An Obsession with Vengeance (Wanted Men Book 3) (21 page)

“Maksim,” she said shakily.

“I told you I wanted you down my throat. Now you’re there.” Gently, knowing this wasn’t her fault, even though he wanted to blame her, he kissed her temple and welcomed the heaviness settling in his chest.
Three
, he thought again, preferring to deal with that than his disgrace. To his . . . How many could there possibly be? Way too fucking many. He shouldn’t have touched her. For so many reasons.

Fuck.

“You should shower,” he murmured, too wrapped up in his own head to see her face fall.

She pulled her hand free of his waistband, and he mourned the loss of her touch. “If you’ll get off me, I will.”

He focused on her and saw her cheeks were bright pink. Fuck, he’d embarrassed her. Made her think he thought she
needed
to shower. “No. Fuck no. I meant I’ve made you dirty.”
With the legions I touched before you.
“So you should clean up before bed. That’s all.”

“Oh. Er, yes, okay. And since we’re handing out unnecessary advice, you should, too.”

The droll note in her voice went over his head. “I can’t.” He doubted a shower would do much in the way of cleansing him.

The gleam on her hand caught his eye, and he reached for the tissue box that sat on the coffee table. He pulled a few free and shuddered as he pictured her doing to her fingers what he’d just done to his. Nothing was taboo to him. He’d always seen sex as an all-in-or-don’t-bother kind of thing. If his partner was going to be squeamish or meek, then she was with the wrong guy. There was no shame in most acts, but he knew not everyone felt the same.

“Thank you.” She accepted the tissues and slowly cleaned her hand and wrist, her attention on the task. Absently, as though she wasn’t aware she was doing it, she put her palm to her nose when she was done and smelled it as she talked. “I’m not sure why I lost it like that,” she said as he nearly came again. “But I don’t want you to get any ideas in that head of yours that this meant anything. It was simply a reaction to stress. That’s it.”

Their eyes met, and hers skipped away before he could get a read on her. She went to move out from under him, but he pressed her deeper into the cushions to keep her where she was. He gave his head a metaphoric shake and tried to focus as she lost some of the just-had-the-best-release-ever droop from her eyes.

“Maksim?”

He pushed himself up and away, taking a seat on the coffee table. He should send her to her room; he knew. She sat up and straightened her clothes before tucking herself into the corner of the sofa. Her expression was wary, but she looked more relaxed than he’d seen her in weeks. Maybe now would be a good time for him to go fishing.

“Why did you leave home?”

She looked taken aback by the random question and didn’t say anything for a long minute. And then, “Because my parents left me no choice.”

Shocked that she’d answered, he failed to come back with a follow-up immediately. Instead, a few beats of silence passed before he posed his next question. He tread carefully. “Did they hurt you?”

She shook her head. “Not physically.”

Emotionally.
They’d hurt her emotionally, which was most times worse. “But it was bad enough to make you leave home at seventeen.”

She played with the tassel on the corner of a throw pillow. She nodded. “Why does this matter to you, Maksim?”

“Because I’m a curious guy with an inquiring mind that never fucking shuts up. Humor me.”

Her body lost some of its tension; her feet slid to the side so that she wasn’t curled into a tight, defensive ball anymore. “Okay. If I share something very personal with you, will you reciprocate?”

Realizing what she was offering—without him having to threaten her or play the do-as-you’re-told card—knowing what her privacy meant to her, and knowing what she was expecting in return for opening herself to him, Maks felt something in his chest tighten even as it warmed. The sensation was confusing. Kind of like his panic was being smothered and calmed before it could bloom. Then he realized the good feeling that came with her trust in him was more powerful than his need to hide from her.

“Was it the orgasm?” he wondered aloud. “Did it open up some sort of channel here?” He motioned between them with his thumb even though she probably had no fucking clue what he was talking about.

Her lip twitched, and she tipped her head. “Are you aware you suffer from ADD?”

“Yes. Vasily says it goes well with my PTSD.”

“And why would you have PTSD? Don’t tell me you had a moment of altruism and risked yourself for your country.”

That hurt. For some reason, her thinking he was incapable of caring enough about others to go to bat for them . . . hurt. “No,” he said, pulling on his cuff to straighten it from where it had climbed during their play. “I’m not the self-sacrificing type, am I? My problem stems from something a little less heroic.” He was astounded to find himself stepping onto that sharing platform first. “Back in Russia, when I was fourteen, I was kidnapped and kept in a cage—cell, whatever. My old man volunteered me for the experience, and I was stuck there for almost three months. Myself and a dozen other rotating guests were treated to round after round of beatings, verbal abuse, rape. One guy was pissed on daily because they said he seemed to like it when they fucked him.”

He could see out of the corner of his eye Sydney’s graceful hands cover her mouth as her expression filled with horror. She’d asked for it. But it was why he was giving it to her that was the ass-kicker. He supposed he just wanted her to understand why he was sometimes such an asshole. He wanted someone to know . . . him. To know why he was who he was. Why Sydney? That he couldn’t say. Possibly to turn her off? Make her hop on that high horse and realize she was playing with someone very much below her?

“They kept us naked except for dirty underwear—the girls, too—and when they really got going, their favorite game went something like this: Pick a guy; pick a new girl. Take her aside and convince her if she fucked the guy, they’d let her go. They’d put them in front of the cells so everyone could watch—him tied up, her free. He’d get a hard-on—because the body doesn’t always follow what your head tells it, does it?—and she’d rape him in front of an audience of twelve to fourteen onlookers. You could see them both dying inside. In their eyes. You could
see
it.” He shook the memory from his head and pushed his elbows harder into his knees just to feel the ache it caused. Physical pain as a distraction from emotional. “When it was over, the guards would throw them both back in their cells but would join the girl in hers. The six of them would then take turns having sex with the one who’d proven herself to be such a whore. And there she’d stay, until either her ransom was paid or she killed herself. Too many times it was the latter.”

