Page 18 of Santa Daddy
Konstantin bent, picked it up, and hit another button without even looking at the screen.
“Wrong number,” he said in that flat, accented English. Calm. Bored. The way normal people ordered takeout. “Put it through the usual channel.”
Whoever was on the other end must have understood exactly what that meant. He listened for two seconds, then ended the call for real and tossed the phone onto the dresser like it weighed nothing.
Set it on the dresser.
The silence was deafening.
Just my ragged breathing and the shower pounding and the steady drip drip drip of water falling from his body onto marble.
His hand was still wrapped around my wrist. Hot. Damp. Strong enough I couldn't break free if I tried.
"That was stupid." His voice was soft. Deadly.
I couldn't respond. Couldn't do anything except stare at him while my brain tried to process that he was completely naked and close enough I could see individual water droplets sliding down his chest.
My eyes betrayed me.
Dropped.
Took in everything I shouldn't be seeing.
The scars weren't just on his ribs. They were everywhere. Puckered bullet wound on his shoulder. Long thin line across his abdomen that looked like a knife got too close. Marks that spoke of a life lived violently.
The ink was intricate. Beautiful in a brutal way. Cyrillic script wrapping around his side. Symbols on his hip that might be religious or might be something darker.
And below that?—
Don't look. Don't?—
Too late.
He was hard.
Thick and curving up toward his stomach, impossible to miss, impossible to ignore.
My face went nuclear.
Heat flooded from my cheeks down my throat, spreading across my chest like wildfire while shame burned just as hot in my gut.
You're staring at your kidnapper's cock. You're actually standing here staring.
"Enjoying the view?" His voice cut through my spiral.
I forced my eyes up. "Fuck you."
"Not yet." His free hand found my jaw. Gripped. "But we're getting there."
What—
He yanked me against him.
Suddenly there was no space between us. His wet chest pressed to my dry one, soaking through my thin pajama top in seconds. His thigh between my legs. His hand on my jaw holding me in place.
"You want to call police?" His breath was hot against my lips. "Want to tell them big bad Russian is keeping you prisoner?"
Yes. Exactly that.
