Chapter 1 #2
He grinned, all smug satisfaction. He stepped back, and he finally gave me air. But just as I thought I could bail, he bent low, and his lips brushed my ear.
Warm breath ghosted my skin. "Remember—only to me. If I catch wind you shared with anyone else..."
He trailed off.
That pause hit harder than any threat.
"I'll be pissed."
He straightened, he smoothed his cuff like it was nothing, and then he melted back into the crowd—all grace.
I sagged against the wall, my legs turned to jelly, and I was about to puddle on the floor.
Sweat slicked my palms; the card crumpled in my fist.
Outside, the cold wind slapped my face like a wake-up call.
I shivered, and it snapped me back a bit.
On the curb, I stared at the mangled card, and I replayed it all—his stare, voice, finger heat, that scent...
My pulse kicked up again.
Alexander Volkov.
The name echoed in my skull like a spell.
He was bad news. I knew it—from the way he eyed me, the edge in his tone, that crushing aura. He was not a good guy.
But damn, he was magnetic.
My throat went dry.
I shook it off hard. Snap out of it, Anna. You are here to work! Not crush like a teenager.
Work slammed reality home like ice water.
I had bombed—no usable shots. I wasted three hours, cab fare, makeup, and—
Fuck.
The editor was gonna rip me tomorrow.
Back at my dump of an apartment, the door creaked open to that musty, damp funk.
The tiny shoebox measured fifteen square feet tops. Cracks snaked the walls from ceiling to floor. Mildew bloomed black on the plaster. Furniture? The bed, a wobbly table, and a mini-fridge that barely cooled.
I yanked off the wig, I kicked the torture-leather and heels, I swapped for my ratty holey tee as PJs, and I crashed on the bed.
New York's frozen night stared back through the grimy window.
I held up the card that I had clutched all night—black, premium as hell, gleaming fake-dreamy in the shitty lamp light.
A long beat passed, then I tucked it in my bag, I fired up the laptop, and I figured I should hunt for a backup shot to turn in. But my mouse betrayed me, it clicked straight to Alexander Volkov's pics.
Blurry shots with bad light did not hide a thing—that raw hotness. Him brooding, him glancing up, that ghost of a smirk... every frame hooked me hard.
I stared, and my heart revved.
His fingers on my chin burned in my mind, that gravelly voice echoed, and the chokehold closeness lingered...
I shook my head, and I tried to ditch the haze. It was not the time.
But the shots blurred by, they stayed meaningless—only him stuck, vines wrapping my brain.
I let go of the mouse, I slumped in the chair with a sigh, and I craned back at the ceiling mold for ages. Finally, I dragged up, I fished the card from my bag.
The wrinkled card from my death grip still screamed money.
My fingers traced the number, smooth and warm-feeling.
He was a dangerous dude. It was crystal clear.
But... what if just a chat? It could make this lame night less lonely?
I fixed on those digits, and his face flooded back—eyes, grin, that loaded glance over his shoulder.
My cheeks grew hotter.
My pulse sped faster.
On autopilot, I grabbed my phone, and I punched in the number digit by digit off the card.
The cursor blinked empty in the chat. My thumb hovered over send—my last gasp of sanity yelled, Anna, you are nuts! Who is this guy? Mess with him, and you are toast.
But the pull crashed over it. I craved that breathless tug again, and I craved the thrill of teetering on the edge.
I tapped.
"Message sent."
My heart slammed.
I glued to the screen, nerves and hype twisted.
Would he bite? Or was I delusional? Maybe he—
The phone buzzed. It came in the next second.
I skipped a beat. That quick?
I took a deep breath, I held it, and I tapped the new text—
"Up late?"
My lips curved despite myself. I fired back: "Still working."
It came quick as hell: "One a.m.? Thought at this hour, you'd only dream of me."
Blunt words loaded with that heart-racing tease.
I bit my lip, I stared forever, and my belly heated up like fire.
"So, 'work' done?" Another ping came—I could hear the low, mocking drawl.
I licked my lips, and I typed: "Yeah, in bed now."
I sent it. My face went on fire.
It was a total come-on.
I fidgeted two minutes—no reply.
Regret gnawed. Was I too thirsty? I should have played coy. My fingers itched to backpedal when—
"Whatcha wearing?"
I stared at those words, my breaths shallowed, and my bare legs rubbed together, restless. I lied: "Black slip dress."
