Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Kira
It isn’t the bodies that make me stop; it’s the way they’re completely unafraid of wanting each other, the way hands slide over skin with an ease I’ve never felt, the way their eyes stay open even as they fall apart, as if desire isn’t something to hide but something to be seen and witnessed and shared.
The realization hits me too fast, a sharp heat curling through me until my breath falters and I freeze mid-step, unable to tear my gaze away, and Artyom halts when he notices.
My breath gets caught somewhere in my throat, and I don’t realize I’ve stopped walking until Artyom stops too.
“Kira,” he says softly.
“I—sorry,” I murmur, but I don’t move.
He steps behind me slowly, carefully, like he doesn’t want to startle me, and when he speaks again his voice is right near my ear, warm and deep and stripped of all that controlled irritation he hides behind.
“You’re curious.” It’s not a question.
I feel heat creep up my neck.
“I’m just… looking,” I whisper.
He huffs a quiet breath, and I hear it more than feel it. “I know.”
I swallow hard because the room feels even hotter now, the air thicker, the sounds behind the glass too soft and too loud at the same time, and when I take a small breath, I can smell his cologne wrapping around me like a touch.
I should walk away, leave and pretend none of this stirs anything in me. But I don’t move, and neither does he. He steps closer, until his chest brushes my back, and I feel the heat of him, the solid weight of his body, the tension he’s holding under the surface.
His voice drops even lower. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
The words hit deeper than they should.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “I’ve never… I’ve never seen anything like this.”
He waits.
“But it doesn’t look…” I inhale. “…scary.”
His breath pauses against my cheek.
“And it doesn’t look embarrassing,” I continue, my voice barely there. “They look… free.”
His hand slides to my waist, fingers curling into the fabric of my dress like he wants to ground me or pull me closer or both.
“Do you want to join them?” he asks. “My business associates are all busy right now anyway, so no one will see us.”
I should say no, but my body betrays me and leans back slightly, only enough for him to feel it, not enough for me to admit anything out loud, and when he feels it, his fingers flex just once against my hip.
“Yes,” I finally whisper.
He turns me gently so he can see my face, and the soft red lighting in this hallway makes his eyes look darker, deeper, hungry in a way he tries to hide but can’t quite bury.
“Then look at me,” he says, his voice a low, demanding vibration right behind my ear.
I do, and the second our eyes meet, something shatters between us.
He lifts his hand to my jaw, his thumb brushing my cheek in a slow, thoughtful motion, his touch heavy and possessive, as if he’s testing the reliability of my resistance. I feel the ghost of his knuckle trace the line where my pulse hammers wildly against the skin.
“Kira,” he murmurs, and the sound of my name in that tone—deep, intimate, laced with undeniable command—makes my knees feel like water. “You trust me.”
I don’t know what terrifying, reckless part of myself answers him so honestly, but I nod, a tiny, barely perceptible movement, but enough.
His presence is a wall of sudden, intense warmth that suffocates the cool air between us.
He doesn’t need me to speak; the tightening of my throat, the frantic, high-pitched flutter in my stomach already answers him.
My eyes cling desperately to the chaos behind the glass—the slick bodies shifting in the red light, the flash of dark hair, the strained, choked rhythm of labored breath.
My hands, cold and clammy, twitch uncontrollably at my sides, longing to grasp something.
Shame burns high on my cheeks, yet beneath it, a consuming, magnetic ache coils tight and low in my chest, a terrifying demand I can't silence.
He leans in, his mouth so close that his breath is a hot plume against my skin. “You want to feel this, don’t you?” he whispers, his voice a low, rough rumble. “You want the feeling of being taken, here.”
Then he moves. “We’re going in,” he says, the finality in his tone erasing any last shred of choice.
In the next breath, his hand clamps around my wrist, and he yanks me into the small side room before I even realize we’ve left the hallway.
The heavy door shuts behind us with a solid, echoing thud, the sound cutting us off from the corridor, immediately muffling the outside world.
The sounds leak in from the other side of the one-way glass, wrapping around us like a blanket—soft, breathy moans, sharp, ecstatic cries, the rhythmic, heavy thud-thud-thud of bodies hitting the velvet couches, all underscored by the low, pulsing bass that seems to beat right inside my skull.