And just like that, Maks felt as if his skin were crawling from his body as he spoke to someone about those black days for the first time ever. Not once had he verbalized his past in such detail. Not even with Vasily or his boys, whom he trusted with his very life. Just not with his memories. Again, why was he trusting Sydney?

“Anyway,” he said roughly, holding up a hand when she dropped her legs and reached out, unshed tears shimmering on her lashes, on the verge of falling. She couldn’t touch him now, and she’d better not fucking cry. He’d probably yell at her. “It was a shit experience, and Vasily believes it contributes to my behavior. Your turn.”

“Maksim . . .”

There was a world of sympathy in his name, and it made his fucking throat ache, but he swallowed the shit down and donned his mask again. For all the good it did. He jerked to his feet and got away from her.

“I didn’t tell you that to make you feel sorry, so don’t,” he warned, “because it doesn’t do anyone any good. I only told you to explain my comment about Vasily thinking I suffered from the disorder. And because we were going to exchange horror stories, and I knew I’d win. But you know what? Now that we’re here, I don’t want to hear yours right now.”

He heard a rustle and knew she’d gotten to her feet. Her voice at his back when she spoke proved it. “Okay. Does Vasily know what you went through?” she asked in a little more than a whisper.

“Not in the way you do. I’ve never told anyone that before.” He looked at his reflection in the large window across the way and couldn’t see her because she was so fucking small and his body was blocking her from sight. His frown deepened, and his anger grew. He turned and stepped into her, bringing his hand up to clasp her throat in a loose grip.
Why did I put myself on display like this?

“That shit stays in your head, understand?” His weakness, his utter humiliation at the hands of mere amateurs . . . public?
Fuck no. Just, no.
“Because if I ever hear it from someone else, I’ll know you talked, and I’ll make you very sorry.”

Furious now, his buried emotions rising, he meant every word. He felt exposed. Naked. Wide-open and vulnerable. And he didn’t like it.

Sharing fucking sucked.

Sydney was trying her hardest not to cry. She blinked the burn from behind her lids, hoping the moisture she was looking through wouldn’t spill over. She gave up trying to swallow around Maksim’s hand pressed into her throat.

“I would never betray you that way, Maksim,” she promised. Her hands tentatively came to rest on his waist, and she was surprised when he allowed that. There was a wild look about him that she’d never seen before. “You have my word. I’ll never repeat anything you tell me.”

Some of the steel left his massive body. She’d never been more aware of his size than she was just then. He could break her in half. Yet she wasn’t afraid. Aware but not afraid. Not even of the rage simmering in the back of those beautiful silver eyes of his. What he’d been through . . . The burn came back, and she had to shove the newfound knowledge—understanding—of him from her mind again. She intuitively knew he wouldn’t appreciate her tears, not even when they were for him.

His expression darkened more, if that were possible, and she actually heard him swallow. “Everyone talks when given the right incentive. All I ask is that you do the best you can to keep my past to yourself.” His voice was so flat and emotionless it made her nape tingle. He released her. “Go to bed, Sydney.”

Loath to leave him like this, she reached for his hand, but he jerked back as though she were a disease. She brushed off the hurt that poked her in the chest and clasped her hands in front of her, watching as he gave her his back and walked over to pick up the TV remote. Clicking much slower than she had earlier, he turned the volume on and repeated more firmly, “Go to your room, Sydney.”

Before he said anything more, knowing some people got cruel when backed into a corner—Maksim’s shots would be brutal—she picked her phone up off the floor where it had fallen during their mind-blowing tryst and turned to leave.

But not soon enough to miss his coldly added, “I’m done with you for now.”

And there it was. Wincing, she left him alone and went down the hall to close herself into the beige-and-chocolate bedroom she’d been given. Leaning against the door, she imagined she wasn’t the first woman to hear those words from him. He’d probably said them too many times to count, to too many women to remember. No doubt after having had sex with them. Sex that could possibly be his outlet, his way of dealing with what had happened to him. Did he use the meaningless hookups as a way to make a connection with someone without having to actually connect? His trust issues must be monstrous.

She went over and sank down onto the edge of the bed. Alone now, without him to witness her empathy . . .

Within seconds, two droplets landed on the tattoo on her wrist. Her chest squeezed with both compassion and anger, making it difficult for her to breathe. Thinking of her big, powerful Russian, not much older than Andrew, locked in a cell, abandoned, abused, raped. Her hand pressed to her chest, and she bent forward as the air left her lungs in a rush of emotion. And Sydney cried. Burying her face in her hands, she sobbed for the damaged man she’d left standing alone in the living room.

Why had he never told anyone about what happened to him? Vasily obviously knew a portion but not all, according to what Maksim had said. She wasn’t sure if talking about an experience so ruinous actually helped, but wouldn’t it be worth a try?

Sniffling and wiping at her face, she grabbed a tissue off the nightstand and fell sideways, landing heavily on the fluffy pillows. She wiped up and blew her nose and felt her body shutting down on her.

Using her foot, she slid her phone up from the base of the bed where she’d dropped it. She hit the button to check the time. Ten o’clock. Normally she’d only now be starting her night, yet here she was, never more exhausted in her life. She dialed Andrew.

“Hey, Mom.” She could hear voices and laughing in the background, and she was glad he was in that atmosphere.

Her throat burned, tightening up. He didn’t deserve this. She’d put him in such danger with her stupidity. “Hey.”

“Oh, come on, Mom. Don’t be upset, okay?” She could hear the background noise fading and knew he was going off for some privacy. “We’re all good. Nothing even hurts. Are you okay still?”