"Wanna see."
My breaths hitched, the room sweltered, and my body woke up— a strange itch bloomed low.
I bit my lip harder, I paused, and then I hammered out a dare: "You send one first, maybe I'll think about it."
I hit send. My pulse thundered, regret and thrill churned. It was reckless as hell—what was I doing? A stranger, a bad-vibes stranger... but the risk? It cranked the heat, and my skin prickled with gooseflesh.
"Typing..." hung forever—longer than before. I watched, and my breath trapped.
Finally: "Playing with fire, little reporter."
Then—a pic loaded.
My eyes bugged, and my throat turned Sahara-dry.
His selfie was a fresh snap, dim light. He propped on pillows, black silk sheets half-draped over his chest, and they bared ripped pecs, a tease of ink, abs carved deep, and skin dotted with shower beads like he had just stepped out.
His hair was damp and messy over his forehead, his hazel eyes bored into the lens—raw, hungry want.
The smirk crooked, sinful, like he dared me to crash and burn.
My face scorched, my fingers shook as I zoomed in. Oh god. He was perfect. That lethal pull yanked me in. I pictured his skin scorching, his breath scorching... my nipples peaked under the worn tee, they scraped rough cotton into sweet sting.
Every shift of my body sent a sharp, tingling jolt through me, mixing pain with this twisted pleasure that made my breath hitch.
I stared at the photo on my phone, Alexander's wet hair clinging to his forehead, those dark eyes piercing right through the screen, like he knew exactly what he was doing to me.
God, he looked like sin wrapped in silk sheets, all muscle and menace, and I couldn't tear my eyes away.
I played with them at first, just lightly, my fingers brushing over the stiff peaks through the thin cotton.
The fabric was worn and scratchy, rubbing against the sensitive tips in a way that made me whimper softly.
I circled one nipple slowly, feeling it pebble even harder under my touch, then pinched it gently between my thumb and forefinger, rolling it back and forth.
A spark of heat shot straight down to my core, making my thighs clench together involuntarily.
I switched to the other one, giving it the same attention, tweaking it until a gasp escaped my lips.
The room felt smaller, hotter, the air thick with my growing arousal.
But it wasn't enough; the teasing only built the ache, leaving me wanting more, craving something deeper to satisfy the fire he'd ignited with just a single photo.
Heat pooled low in my belly, insistent and demanding, a throbbing need that I couldn't ignore.
My hand trailed down slowly, deliberately, over the soft curve of my stomach, fingers trembling slightly as they skimmed past the hem of my worn-out panties.
The anticipation made my skin tingle, every nerve ending alive and buzzing.
I imagined it was his hand—those strong, calloused fingers that had lifted my chin earlier in the club, now exploring me with that same dangerous intent, possessive and unyielding.
In my mind, Alexander's deep voice whispered in my ear, urging me on, telling me how much he wanted to see me come undone for him.
I hiked up the T-shirt with my other hand, bunching it above my breasts and exposing them to the cool, stale air of the dingy room.
The sudden chill made my nipples tighten even more, standing out like hard little peaks, aching for relief.
Goosebumps erupted across my skin, but my focus shifted lower, where the real fire burned.
I slipped my hand under the waistband of my panties, feeling the damp heat radiating from between my legs.
Fuck, I was already soaked, my arousal slick and ready just from looking at his picture and replaying our encounter.
My fingers brushed over the swollen nub of my clit, sensitive and begging for friction, and I started rubbing it in slow, deliberate circles.
Each pass sent jolts of pleasure racing through me, making my hips twitch.
I thought of Alexander's voice in my ear, that low, magnetic rumble commanding me to touch myself for him, to show him how wet he made me.
"Oh, God," I whispered, my voice barely audible in the quiet room, my hips bucking up involuntarily against my hand.
In my fantasy, he was right there, watching me with those intense brown eyes, dark with hunger and approval.
"Alexander..." His name slipped out like a desperate plea, fueling the flames inside me.
I pictured his lips curling into that predatory smile, the one that promised trouble, urging me to go faster, to give in completely.
My rubs turned firmer, faster, pressing down harder on my clit and sending sparks shooting through my core, building that sweet, agonizing pressure.
But it still wasn't enough. The ache deepened into a frustrating emptiness, a void that begged to be filled, my body screaming for more penetration, more of him—even if it was just in my imagination.