An Obsession with Vengeance (Wanted Men Book 3)

  “You—you’re serious!”

  Her disbelief verged on hysteria, and Maksim knew this moment was about more than this specific conversation. It was a culmination of all that was happening. She was going to blow.

  “How can you even say stuff like that? With such surety. Has it ever entered your egotistical mind that you’re wrong? Aren’t you afraid, even a little bit, that you might be misreading my signals? Do you ever second-guess yourself about anything? What if I really, truly don’t want to have meaningless sex with a man whose necessary body part is about to fall off from overuse?”

  He held back a bark of laughter. “But you do.”

  “That’s not the point! Aren’t you liste—? Oh!” She sprung to her feet, her small hand slapping over her mouth. She stamped her foot in the most adorable display of anger Maks had ever seen, and he couldn’t help but grin like a motherfucker.

  Confirmation. Finally. Directly from her own lush mouth. He’d said he didn’t need it, but he’d lied.

  “Screw you!” she burst out. “Screw you to the moon and back for your arrogance, you . . . you . . .”

  “I think the word you’re looking for is darling,” he snuck in with some air quotes. God, her eyes were spectacular when she was riled.

  “No. The word I’m looking for is spoiled egomaniacal brat who doesn’t have a humble bone in his big body.”

  “That’s not a word.”

  She bared her teeth at him and stormed by but only made it a few steps before he caught her with a tight grip on her upper arm. Spinning her around, he slammed his mouth down on hers. She wanted him. He now knew it. And he wanted to sample her desire. Right. Fucking. Now.

  He held fast when she tried to jerk away, once more attempting to deny him. He didn’t let her. He was fed up with waiting, so finished with it. He needed something to tide him over, needed it so badly he was freaking out. Even a small part of her for now.

  And she was going to goddamn well give it.

  In a distant part of his mind, he knew he’d deliberately stirred her up so she’d lose her composure. What he didn’t know was why. So that he wasn’t the only one agonizing over whatever the fuck this was between them?

  Because she was so tiny compared with him, he once again bent his knees and hefted her against him before straightening. Just as he’d done at the restaurant. He pressed her tight along the front of his aching body and ground his erection into her navel. She gasped. Around a growled apology in case the sound was caused by pain, he went for broke, plundering the moist depths of her mouth with his eager tongue. Satisfaction screamed through him when she moaned and slapped his shoulder twice before wrapping her arms around his neck and giving him as good as she was getting.

  “You’re terrible,” she accused him against his lips as she fed on him, grasping at his shoulders and pulling at him as though she couldn’t get him close enough.

  “I know, lover.”

  Her legs came up to circle around his hips, and she squeezed him between them. “I don’t want to want this.”

  That small truth from her almost distracted him. But he was too far gone. “I know,” he whispered soothingly as he turned with her and brought her over to lower her to the sofa, making her back sink deep into the cushions when he followed her down. She moaned a little but held tight, allowing no space between them, and she tipped her head back when he left her mouth to ravish her slender neck. He lapped at her skin and groaned at her essence. “I want to do this to your nipples”—he flattened his tongue and licked—“and between your legs.” He sucked, and she trembled. “I want you so worked up, so out of control, that the evidence of it flows down my throat.”

  She made a desperate little sound and arched into him, rolling her hips against his erection, rubbing on him, upper and lower body, her hands roaming. Knowing what she needed, and unable to curb the impulse, he lifted himself just enough to fit his hand between them so he could cup her breast. His thumb found the tight peak of her nipple, but he couldn’t enjoy it because too many layers separated them. Releasing her, pleasure spearing him when she protested with a whimper, he breached the hem of her shirt and savored her silky skin and body heat as he tunneled under, pushing her bra up so he could get . . . Fuck. Perfect. He molded her soft mound to his palm and squeezed just enough to let her know he had her before taking that rigid little point between his forefinger and middle finger and rolling it quickly.

  “Oh! Shit, Maksim,” she panted, straining to meet him. She grabbed his head with both her hands and brought him to her mouth again.

  “I want inside you, Sydney,” he growled as he devoured her.

  “You can’t.”

