Page 41 of SINS & Riley
By now I’m not even convinced we’re still in the Midwest. Feels more like he’s marched me straight off the map.
“So…” I yammer, nerves bubbling over. “Scenic route’s kind of wasted on me, don’t you think? Blindfold and all?”
Silence.
“If we go much further, pretty sure we’ll hit Narnia,” I tease.
His patience snaps like a twig. “So much talking, little girl. Should I make that bishop into a ball gag?”
My mouth crimps shut.
His footsteps stop.
I guess this is it. The Dungeon Master Suite. Five stars on Yelp.
The door groans open. They all sound like this here. Even mine. Like the house is breathing, a silent witness to every sin.
Then ever so carefully, he sets me down. Like he knows one wrong move will send me careening off these twenty-inch heels I’m strapped into.
We’re toe to toe. My breasts against the hard plane of his chest, his breath stirring the hair at my temple. A wall of heat and muscle, caging me in, branding me alive.
Every cell in my body lights like a carnival ride.
And I know his neck is right there. Veins, pulse, skin so close that if I were truly suicidal, I could flick out my tongue… and taste him.
Stop it.
He’s your captor. Not a waffle cone.
His hand slides up the back of my neck, goosebumps scattering like sparks off a live wire.
His breath sears white-hot against my ear.
“Turn around.”
Slowly, I do. My pulse drumlines in my throat.
“Who will fuck you better, Zapretnaya? Me? Or a ghost?”
“I thought I wasn’t supposed to talk.”
“Answer me.”
You.
“A ghost,” I snark instead.
The sound that slips out of him isn’t a growl. It’s darker, richer—heat wrapped in sound. It vibrates through me until it pools low, where I’m already wet for him.
All he says is, “Very well.”
In one knife slice, the silk slips away, sliding to my feet, and I. Am. Naked.
Well, naked and balanced on stilts.
“Turn around.”
Every reckless nerve in me screams to defy him. I simply nod.
