The Maddest Obsession (Made 2)

Instead of answering me, he kissed me, lightly nipping my bottom lip. Breathless heat burned beneath my skin, because that was the only answer I needed.

“How do you know so much about the stars?” I asked.

“I read. A lot. There wasn’t much else to do in prison.”

“You remember everything you read, don’t you?”

“Mostly.”

No wonder he’d mastered English so impeccably—heck, he knew it better than me. It was surreal to think this man had gained a lot of his knowledge from books while locked up in some Russian prison. A part of me was curious about what he’d done to get imprisoned, but I’d never ask him. I’d learned a long time ago to stay out of a man’s business. If you didn’t know anything, you wouldn’t be lying if interrogated. Also, there were just some things about the men in this life a woman didn’t want to know.

“So, when did you come to the United States?”

“The day after I was released.”

I kissed his chest, looked up at him, and said light-heartedly, “I’m sure immigration loved getting your application.”

Amusement played in his eyes. “My record was clean, malyshka. I have a knack for technology. I could find out where the President is eating breakfast right now, take a picture, and anonymously post it on social media, all from my kitchen.”

My eyes widened. “Are you telling me, as long as I’m somewhere near a camera, you could fin

d me and watch me on your computer?”

“Yes.”

“You haven’t done it, have you?”

“That would be morally questionable.”

“Yes, it would,” I said pointedly.

A genius and a criminal rolled into one. It made a terrifying combination.

I decided not to question him further on that topic. “Didn’t you miss your family when you moved to another country?”

And just like that, I hit a brick wall.

His stomach tensed subtly beneath my hands, and his tone went cold. “I have to finish getting ready for work, malyshka.”

That was a dismissal if I’d ever heard one. Though, pleased with how far I’d gotten, I hopped down and went back to bed.

That night, I was so far past sexually frustrated, I decided to be a bit craftier. I wore the sexiest underwear I owned, a pair of knitted thigh-high socks, and nothing else. I was in the middle of making dinner when he came home. He stilled, his eyes going dark as they traveled over me.

He sat at the island, pulled off his tie, and narrowed his gaze.

I’d screwed up his routine.

The heat of his eyes followed me everywhere in the kitchen. I made sure to bend over slower and more often than necessary. If there was one battle I was going to win between us, it was this one.

We ate in companionable silence, but I couldn’t even taste the food because just the way he looked at me sent every nerve ending tingling beneath my skin. He helped me rinse off the dishes and clean up the kitchen. Then, he held my face and kissed me softly on the lips.

“Thank you for dinner, malyshka.”

That was when I knew I loved his soft side.

I sat on his lap, his hand playing with my hair, while we watched some political debate on CNN. I couldn’t even pretend to pay attention to a second of it with his hard-on pressed against my ass. A part of me knew what he was doing by denying me. I didn’t like it. Because it made my chest feel tight and heavy. And that unsettled me.

Somewhere between the beginning and the end, my legs had straddled his, my hands were in his hair, and my lips were parting his as I flicked my tongue into his mouth.