  He couldn’t? Not they couldn’t? She was . . . concerned? . . . about him and his reasons for abstaining? “I know.” His agreement came out sounding almost tender because her apparent worry touched him somewhere not normally accessible.

  Her fingers plunged into his hair as they kissed, and then traveled down over his shoulders and under his arms to reach his back. He felt her pause when she hit the harness that held Angelina, but then she bypassed it.

  “I . . .” One hand stayed, pressing to the back of his lower ribs; the other came around and she slipped it between their bodies. “. . . want to feel you.” Palm up, she found his cock and ran the length of him from base to tip, driving him insane. “Mmm.” Her sound of approval was high-pitched, eyes wild as she stared up at him.

  She was like a teenager, he couldn’t help but think. These weren’t the moves of a woman who did this often. She wasn’t practiced and ticking her best off in her mind as she went through her repertoire. She was all natural, turned on, and her enthusiastic, random actions were making him see fucking stars.

  He ducked back to her neck, knowing she wouldn’t answer shit if they were face-to-face. “How many men have you been with, Sydney?” He gnashed his teeth, grinding into that palm, and bit back a string of curses when she tried to grip him through his pants.

  Keeping one leg wrapped around him, she dug her other foot into the cushions and used the leverage to push her hips up harder. “Three. I can’t . . . think around this. You feel . . . crazy good.”

  A shock wave blew through him. Three? He felt her yank his shirt from the waist of his pants. Her fingers played on his skin, singeing him, leaving her mark. Three? He grabbed her wrist just as she was about to steal inside. He was stopping her from touching him. From wrapping her fingers around his throbbing length and exploring him, possibly getting him off with a few firm jerks.

  He was stopping her.

  He let that sink in for a few heartbeats and then found himself righting her bra and coming out from under her shirt. He broke the cinch she had him in, forcibly, because she wasn’t cooperating. Her revelation rattled his bones. It made his head spin.

  “What are . . . ? What are you doing?” she asked, staring up at him in confusion. Her eyes were glittering brightly, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling as quickly as his was. He brought her hand above her head and took her other one from his back to do the same, holding her like that so he could look down at her.

  She squirmed and rubbed on him, and he was helpless to stop from responding by shifting down and pressing into the heat between her thighs. She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and stretched it out as she hissed and met his stroke. He could finish like this; he knew. And so could she.

  But they wouldn’t.

  “Three?” he questioned, belatedly denying himself the pleasure by shifting his hips away.

  “What?” She was distracted as she tried to follow his movements. Her leg lowered to wrap around his thigh and she smiled a little when she was successful. “That’s it.” She tried to tug her wrist free, and goddammit he was such a selfish fuck because he let her.

  She brought her arm down and immediately tunneled her hand into his pants to do exactly what he’d known s
he wanted to do. Take him beyond the point of no return. Her warm fingers clasped around his shaft, and he moaned loudly, falling to his elbow, his head landing on her shoulder.

  “Oh . . . so hard,” she whispered.

  Nothing but instinct driving him now, he copied her move by swiftly burrowing into her yoga pants and cupping her over her panties, grinding his teeth at their dampness. A distant thought told him he shouldn’t, but he did.

  “I’m going in,” he warned, meeting her dazed eyes.

  “I know,” she whispered, her legs spreading for him as she stroked him with her palm.

  Done.

  Her fingertips, those pointed nails, brushed over his balls just as he breached a lacy edge, and then he felt nothing but hot skin. “Jesus Christ, Sydney,” he groaned as he gently parted her damp lips and oh so slowly slid two fingers through her wetness. Fuck, she was so ready. What a waste. What a beautiful, tragic waste, he thought as he searched out that opening and entered her body. “So wet for me. So fucking ready.”

  “Oh, my God, Maksim!” she whispered hoarsely, gripping him tighter, stroking him in that perfect way as she began rolling her hips in an attempt to ride his fingers.