The lighting is incredibly soft inside, a pervasive, shifting red and deep gold that makes the corners of the room swim.
The air is immediately thicker here, heavy with the humid stench of heated skin and raw, uninhibited lust. Before I can even register the faces of the people on the other side, his hands are already finding their way on my body.
My eyes dart, seeing three distinct clusters of bodies, all deep in their own private, frenzied worlds, totally oblivious to us.
Near the center, a man is standing over a chaise, his movements piston-like and brutal, while two women are tangled together at his feet.
Along the far wall, a quieter couple is pressed vertically, their bodies a slow, grinding silhouette against the red light.
A third group, a shifting mass of four people, occupies the plush rug in the corner, all of them interlinked with each other.
Before I can ruin this with panic, his hands are on me.
He doesn't touch my skin yet; his fingers lock around my wrists, pulling them up and back against the marble wall with firm, immediate force.
He guides me backward until my shoulders press against the cool marble—the sudden, intense cold shock anchoring me slightly in the overwhelming heat.
His body immediately follows, surging forward to fill every inch of space in front of mine, completely eclipsing my view of the next room and forcing my focus entirely onto the hard planes of his chest and the sheer gravity of his presence.
He kisses me like he’s been holding himself back for days, long and deep and hungry, and everything outside this room falls away all at once.
He works quickly but with ruthless precision, pulling the zipper of my dress down until the fabric collapses around my waist. The cold air hits my bare chest, but the heat of his hands immediately follows, finding the soft skin above my waist.
Behind the glass, a woman lets out a high, ragged cry, but Artyom only pulls me closer, his mouth devouring mine.
He touches me like he’s asking for permission without saying a word, his thumb tracing the curve of my hipbone.
He slows down when I breathe too hard, tilting his head to deepen the kiss only after I pull his hair tighter, frantic for more.
He searches my face between breaths as if he needs to read every reaction.
He whispers, his breath hot against my ear, the sound barely audible over the bass. "Look at them, Kira."
The raw, possessive instruction sends a violent thrill through me and I obey, risking more than a flicker. I turn my head sharply, glancing past the hard line of his shoulder and out into the chaotic room.
The blurred, rhythmic action in the background is terrifying, but the sound of his voice makes the world shrink until I feel like we have an intimate, captive audience.
I register the central group near the chaise—the exposed skin, the glistening sweat, the mindless expressions.
The heat in my face is no longer shame—it’s pure, desperate excitement.
And when he touches me again, I feel myself melt into the moment because there is no pressure here, no pretending.
There’s just the warmth of his hands, the heat of his breath, the quiet sound he makes when I gasp, and the way his forehead presses against mine like he needs this just as badly as I do.
He pushes my dress down completely, and the velvet of a nearby couch presses against my thighs. He pushes me onto the edge, his dark suit jacket falling open.
He leans in, his eyes dark, intense, burning through the dim, red-tinged light of the room, fixing my gaze with a predatory focus that strips away all my remaining defenses. His voice drops, a low, demanding rasp. "Tell me you're mine, Kira. Here. Now."
“Artyom, I’m yours.” I moan as thrilling, terrifying adrenaline coils tight in my belly.
I can only manage a shallow gasp, my throat locked, but my hips instinctively tilt upward, offering silent consent. He reads the answer in the desperate tremor that runs through my body.
He shifts between my legs, his hands gripping my hips, the pressure firm enough to bruise, anchoring me to the plush, worn velvet beneath us. Then, with a sudden, relentless force, he enters me. He does it with a hard, consuming drive, a deep, immediate invasion that steals my breath.
He fills me completely, stretching me past the point of comfort, and the friction is immediate, searing, and absolute. I cry out, a sharp, ragged sound that’s immediately swallowed by the rhythmic moans of the room.
He doesn't flinch. His eyes, demanding and possessive, are locked on mine, forcing me to keep looking at him, keep seeing only him, making the chaos around us disappear.
He pulls back just an inch, his voice a low, thick growl against my ear, vibrating against my jawbone. "Good," he commands, "You're taking all of it."
Then he begins to move.