The Maddest Obsession (Made 2)

“Fuck me, Gianna.” He sounded on the brink of control, like if I didn’t start moving then I was going to get fucked, hard. That quickly set me in motion; I didn’t think I could handle him unleashed yet.

I moved slowly, rocking my hips in a circular motion, grinding my clit against him, shuddering with the intensity.

“You’re so goddamned lucky we’re in a car right now.” He pressed the threat against my ear, his words heavy with a Russian accent that was beginning to drive me crazy. Evoking such a lack of control from the cold fed was addictive. I wanted so much more.

His hands moved everywhere—down my spine, grabbing fistfuls of my hair to angle my head the way he wanted it, gripping my hips to grind me harder against him. He slapped my ass, nipped my neck and throat, sucked my nipples—the feeling of him inside me, the way he was everywhere, the way he was holding back and letting me grind on him, it was all too much.

I came so hard spots flew behind my eyes. The fire inside me burst, spreading a warm, tingling sensation throughout my body.

“I’ve dreamed of that sound,” he rasped, nipping at my earlobe.

Warmth filled me like sunlight. I shouldn’t take what he said to heart—he was often rude as hell—but, God, when he was sweet, it made me feel on top of the world.

I wanted to please him.

I wanted to make him lose his mind.

Reaching back, I rested my hands on his knees and rode him so he could see everything. His gaze caught fire, trailing from my parted lips, to my bouncing breasts, to where he slid in and out of me. I was so wet it was dripping down my thighs and filling the car with an obscene erotic noise.

He suddenly stilled me. Ran his tongue across his teeth.

“You’ve adjusted, malyshka?”

With half-lidded eyes, I nodded.

“Good.”

He gripped my hips, pulled us chest-to-chest and bounced me on his erection. Hard. Up and down, not giving me a single break from the assault. My moans and whimpers trembled in my throat with the force. My fingers splayed on the window as I searched for something to hold onto that wasn’t so consuming. So devastating. So him.

“Oh, God, oh, God.”

When I climaxed the second time, he swallowed the noise in his mouth. And, with a punishing last thrust and a shudder, he finished inside me. Then, he softly nipped my neck in a rough sort of appreciation.

Our heavy breaths filled the silence. I was so full of contentment, high on a languid post-coital bliss, as I rested my face in the crook of his neck. Curled my fingers in his hair.

“Say something in Russian.”

“Ty samaya krasivaya zhenshchina kotoruyu ya kogda-libo videl.”

“What did you say?”

“You’re annoying.”

“I would hate to be Russian if it takes that many words to say something so simple,” I mused. I didn’t believe for a second that was what he’d said.

Something thick and wet slid down my thigh. My sex-high liquefied and turned to ice in my stomach. Had I really just had unprotected sex—so unprotected, by the way his come was leaking out of me—with Allister? I did frantic mental calculations in my head, trying to calculate when I ovulated. Which was, of course, now.

He must have felt the tension in me because his hand stopped its caress down my back. “You’re not on the pill.” It was more of an assumption than a question.

I never had sex—why would I need to be?

Pushing away from him, I pulled a bra strap back onto my shoulder as an icy trickle of panic crawled up my spine. “No.”

I could only imagine if I got pregnant while my husband was on his deathbed and couldn’t conceive with a helper and a bottle of Viagra.

Nothing but a whore.

Whore.