The Master Read Online Kresley Cole (The Game Maker #2)

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Bad Boy, BDSM, Drama, Erotic, Fantasy/Sci-fi, New Adult, Paranormal, Romance, Suspense Tags Authors: Series: The Game Maker Series by Kresley Cole
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Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 100417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
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My biggest fear had been that I would fall for Sevastyan because the sex was so great. Now that he was showing his true colors, that wouldn’t be a problem.

I narrowed my eyes at him and thought, Oh, no, Ruso! Don’t throw me in this briar patch!

I decided then that this would be my retreat—in both senses of the word. I’d bide my time and recharge. This problem had an endpoint to it, was on its way to being settled. Which meant I could handle it.

“It looks like you’ve got me,” I said airily.

He frowned at my change in demeanor. Sevastyan had just acquired a “prisoner,” and the joke was on him.

CHAPTER 15

I sat in my new room—adjoining his, naturally—trying to recall more. No matter how drunk I’d gotten, I wouldn’t have told him to come in me; was he making it up as an excuse to keep me?

Right before the shit had hit the fan earlier, he’d been pissed that I’d had other things to do, supposing I was about to go away with another man. Then all of a sudden Sevastyan had a reason to keep me indefinitely? Qué coincidencia.

But I couldn’t remember last night, and attempting to only made my head hurt worse. Though I was no longer nauseated, I was wiped out, my temples pounding.

This pillow-top bed was like a cloud, the thread count of the sheets astronomical. I lay back and tugged the fluffy duvet close, gazing out through the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows at the ocean. In minutes, I drifted off.

I dreamed I was lying out by the pool while Sevastyan’s hooded eyes watched the sun darken my skin. . . .

When I woke, I was curled against his bare chest, my bent leg stretched over his thighs. Staring out at the water, he lay tensed, with his hands behind his head. He reminded me of our first night, when he’d kept his arms over the back of the sofa, struggling not to touch me.

The sun was setting? I’d slept the day away? Tentatively, I eased up. No headache? No stomachache? I stretched my arms above my head.

He shifted as well, sitting up against the headboard. “You slept for hours.”

As if speaking to a child, I said, “Because I was recovering from being blackout drunk. A condition I found myself in because you kept pouring champagne. I trusted my older-man date and got trashed with him, and the next thing I know, I’m on the wrong end of a speculum, getting an IUD shoved inside my body—after being informed I’m a prisoner.”

“Funny you should mention my being an older man. The doctor said you were probably in your early twenties.”

“I never said I was twenty-six.”

“You looked young, but your confidence made me believe you were older.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Tell me you can legally drink in this country.”

“Relax, Father Time. You’re not going to jail for serving me alcohol—only for everything else.”

“You’re twenty-two, aren’t you? When I was twenty-two you were thirteen.”

“That sounds like a you problem.” Then I frowned. “Why did you get in my bed?”

He let the other subject drop. “Because I can.”

“Is that why you pulled me against you?”

“I didn’t. You moved toward me, clasping me close, because you’re used to sleeping with your partner.”

Whatever. “You put your arms behind your head because you were tempted to pet my hair, weren’t you? Hmm? Hmm? You enjoy petting my hair.”

He didn’t answer.

“I’ll bet you’ve been replaying our night, and it’s got you sprung. This just proves my theory.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Which is?”

“That you like me more than I like you. You’d rather kidnap me than let me go.” I stretched again. “Will I be fed during my captivity? I’m starving. In prison, I’d get two hots and a cot.”

Glowering at me, he picked up the phone and dialed room service. “What do you want?”

I scrambled over him and snatched away the phone, enjoying his shocked expression.

“Hablas español?” I asked the woman.

“Sí.”

Inwardly I wore an evil grin. In Spanish, I told her, “I need pizzas. Six of them. Big. Macaroni and cheese. Lobster bisque and whatever else you have with lobster. Basically lobster piled on lobster. I want Cokes. Not diet, but real ones. In glass bottles, if you can find them. Also, if you bring up ten Cuban midnight sandwiches, with extra pickles, Mr. Sevastyan will tip you extravagantly. Please put that gratuity in with the total. Excellent. Thank you for your help!” As I hung up, my stomach growled in readiness.

“I suppose you always sleep the day through,” Sevastyan said, his tone snide. “Occupational necessity.”

I sighed. “You keep thinking you know things about me. Yet you are always so wrong, it astounds me.”

“Then give me an example.”

The bilked heiress accused of bilking another! “You’d never believe me. You’d laugh in my face. But one day, when all this is a distant memory, I’ll send you a postcard—with a list. Once you verify everything, you’ll cringe with embarrassment.” He opened his mouth to reply, so I abruptly rose to go to the bathroom.

The spacious area was bigger than my studio. For as long as I was in Sevastyan’s tower, I’d enjoy free toiletries, unlimited hot water, and all the towels I could possibly use. With no visits to the laundromat. The life!

I knotted my hair atop my head, then washed my face. I brushed my teeth with another complimentary toothbrush.

I passed him on my way out, not deigning to speak to him. With nothing to do but wait on my gourmet feast, I took one of his business journals to the pool deck, my prison yard. I stretched out on a sofa directly under a heater.

I noticed that everything had been cleaned—by someone who was not me. For once! Talk about a gilded cage.

When I heard the doorbell, I rushed inside, uncaring what I looked like. Three waiters were pushing laden carts into the living room. They made a valiant effort not to look at my braless breasts under my T-shirt.


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