Wicked Beauty

Wicked Beauty The Wicked Trilogy Book 2 M. James PNK Publishing Contents 1. Natalia 2. Mikhail 3. Mikhail 4. Natalia 5. Natalia 6. Mikhail 7. Natalia 8. Natalia 9. Natalia 10. Mikhail 11. Natalia 12. Mikhail 13. Natalia 14. Natalia 15. Mikhail 16. Natalia 17. Natalia 18. Mikhail 19. Natalia 20. Natalia 21. Natalia 22. Natalia 23. Mikhail 24. Natalia Natalia I’ve been a fucking fool. Mikhail’s words are still ringing in my ears, too loud for me to hear anything else. “I know you’re Natalia Obelensky. And now, you’re mine to do with as I please.” The cold metal of the cuffs around my wrists reminds me of the predicament I’m in. Naked, cuffed to a bed, a monster of a man kneeling between my legs with his cum still sticky on my thighs from earlier tonight. A man who tricked me. Lured me. Fooled me. The only fool here is you. Horror floods me, spiked with bitter regret. I’d made a terrible decision in coming out here with him. In trusting a man who I hardly knew, a man who paid me for my time, enough to go out of the city with him to a house far enough away that I know even if I scream my throat bloody, no one will hear me. I’m trapped. He’s still kneeling between my legs, lazily stroking his thick, rigid cock as he looks down at me with a cruel smirk. I can see, in the newly glaring lamplight, how much he’s enjoying this. How long he’s been waiting for this. I still feel foggy from the climax he gave me only minutes ago. I’d been dreaming when he’d slipped inside of me, groaning above me, body rigid with uncontrollable need. I can still hear the words he’d whispered in my ear, pulling me out of sleep as he’d started to fuck me again. “So fucking good. I woke up so fucking hard–I had to fuck you again. You take my cock so fucking well, I want to feel you come on it again–” It had turned me on. I’d been drenched, wet with his cum and my own arousal, and I’d arched up, wrapping my legs around his as he’d sank into me, feeling his almost too-big cock rubbing against sore flesh–but not so sore that I didn’t want him again. I’d hated him before this. I’d hated him for his arrogance and his entitlement and the way he’d dared to handle me so roughly, both on the night I’d showed up on his doorstep unannounced and tonight, when he’d forced his cock down my throat. I’d hated him most of all for the way he made me want it, for the way he made my body come alive with every humiliating, degrading demand he made of it. Now I hate him for a different reason. Think, Natalia. There’s a way out of this. What proof does he have that it’s you? “I’m not who you think you’re looking for,” I protest, yanking against the cuffs as I stare up at the handsome, forbidden man kneeling between my legs. His gaze is flinty, his eyes cold as chips of ice, and I feel fear flooding me, chasing away my lingering arousal, the last soft whispers of pleasure from my orgasm. “I don’t know who Natalia Obelensky is.” Mikhail laughs, a deep, coarse sound as his fingers tease up and down the length of his cock, a visual representation of just how much he’s enjoying this. He’s as hard as I’ve ever seen him, pre-cum beading at the tip as his fingers circle and squeeze the head, spreading it downwards. He’s slick and glistening from me, and something clenches inside of me at the sight of that, the proof that I enjoyed everything he did to me, despite myself. “I told you.” I look up at him pleadingly, and it’s not a hard act to put on, not when I’m this terrified. I might be lying through my teeth, but I’m begging him to believe me. That much is real, and it makes it easier to act out the rest. “My name is Ekaterina. You know that–you’ve been calling me that! I don’t know why you think I’m this other woman, but I swear to you, I’m not–” He laughs again, his other hand sliding up my calf. The touch is warm and intimate, the touch of a lover, of someone so used to the body of another that he doesn’t need to touch only the most erogenous parts for his pleasure, but all the rest as well. I flinch away from him, and his hand tightens around my leg, pinning it to the bed. “That might have worked at the beginning of this,” he purrs, his voice low and dangerous. “When I wasn’t certain of who you were. I had my doubts when I was shown a picture of you. That’s how it came about, you see.” His hand slides higher, caressing the inside of my knee, making its way up my inner thigh. “I had an informant. He’s dead now–he pissed someone else off, someone powerful, and she paid me to kill him. It’s unfortunate that I no longer have his services, but that’s how these things go.” He shrugs, his hand sliding higher still, his other hand still lightly working his cock in the fashion of a man who is enjoying pleasuring himself, but is in no hurry to come. “I was looking for your father, until I found out someone else had killed him instead. That was unfortunate, too. I thought you’d fled the country. But then my informant showed me a picture of you, dancing at that disgusting club.” His fingers are at the crease of my thigh, stroking. I feel frozen in place, my breath caught in my lungs, just shy of hyperventilating. I want to kick, to scream, to fight, but I can’t move. Even if I could, what would be the point?