The Obsession (Filthy Rich Americans 2)

He looked dubious, and then something even more shocking happened.

Macalister laughed.

“I’m no saint, Marist. I was just like you when I was your age.” He sobered. “But since then, I’ve become much more selective with the words I use. Language is a tool, and I prefer a scalpel to a hammer.”

This side of him was disorienting. I’d been flipped upside-down, and he shook the idiotic thought from my head. “But I like using the hammer.”

He gave an amused smile. “Sometimes it’s the right tool.” His focus shifted back to the game between us. “Check.”

With two more moves, the game ended and he won again, but this time he seemed satisfied with his victory. Now was as good a time as any.

I went with the sincerest tone I possessed. “I was hoping you’d consider giving me back my Porsche.”

His movements didn’t slow or miss a beat. “No.”

Frustration forced a sigh from my lips. I’d been perfect since I moved into the house, following every command like a trained pet. “I’ve done everything you asked.”

He stopped, and his icy gaze zeroed in on me, like he was evaluating me from top to bottom. “You haven’t earned it yet.”

Royce’s warning drifted through my mind. He doesn’t ever give people what they want. I straightened my posture, trying to exude confidence. We were about to negotiate. “What do I have to do to earn it?”

He leaned on the armrest of the chair, looking regal and powerful and very much in control. “You’re not ready.”

I shook my head. “Try me. Royce had to call for the car today, and it made me feel powerless.”

If ever there was something Macalister could respect, it was that. He tilted his head, made his final decision, and rose from the desk. I watched with cautious eyes as he shifted a stack of books to the side on the top shelf of the bookcase and retrieved a black box from behind them. Eagerness fluttered in my stomach. He’d kept my car keys in here this whole time?

He turned, set the box down beside the chess set, and my excitement crashed, plummeting into apprehension.

The box was laced shut with a black satin bow.

Like a gift.

A cold draft rolled down my back, causing the hairs on my arms to stand on edge. One thing was certain; fear was inside the box. He had no reason to give me a gift. If it was, it’d come with ulterior motives. Was his goal to tangle me in all his strings, like a spider’s web?

I hesitantly reached for the box, but Macalister put his spread fingertips on the lid, stopping me. “Not yet.” He lowered deliberately into his chair, pulled the box back toward him, and steepled his fingers together. “Do you like chess?”

I took a breath and considered my answer. The game we’d played with the marble pieces was over, but now a different, more strategic and dangerous one had begun, and I needed to make my moves carefully.

At least it wasn’t a lie. “Yes.”

His blue eyes warmed a single degree. “Good. I thought so. I’ve enjoyed teaching it to you immensely. So much so, I’d like to play a new game.”

My pulse kicked as a warning. “What kind of game?”

He paused to either drag it out or let the silence build my anticipation. “I want to teach you about pleasure.”

EIGHT

EVERYTHING IN ME went white and still. “I’m sorry, what?”

When Macalister leaned over the desk, I could practically taste his excitement. It was dark and wicked.

“We’re not supposed to speak about the initiation, and we won’t, other than to say it was clear that night my son had done you a . . . disservice.”

His eyes were electric. I couldn’t look away, like a person who’d touched a power line and the current kept them holding on, no matter how badly they wanted to let go.

“You’re young. There’s so much more to pleasure than you’ve been shown,” he said. “Young men are fools. They believe the point of intimacy is to rush to an orgasm—their orgasm. Older men have patience, both in and out of the bedroom. I’ve learned how to wait, how to control my body. I know how to take my time and appreciate every moment.”

“Uh—” Every muscle in me clenched, and I went rigid, but Macalister didn’t care how uncomfortable I’d become. He just pressed on.

“Foreplay doesn’t start when I have a woman beneath me. It begins hours before, or days.” His voice dripped with seduction. “Weeks, even.”

My chest heaved as I couldn’t catch my breath. Everything was spinning out of control. I wanted him to stop talking, but a sick part of me didn’t mind it so much.

“So, I’ll make my desires perfectly clear,” he said. “I’ll teach you, Marist. I have enjoyed being your instructor these past few weeks, and this would be satisfying for both of us. I have far more skill and experience than a man half my age. I’ll work to master your orgasms.”