Chapter 11 Tess #2
“You’re going to just keep me with you all day?” I’m so confused by all this.
“Yep.”
And that seems to be the end of the conversation, as far as Kirill is concerned. He keeps his gaze on his computer screen, and with a lack of any better ideas, I flop onto the sofa opposite him, pick up my phone and the e-reader, and consider my options.
I can’t be obvious. I can’t just call the police.
But maybe he’s not monitoring the e-reader?
I find a short book I stopped reading a while ago, and only has about half an hour left to go. I carefully go through the pages, not taking them in. But I think at a normal pace.
Then, at the end, there’s a little request to leave a review, and I laboriously type using the impossible e-reader keyboard.
Stunning!
Ought to be made into a movie, it was a rollercoaster.
Series potential, but I’d rather stop now.
I’m pleased with it. It’s a bit more poetic than my usual reviews, but it’s plausible, and the S.O.S distress signal is clear without being too obvious. I submit it, and open another book. If I can do a few of these and put information about how far from London I am…
A notification pings on my phone.
I lean over to check it, and find a friend request on the review site I use, from “YourVillain”.
That’s odd.
I go to the app, and there’s a cascade of notifications from a conversation “I might like” according to the app. And the friend request.
It’s too weird. With a heavy sensation in my arms, I view the profile.
The picture is a pink grinning face on black, with crossed out eyes.
It’s just like Kirill’s mask.
I click accept. What else can I do? Immediately, a message pops up.
YourVillain
Nice try, but no.
I stare. Then I look over at Kirill. He doesn’t pause in typing, but shoots me a side-long glance that I swear is amused, and I have to repress an answering smile.
He got me.
I take a photo of my e-reader with my hand casually on it and my legs in shot. My finger is pointing to the word “help” in the text. It disappears when I try to post it. Next, I try a picture of my e-reader on my current page with the geolocation on. It posts with it off.
The video I make recommending a sweet, fluffy hockey rom-com but including violent heavy metal music with lyrics about being in hell? It’s changed to have the latest Taylor Swift release. Totally on brand for me.
There’s a lot of chatter about the sudden appearance of books many of us had on our wish lists but were expensive and not included in our subscription. Everyone is really excited about it.
I join in the celebration, saying which books I’m going to read with this new openness, but post with lots of abbreviations, mistakes, and American spellings rather than British. This is my best chance yet, I reckon. It’s so subtle I can’t imagine anyone but my friends noticing.
They’re all corrected when they’re live, like Kirill is my personal spell checker.
I have to admit, I’m enjoying the challenge of this game of cat and mouse we’re playing.
Wait, it’s not a game. Is it?
I glance across at Kirill each time he foils my attempt. He meets my eyes, and nods. When I get a smirk for the music, my heart does a silly little happy dance.
Next I make a normal post, but in the middle of the hashtags, I put #messagemenow.
The tag is removed when it’s posted, but a new message pops up.
YourVillain
What do you want to say, lapochka?
TessReads
I want to tell them what’s happened!
Across the room, Kirill sighs deeply.
I think that’s it, but a few minutes later, I’m watching the chat, and I’ve messaged the group. Except, I haven’t.
TessReads
Just to let you know, I’ve been kidnapped by a morally grey billionaire. Might be a bit slow to respond to messages, sorry.
The shock practically makes my hair stand on end.
“You told them!” I splutter.
“You wanted to inform them of your plight,” he says mildly. “Let’s find out what they think.”
The replies flow in from my friends.
I knew you’d join us on the dark romance team eventually, Tess!
Jealous.
Congrats. Happy for you. Nice.
Does he have a brother? :hair twirl:
We’ve told you before about the separation of real life and fiction, right?
Take all the time you need. I’ll be over here crying into romance books while he calls you his good girl. Sob.
Hashtag life goals.
“I bet you’re pleased with yourself,” I say aloud. This basically guarantees any messages I do manage to get out will be considered a continuation of the joke.
I’m stuffed. He has outmanoeuvred me.
“Yep,” he says cheerfully. His smile is so incredibly smug, I want to remove that expression by any means necessary. Maybe a slap or a… Kiss.
Damnit.
Okay, there’s one obvious thing I haven’t tried yet. The windows are open onto the terrace. I could just… Climb out?
I don’t allow myself to second-guess. It’s a warm day, and I snatch up my phone, and rush to the window.
I’m belly over it before Kirill responds. “Are you fucking joking?”
A thrill of fear goes down my spine. I wriggle.
“You are so distracting,” he mutters. “That’s enough escape attempts, Tess. Now you pay.”
Within seconds he’s across the room, and bundled me into his arms, dragging me backwards.
“You’d hurt yourself.” He sounds exasperated. “Do you seriously think I’d allow that?”