  He helped her along by withdrawing them and sinking deeper, over and over, savoring the feel of her, so responsive and innocently wanton. Her thumb passed over the head of his cock, spreading what was already leaking, and it was all he could do not to tear his pants open and impale her. How he didn’t, he’d never know. Instead he continued to pleasure her as he was, moving his fingers in and out of her soaked body faster, praising her in Russian when she did the same to him, quickening her stroke in the confined space she had to work.

  With a quick, sharp move that had her yelping, he shoved the barrier of her shirt up and out of his way with his teeth and closed his mouth over the hard peak of her left breast. He was dying to bring the other one into play but didn’t have enough hands. Goddammit, she tasted sweet. He nibbled and twirled his tongue around her nipple, lapping at her. If he replaced his fingers with his cock, he could free up his other hand and make her really happy.

  “Maksim . . . ?”

  Sydney’s surprised cry ripped him from his plans and made him aware of her straining. Instinctively, he found her clit with his thumb and added a thrumming that had the silky walls of her sex instantly bearing down. Her orgasm swallowed her, causing her head to kick back, her mouth to open on a soundless moan. He pulled back far enough to watch and savor. Her sex tightened and released around his fingers as her hand squeezed him, jerking faster. Her eyes opened and clashed with his, and before he knew what happened he was joining her, climaxing with such force he lost his breath. He broke in a blinding rush, coating her hand and wrist, making her stroke slippery as she worked him through it. He could have come forever. Felt as if he did, his orgasm stretching out to match her endless release.

  Harsh breathing and slamming heartbeats filled the silence for long moments. Holy hell. What the fuck was that? He wondered at the power behind what had just taken place.

  Vasily.

  The sound of Maksim’s honor shattering reverberated in his head, and shame slithered to life. He’d broken his word. He’d just failed the one man he revered above all others by doing what he could have easily done in the shower all on his own.

  Lifting his head, his gaze was met with a sleepy look when Sydney’s lids came up. “Shit,” she whispered. She was still holding him but no longer moving.

  Yeah. Shit. He withdrew his fingers from her body but could not stop himself from taking the time to spread her wetness around, relishing the silky-hot feel of the most private part of her. Weakness of the flesh. Poster boy. Him. But he’d created the arousal, after all, so it was his to do with as he pleased. She let out a puff of air, and her eyes rolled a little. He brought his hand out and up to inhale the light scent before treating his digits as if they were spoons dipped in honey. He licked each one clean.

  “Maksim,” she said shakily.

  “I told you I wanted you down my throat. Now you’re there.” Gently, knowing this wasn’t her fault, even though he wanted to blame her, he kissed her temple and welcomed the heaviness settling in his chest. Three, he thought again, preferring to deal with that than his disgrace. To his . . . How many could there possibly be? Way too fucking many. He shouldn’t have touched her. For so many reasons.

  Fuck.

  “You should shower,” he murmured, too wrapped up in his own head to see her face fall.

  She pulled her hand free of his waistband, and he mourned the loss of her touch. “If you’ll get off me, I will.”

  He focused on her and saw her cheeks were bright pink. Fuck, he’d embarrassed her. Made her think he thought she needed to shower. “No. Fuck no. I meant I’ve made you dirty.” With the legions I touched before you. “So you should clean up before bed. That’s all.”

  “Oh. Er, yes, okay. And since we’re handing out unnecessary advice, you should, too.”

  The droll note in her voice went over his head. “I can’t.” He doubted a shower would do much in the way of cleansing him.

  The gleam on her hand caught his eye, and he reached for the tissue box that sat on the coffee table. He pulled a few free and shuddered as he pictured her doing to her fingers what he’d just done to his. Nothing was taboo to him. He’d always seen sex as an all-in-or-don’t-bother kind of thing. If his partner was going to be squeamish or meek, then she was with the wrong guy. There was no shame in most acts, but he knew not everyone felt the same.

  “Thank you.” She accepted the tissues and slowly cleaned her hand and wrist, her attention on the task. Absently, as though she wasn’t aware she was doing it, she put her palm to her nose when she was done and smelled it as she talked. “I’m not sure why I lost it like that,” she said as he nearly came again. “But I don’t want you to get any ideas in that head of yours that this meant anything. It was simply a reaction to stress. That’s it.”

