Page 28 of Gilded Cage (Kovalyov Bratva 1)

But the dark stranger doesn’t care. He doesn’t stop.

He just keeps fucking me, his thrusts getting faster and faster.

Until he explodes, too, hardly a minute after me.

I feel him unleashing inside me. I’m just drunk enough not to care.

When he’s fully spent, I collapse into him. I can hardly breathe. The air in this tiny, cramped bathroom is thick and steamy.

He leans against me, the stubble of his jaw grazing my cheek.

We’re both panting heavily, but he gets ahold of himself faster than I do.

My legs are still wrapped around his waist when he pulls back, his eyes penetrating into mine.

“My name is—”

“No!” I blurt before he can tell me. “Please, no.”

I shake my head. I’m thinking of Miguel. Of Cesar. Of Mattias and Felipe and all the countless people that have come into my life, only to leave again in blood and tears—or, worse, in a coffin.

“Please,” I whimper. “No names.”

His eyes cloud over for a second before he regains composure.

Then he nods and moves back. I can feel his seed seep out of me and I feel an inextricable sense of loss.

I watch him zip himself back up. The top buttons of his henley shirt are open, revealing more inky tattoos across his collarbone.

I want to trace them with my fingertips. Explore the rest of his body.

The stranger’s gaze flickers over me for a few short seconds.

Then, he turns and walks out of the bathroom without so much as a backward glance.

I exhale. My breath comes out in short, shuddering bursts. I’m oscillating between tears and giddy euphoria, overwhelmed and shocked.

I have no idea what that was. No idea what came over me.

I’m not sure about much in life, but I know one thing for sure now:thatis what sex is supposed to feel like.

Too bad I’ll never see him again.

Artem

Four Months Later

THE PORT OF LONG BEACH—LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA—MIDNIGHT

“Why is it that whenever we’re on a stakeout, you’re fucking sleeping?” I demand.

Cillian O’Sullivan sighs and opens one eye to glance at me scornfully.

My best friend has feathery blonde hair that he keeps a few inches too long and baby blue eyes.

It’s ironic, really. He has an all-American, boy-next-door vibe going for him despite the fact that he’s Irish through and through.

“Because this isn’t a fucking movie,” he replies. “It takes a while for the action to get started and I need—”

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