The Professional Read Online Free PDF

groaned at the contact; I shivered from the electric heat of his rough palm. Hadn’t I imagined those hands kneading me everywhere?
    Shaking, I watched as he straightened his ringed thumb from my hip until it reached my mons. He brushed the tip of his finger along the edge of my curls. It was so slow and unexpected, so tender, I couldn’t bite back a moan.
    He touched me as if with . . . reverence.
    I no longer saw signs of that iron control; instead he looked lost .
    Like I probably looked in that moment.
    His cock pulsed in his pants, drawing my attention. At the sight of that long, heavy length, my pussy clenched for it. I murmured, “Sevastyan?” as my hips rolled. “What are you doing to me?” He’d somehow spellbound me, making me feel empty and desperate.
    For the second time tonight, I was heading toward an orgasm.
    Still riveted to my sex, he grated words in Russian, something about how he couldn’t be expected to deny himself in the face of this. How no one should expect him to.
    I’d never been more confused in my life. “Are you . . . are you going to kiss me?”
    With his accent thicker than I’d heard it, he rasped, “Would you want a man like me to take your mouth?” His thumb ring glinted when he gave another slow stroke.
    Good question. I answered myself when words spilled from my lips: “Try it and see.”
    “You think I’d stop with a kiss?”
    “You assume I’d want you to?”
    My reply seemed to wake him from a daze. As if burned, he jerked his hands away, his expression transforming from lost to disgusted. Again, he told me, “Cover yourself.” Now he was as furious as I’d been before, but I had no idea what I’d done.
    I swatted the ends of my robe down as he levered himself to his feet.
    When he seized my hand, yanking me up, sanity resumed—as if the Natalie I’d known all my life had decided to rejoin us.
    What kind of madness had just possessed me? I clutched my robe with a shaking hand. I’d just let this man touch me, this stranger , and had been rolling my hips for more.
    If he’d made a move to fuck me on the ground, I thought . . . I thought I might have let him.
    Fist clenched around my upper arm, he dragged me along. “If you run from me again, I will catch you. It’s what I do.” He locked his gaze on mine. “And then I’ll spread you over my knees and whip your plump ass until you know better.”
    I stumbled at that, but he hauled me back up. Striding on, he scowled down at my bouncing breasts.
    Braless in silk. Nothing left to the imagination. “I won’t run if you don’t force my hand! I don’t want to go with you. I know what you are. You’re mafiya . Which means my father is too.” Deny it, deny it. Laugh in my face.
    Sevastyan set his jaw, dragging me along faster.
    No denial. My father, this man, that pilot were all mafiya .
    “You can’t force me to go to him—ow!” Sudden sharp pain dug into my bare feet; I’d stepped on a strand of briars.
    Without even slowing his stride, Sevastyan swooped me up as if I were weightless.
    I had no choice but to wrap my arms around his neck. “Just wait—I don’t want to get caught up in anything like that!” My mouth was inches from his throat, from his bobbing Adam’s apple. His heat seeped into me, and I could feel his heartbeat; though he was no longer running, it sped up sharply when I murmured, “Sevastyan, please .”
    “You’re already caught up,” he said, the words like a sentencing.
    We emerged from the field. Desperate, I whispered, “Pozhaluista, nyet.”  Please, no.
    “Natalya,” he rasped, “I won’t let you go. I can’t . Resign yourself.”
    As we neared the plane, the pilot raised his brows at me. I could only imagine what he was thinking. I was in Sevastyan’s arms, my hair a tangle, my nipples protruding.
    When the blond smirked, Sevastyan grated in Russian, “You leer at his daughter? I should give him your eyes for that.”
    The pilot swallowed; I gaped.