I struggle, but it’s only half-hearted, because this man is huge, and very strong. There’s no getting free.
“I’m putting you somewhere you can’t get into trouble,” he growls.
The basement.
Dungeon. Whatever it is. The place he was going to keep that man who he killed.
“Don’t.” It’s a pathetic whimper. “Please.”
“You will obey me,” he replies implacably as he turns us away from the window, and towards the door.
His arms are solid bands of warm metal over my body, and I’m helpless.
I underestimated how dangerous this man was. Or maybe I didn’t.
“I’m sorry!” I’m begging now. “Please don’t put me in the basement—”
“Stop wriggling!” he snaps as he carries me to his desk. “I need to work, and I don’t have a basement here.” He kicks a huge leather chair away, then sinks into it.
Then I’m in his lap.
“You will stay here until you can be trusted to behave.” The words are harsh, and his tone is almost teasing, but his touch… The way he holds me is completely different. It’s firm but gentle, like he can’t bear to let me go.
As though he needs this contact between us as much as I do.
He leans forward so he can reach his mouse with one hand, apparently ignoring me.
But he isn’t. His arm remains clasped on my waist and his thumb strokes achingly slowly up and down my side. A wide arc. He has big hands. And the way he’s big all over and I’m secure and petted slows my heart rate.
I allow myself to ease back. Maybe… Snuggle, just a little bit?
I didn’t sleep much last night, and honestly, I’m tired. And Kirill’s lap is so comfortable, his arms around me firmly. Trying not to think about what could happen if I get this wrong, I lay my cheek against the solid muscle of his pectoral.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, shifting to hold me tighter, and ohhhh I didn’t know I needed that. Then he leans forward to look at his computer screen, and his chin rests on the top of my head.
And we remain like that, layered together. My breathing slows. My heart rate drops.
There’s something about being held and cherished by a man who I’ve experienced as brutal and dangerous that’s oddly secure.
There’s no pretence, for one. He’s not doing this to show me or someone else that he’s a nice person.
There are just the two of us, and no illusions.
I’m his captive. But still, he’s holding me.
And the other thing is, that in the arms of a man who is objectively scary is a safe place. No one can get me here.
To get a bit more comfy, I shuffle back on his lap and suddenly there is something hot and solid against the small of my back that I’m confident in saying is not a gun.
That’s his cock. Just casually there.
He’s hard.
Does this man always have a hard-on? Maybe it’s normal?
I’ve never asked, or been the sort of person who had friends who would tell her.
I work at the bar, and I’m very much a turn up, do my job, then go home kind of person.
Not a drink afterwards and hang out person, though I wouldn’t mind.
But no one ever invited me. And I have never thought to search online for how often men get erections.
But now, I have questions. Big ones. He’s so controlled. I squirm against his length, and he drags in a steadying intake of breath, but doesn’t otherwise respond.
Maybe this is his kink? Self-denial? Seems unlikely for someone like Kirill. He occurs to me as more of a see, want, take sort of man.
I look up, and Kirill is regarding me. Those long lashes are so pretty, and the dark, sandpapery stubble on his jaw is almost a shock by comparison.
He’s a study in contrasts. The grey eyes that are so expressive and full of life.
His tattoos that are like a computer’s circuit board.
His grumpy attitude and the flashes of humour.
He dips his head fractionally, as though our mouths are magnets, pulled together. There’s nothing but the sound of our breathing and the thud of my pulse.
I lick my lips, and his gaze lowers momentarily, then snaps up to my eyes.
I want him to kiss me.
The acknowledgement is a rush of adrenaline.
This is crazy. The promise in the way he’s holding me, the hot bar of his erection, and the memory of our chase and how he crashed me into orgasm then carried me carefully home—back to his home—conspires to make me tingle with a desire I’ve never felt before.
Kiss me, I beg him in my thoughts. I open my lips in invitation.
“Lapochka…” he says softly, and for a second I’m sure that he’s going to take exactly what his body obviously wants.
I’m shockingly on board with that idea.
He heaves in a breath, then leans back and exhales hard.
My heart slumps to my toes, then a bit further as he gently but firmly lifts me from his lap and onto my feet.
“Go and read, and no more attempting to contact anyone. That’s my third favour.” His voice is taut, and he releases me.
I’m instantly cold.
“Delicious breakfast foods and lots of reading time,” I quip as I head back to my sofa and pick up the e-reader. “Who said I was trying to escape?” My cheerfulness is a transparent attempt to disguise that I know he doesn’t like me enough to kiss me.
“Mmm.” He scowls, and it’s unclear whether that rumble from his throat is agreement.
No one else ever has, so why would Kirill, who is clever, dangerous, rich and powerful, be any different?