Chapter Natasha
Natasha
The door clicks shut behind us, the sound sharp as a lock sliding home.
I’ve walked into plenty of rooms where I wasn’t supposed to be. Mayor’s offices. Police evidence archives. Back doors of gentlemen’s clubs with neon lights buzzing overhead. But none of them made my stomach drop like this one does.
Because this isn’t just a room. It’s a contract, an expectation of something I never thought I’d have to trade.
And I stepped inside willingly.
He doesn’t rush me. He doesn’t need to. He just watches, calm as stone, while I hover near the door pretending I haven’t already decided to stay. His mask glints in the lamplight, his shirt loose now, black silk clinging to muscle. A man sculpted from command and intent.
“This is your last chance,” he says quietly, echoing the words he pressed against my lips downstairs. “Walk back out, and you’re just another guest who strayed too far. Stay, and you belong to me.”
My pulse trips. I should turn around, laugh in his face, tell him he’s insane. But the truth settles like a weight low in my stomach: I don’t want to.
I want to know what happens if I stay.
I want the story. I want the danger.
I want him.
I take a slow step forward, my heels sinking into the thick rug.
His mouth curves in not quite a smile. “Good girl.”
Heat licks up my spine, sharp and humiliating. No one calls me that. No one dares. And yet the sound of it from his lips makes my thighs clench.
He closes the distance between us. Not fast. Not rough. Just inevitable. His hand comes up, skimming the line of my jaw, tracing the edge of my mask. “You keep this on,” he murmurs. “For now.”
The words ripple through me. I should feel ridiculous, but instead I feel untouchable, unknown, like I’ve become the anonymity I wanted to use as armor. He doesn’t need my name. He’s already peeling me open.
Then his mouth is on mine again, deeper, hungrier, pulling me under. I kiss him back like I hate him, like I hate myself for wanting this. My hands fist in his shirt, dragging him closer, daring him to ruin me.
His body pins mine to the bed before I even realize he’s moved us. The fresh linens sigh beneath me, cool against overheated skin, while his weight presses down, solid and inescapable.
“You wanted a story,” he growls against my throat. His teeth graze, bite, soothe with the drag of his tongue. “So I’ll give you one. Tonight you stop being an observer. Tonight I start writing you into me. My wife. The mother of my children. Bound.”
My breath catches hard, shame and want tangled until I can’t tell one from the other. My mission screams at me to stop, to fight, to remember who I am. But my body arches anyway, betraying me with every tremor.
And when his hand slides down, lifting the hem of my dress with unhurried certainty, all I can do is gasp and let him.
He’s already sliding my dress higher, baring inches of skin with every slow drag of his palms. The light paints him in gold and shadow; his mask gleams, a predator crouched over me.
“Keep looking at me,” he murmurs. It’s not a request.
I do, because I can’t look anywhere else. His eyes are fixed on mine through the silver gilt, dark and bottomless.
He traces a line up my inner thigh with his thumb, the stroke maddeningly light. “All that noise in your head,” he says softly. “Deadlines. Questions. Names. Evidence. It stops now.”
My breath hitches. “You don’t—”
“I do,” he cuts me off, voice low and steady. “I’m going to take every word out of your mouth until you can’t remember what you came here for.”
The way he says it makes heat pool low in my belly. I should be terrified. Instead I’m trembling for an entirely different reason.
He lowers himself, the weight of his body caging mine without crushing. His mouth finds my throat, then lower, teeth grazing, tongue soothing. He moves with patience that feels like a threat. No rush, no mercy, every touch a claim.
By the time he reaches the top of my thighs I’m arching into his palms, my breath a string of broken sounds.
He slides his hands under me, tilts my hips up, removes my thong, and then his mouth is on me.
All thought shatters.
He licks me like he’s learning a language only he will ever speak, slow circles that tighten, deepen, change just when I think I can predict him. His fingers spread me wider, his tongue draws a line up and down until my vision goes white at the edges.
“Breathe,” he orders against my skin. The vibration of his voice there makes me moan.
I clutch at the sheets, at his shoulders, at anything I can find. My head presses into the pillow, hair coming loose, mask slipping a little but still on.
He doesn’t let up. He keeps me pinned, keeps me open, keeps working me with his mouth until my body starts to move on its own, hips rolling against his tongue, a low, helpless sound spilling from my throat that doesn’t sound like me at all.
All the questions, the angles, the story I came here to write dissolve into static. There’s nothing but the heat of his mouth and the sure grip of his hands holding me in place.
He drags his tongue up slowly, deliberately, and then sucks at the spot that makes my vision blur. “That’s it,” he murmurs, dark and pleased. “Give it to me. Forget everything else.”
I can’t breathe. Or maybe I’m breathing too much, every gasp shallow and jagged, filling me with fire instead of air. My body feels strung tight as a wire, every nerve lit.
He knows it. He’s mapping it with his tongue, his mouth mercilessly exact, dragging me up higher and higher. Every time I think I’m about to tip, he eases, changes pace, makes me cry out in frustration, then returns harder, deeper, until I’m breaking again.
I try to cling to thought, to reason. I try to remember why I’m here, what this is supposed to be. But every attempt dissolves the moment his tongue circles me just right, the moment his teeth graze me, the moment his voice rumbles low against me.
“Stop fighting it, little dove.” His words vibrate through me, hot and unbearable. “Give me what I want.”
A sob bursts out of me, desperate, helpless. My nails dig into the sheets. My hips buck, seeking more, demanding it even when my mind screams not to.
He pins me down effortlessly, his hands gripping my thighs, holding me open for him. And then he stops playing.
His tongue moves with ruthless precision, stroking exactly where I need it, over and over, relentless. His lips seal around me, sucking hard, sending lightning through every nerve.
I break.
The climax rips through me so violently I arch off the bed, a cry tearing out of my throat. White light floods behind my eyes, everything blurs, and all I can feel is the devastating rhythm of his mouth dragging every ounce of release from me.
It doesn’t stop there. He keeps going, swallowing every tremor, every aftershock, until I’m shaking, until my thighs quiver and I can’t push him away even if I wanted to.
When he finally lifts his head, his mouth glistens, his mask still gleaming above the wicked curve of his smile. His voice is low and rough.
“There,” he says, dragging his thumb over my trembling hip. “Now you understand.”
I’m panting, undone, sprawled against bed like I’ve been wrecked and remade.
Understand what? That he owns me? That he’s right? That I can’t walk away from this?
Maybe. Maybe all of it.
All I know is that my body doesn’t feel like it belongs to me anymore. It feels like his.
And he hasn’t even begun.