eyes on me,” I growled. When I had her attention again, I sucked my fingers between my lips. My tongue flicked out over my lower lip. “So sweet.”
Mary groaned as she raised her arms to press her hands against my chest.
Ignoring her feeble protest, I pulled her to me, claiming her mouth. I wanted to taste her, and I needed her to taste her own arousal, proof of my effect on her. Her fists beat against my chest. I captured her wrists and pulled her arms behind her back. The movement pushed her ample breasts against my front. The anticipation of tearing that bra off her body, and finally feasting my eyes on her naked breasts, lengthened my cock to a painful degree. Our tongues dueled, swirling and tasting each other. I could feel the moment her resistance faded as her mouth opened and her body leaned into mine.
I released her wrists and yanked the robe off her body.
“Wait,” she protested.
I unclasped her bra and gripped the shoulder straps. Her crossed arms over her breasts prevented me from ripping the offensive garment off her body.
She tried to take a step back, but the bed prevented it. “Stop! This is madness. I don’t even know you!”
Wrapping my hand around her neck, I pulled her in for another kiss. “You know all you need to know right here.” I then brought her hand down to my hard shaft, letting her feel its girth and length through my suit trousers.
It pleased me when her eyes widened. I wrenched her arms away and pulled her bra free. Her breasts were beautiful, soft and full with blush-pink nipples. My large hands wrapped around her waist. I lifted her high till her toes no longer touched the floor. Her hands fisted into the fabric of my shirt as I latched onto one nipple and sucked hard, dragging the edge of my teeth against the soft flesh.
“Oh, God!” she exclaimed.
Laving the nipple with my tongue, I turned my attention to her other breast before tossing her backward to land in the center of the bed. Her body bounced twice before she sprang up to rest on her knees and palms. Her dark hair hung in wild disarray over her bare shoulders and breasts. With my gaze trained on her, I reached for my red silk tie. Holding the length between my hands, I watched as recognition of my intent washed over her face.
She shook her head and shimmied backwards. “You’re not tying me up.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Yes, my krasotka, I am.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You keep calling me that, what does it even mean?”
Putting a hand under her chin, I lifted her face higher. “It means you are my beautiful girl.”
Her eyes flashed with defiance. “But I’m not yours.”
I released her chin and twisted the tie in my hand into two loops. I overlapped them, then threaded the left loop through the right, creating a handcuff knot. Snatching her wrists, I expertly forced a hand through each loop and pulled the silk tie tight. Dragging her backwards, I secured the ends into a tight knot around a spindle in her headboard. She twisted this way and that as she desperately pulled against her binds, succeeding only in tightening them further.
I planted a hand on either side of her head and stared down at her struggling form. “Yes, you are. You’re under my control now, Mary Fraser, and I have no intention of letting you go.”
Chapter 3
Mary
This was beyond wrong. A catastrophic mistake. I knew with my matte red lipstick and leopard print fuck-me pumps I gave off the vibe that I did this sort of thing all the time, but that was definitely not the case. I hadn’t had a boyfriend since freshman year in college, and it had been ages since I had even had sex. Truth be told, the men in my life were boring. Predictable. And worse, they were mediocre, at best, in bed.
I wasn’t all that different from my roommate, Emma. She dreamed of book boyfriends. I dreamed of actor boyfriends. I didn’t want Mr. Darcy from Pride and Prejudice. I wanted Spike from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Jax from Sons of Anarchy, Dean from Supernatural, Sebastian from Cruel Intentions. That was my curse. I lusted after the arrogant alpha asshole who confidently sauntered into a room and owned the women in it. The man who knew precisely what a woman wanted and gave it to her—over and over again till she screamed for mercy or in ecstasy.
Fortunately, I was intelligent enough to know that those types of men made the worst kinds of boyfriends. They would bring only heartbreak. Maybe that was part of their appeal, the dancing with danger, buying your pleasure now with the pain that would come later. That was probably why I didn’t date all that much. Well, that and the fact that this type of man didn’t exist beyond the glowing screen of a television.
Or at least I thought they didn’t.
Sure, Emma seemed to find a man like that in Dimitri, but I figured he was a unicorn. A big, sexy, masculine unicorn, but still a unicorn. Men like that weren’t supposed to exist in the actual world. So who the fuck would have guessed there’d be two badass, arrogant, hot-as-hell Russian men running around Chicago?
Vaska stared down at me and slowly unbuttoned his shirt. I forgot to breathe. Dear God. The man’s chest was sculpted rock covered in ink. As he shrugged out of his shirt, I saw two eight-pointed stars in vivid blood red, gold, and black on the front of each shoulder. I remembered from that book Emma got to investigate Dimitri’s tattoos that two eight-pointed stars denoted a high-ranking thief or master criminal.
Damn. Was it wrong that he’d just gotten even sexier? Of course, it was wrong. It was crazy, psychotic wrong. This wasn’t a movie, for fuck’s sake. There was no guarantee of a happy ending. For all I knew, I was about to either have the best sex of my life or get murdered literally tied to my bed.
He turned his back and crossed the room. His whole back was covered in ink as well. As I focused in to decipher the mosaic of bright images, he did something unforgivable. He unzipped his pants, letting them and the rest of his clothing fall to the floor. The man had the greatest, tightest ass I’d ever seen. He reached into the suit jacket that was slung over my vanity stool and pulled out some small gold foil packets.
Vaska turned and walked back to the bed. And that was when my late panic set in.