The Obsession (Filthy Rich Americans 2)

His chest lifted in an enormous breath when I moved my knight. “Check.”

I’d never seen him take so long to make a move. He stared at the board with hostility, as if it had somehow caused his situation. No doubt he was running different scenarios in his head, trying to compute a way out that didn’t end with his defeat.

He slid his rook forward like every square it crossed was painful. It probably was to him. I’d spent the last few months suffering in his endgame, and he didn’t like the roles being reversed.

I took his rook with Hera. “Check.”

My heart beat like a war drum, and it was fitting, because my Ares was going to deliver the fatal blow. Macalister only had one move left, and yet he didn’t make it. Had my Medusa mask turned him to stone? Or was he simply sitting there, contemplating his defeat?

I’d done it.

Finally beaten him and released myself from our arrangement. All he needed to do was move, and then I could utter the word I’d wanted to for so fucking long.

But I didn’t get to tell Macalister checkmate.

He gave me a look of pure malice before he violently swung a hand across the desk and sent the pieces flying off the board. Some slammed into the bookcases and others crashed loudly to the floor, and I was up out of my chair before I could take a breath, stumbling back away from him.

“We’ll play again,” he exploded. His expression was cold fury as he slapped his hands on the desk and used them to help push to his feet.

“But I won.”

“No, it doesn’t count.”

When he lost the game, he seemed to lose everything, including his control. He charged at me, and by the time I realized what was happening it was too late to run. His arms closed around my arms and waist, and we stumbled backward, all the way until my back slammed into a bookcase.

His mouth crushed down on mine, stopping my panicked noise from escaping. As he pressed his lips against me, he used his body to drive me back into the shelves, the wood digging in. It was uncomfortable in every sense of the word. He smothered me. I felt each button of his shirt, my breasts flattened by his wide chest, and the swell at the center of his legs that pushed greedily at my belly.

I tore my mouth away from his, smearing my red lipstick across his lips, and tried futilely to catch my breath. “Macalister, stop.”

He left our lower bodies connected but drew back and looked at me like prey he’d trapped and wanted to toy with before finishing off. He was wild as he stared down at me with his messy lips and savage eyes. “I don’t want to.”

What the fuck was I supposed to say to that? When I tried to squirm away, his grip tightened and locked me down. Blood roared and banged frantically in my head. Should I scream? My hands were trapped at my sides, and I reached behind me, my fingers catching on the edge of a book. Maybe if he let me go, I could pull it from the shelf and swing it at his head.

Abruptly, his face twisted with torture, then it melted and he sobered. He didn’t release me, but tension faded from his arms. “I’m sorry. I was upset and . . . handled it poorly.”

The image of Royce’s destroyed bedroom flitted through my mind, but I had more urgent things to think about. Like how Macalister was still holding me captive. “Let me go.”

“I will in a moment.” He regained his composure, his cold veneer snapping back into place. “I tried to rid you from my system, Marist. I told myself I couldn’t want you because you don’t exist. That once I was clear of the fog of you, this desire”—he said it like it was distasteful—“would cease.”

He let go of me, only to put his hands on the bookshelf beside my waist, squeezing until the wood groaned in protest. His eyes were devastating, and I wanted to stop looking, but couldn’t. He was a violent crash on the side of a highway, a siren’s song for attention.

“But in your absence,” he continued, “the desire worsened, and I’m willing to acknowledge I cannot master it. So tonight, after the anniversary gala is over, you will come to my room, wearing only this mask.” His voice was full of dominance and power. “And then you will give me anything I ask for.”

My knees buckled, but he caught me by my hips, pinning me to the bookcase so hard the shelf rattled. “No,” I spat at him. “I won’t.”

He sounded genuinely offended. “Why not? I’m attractive and powerful. I can please you sexually, and there’s so much more I can—”