  Their eyes met, and hers skipped away before he could get a read on her. She went to move out from under him, but he pressed her deeper into the cushions to keep her where she was. He gave his head a metaphoric shake and tried to focus as she lost some of the just-had-the-best-release-ever droop from her eyes.

  “Maksim?”

  He pushed himself up and away, taking a seat on the coffee table. He should send her to her room; he knew. She sat up and straightened her clothes before tucking herself into the corner of the sofa. Her expression was wary, but she looked more relaxed than he’d seen her in weeks. Maybe now would be a good time for him to go fishing.

  “Why did you leave home?”

  She looked taken aback by the random question and didn’t say anything for a long minute. And then, “Because my parents left me no choice.”

  Shocked that she’d answered, he failed to come back with a follow-up immediately. Instead, a few beats of silence passed before he posed his next question. He tread carefully. “Did they hurt you?”

  She shook her head. “Not physically.”

  Emotionally. They’d hurt her emotionally, which was most times worse. “But it was bad enough to make you leave home at seventeen.”

  She played with the tassel on the corner of a throw pillow. She nodded. “Why does this matter to you, Maksim?”

  “Because I’m a curious guy with an inquiring mind that never fucking shuts up. Humor me.”

  Her body lost some of its tension; her feet slid to the side so that she wasn’t curled into a tight, defensive ball anymore. “Okay. If I share something very personal with you, will you reciprocate?”

  Realizing what she was offering—without him having to threaten her or play the do-as-you’re-told card—knowing what her privacy meant to her, and knowing what she was expecting in return for opening herself to him, Maks felt something in his chest tighten even as it warmed. The sensation was confusing. Kind o
f like his panic was being smothered and calmed before it could bloom. Then he realized the good feeling that came with her trust in him was more powerful than his need to hide from her.

  “Was it the orgasm?” he wondered aloud. “Did it open up some sort of channel here?” He motioned between them with his thumb even though she probably had no fucking clue what he was talking about.

  Her lip twitched, and she tipped her head. “Are you aware you suffer from ADD?”

  “Yes. Vasily says it goes well with my PTSD.”

  “And why would you have PTSD? Don’t tell me you had a moment of altruism and risked yourself for your country.”

  That hurt. For some reason, her thinking he was incapable of caring enough about others to go to bat for them . . . hurt. “No,” he said, pulling on his cuff to straighten it from where it had climbed during their play. “I’m not the self-sacrificing type, am I? My problem stems from something a little less heroic.” He was astounded to find himself stepping onto that sharing platform first. “Back in Russia, when I was fourteen, I was kidnapped and kept in a cage—cell, whatever. My old man volunteered me for the experience, and I was stuck there for almost three months. Myself and a dozen other rotating guests were treated to round after round of beatings, verbal abuse, rape. One guy was pissed on daily because they said he seemed to like it when they fucked him.”

  He could see out of the corner of his eye Sydney’s graceful hands cover her mouth as her expression filled with horror. She’d asked for it. But it was why he was giving it to her that was the ass-kicker. He supposed he just wanted her to understand why he was sometimes such an asshole. He wanted someone to know . . . him. To know why he was who he was. Why Sydney? That he couldn’t say. Possibly to turn her off? Make her hop on that high horse and realize she was playing with someone very much below her?

  “They kept us naked except for dirty underwear—the girls, too—and when they really got going, their favorite game went something like this: Pick a guy; pick a new girl. Take her aside and convince her if she fucked the guy, they’d let her go. They’d put them in front of the cells so everyone could watch—him tied up, her free. He’d get a hard-on—because the body doesn’t always follow what your head tells it, does it?—and she’d rape him in front of an audience of twelve to fourteen onlookers. You could see them both dying inside. In their eyes. You could see it.” He shook the memory from his head and pushed his elbows harder into his knees just to feel the ache it caused. Physical pain as a distraction from emotional. “When it was over, the guards would throw them both back in their cells but would join the girl in hers. The six of them would then take turns having sex with the one who’d proven herself to be such a whore. And there she’d stay, until either her ransom was paid or she killed herself. Too many times it was the latter.”