7. Riley
Riley
T he beast of a Russian stops in his tracks and turns.
The second he does, my brain instantly regrets my mouth’s decision to cry out for mercy.
“Fuck you!”
That’s what I should’ve said.
Or Go to hell.
Or I’d rather bleed than beg.
But no. What came out?
Wait.
His eyes lock on mine, dark and unreadable.
A wolf weighing the rabbit’s next move.
Will she run? Or kneel?
And from the way his mouth curves, so fucking sure of himself, he’s good either way.
I lick my dry lips, nerves on edge. Am I really doing this?
God, I hate myself for giving in.
Then I look around—really look.
Pretty walls.
Opulent furniture.
Zero windows.
Where the only person who hears you scream… is you.
It’s not just a prison. It’s a coffin.
The question isn’t am I really doing this?
It’s— what other choice do I fucking have?
A dizzying wave of walls-closing-in hits me. I wrap both arms around myself to stave off another round of hyperventilation.
Because if I’m locked in here for even one more hour—no windows, no exits, no air —I will break.
Not metaphorically.
Not some distant, poetic kind of falling apart.
Now.
All rational thought skids to a violent halt. My feet carry me toward the bed, like my body has made the decision for me.
It’s a kiss, right?
Just a kiss.
Yes, it’s a kiss down there , but still?—
One kiss.
Nothing more.
I can survive a kiss.
My gaze lifts as I ignore the fact that my nipples are impossibly tight. “And then I can go?”
“When I’m done.”
When he’s done? My legs snap shut. Arms flail in protest. “You could take three days to get done!”
“I do like to take my time…but three days is a stretch. Even for me.” He shrugs, and checks his watch. “Even if I let you waltz out the door right now, where would you go?”
He’s not wrong.
I didn’t see a soul on the way in. Not one.
And the last thing I want is to wander around a city ranked top five for violent crime—with no phone, no cash, and no decent sense of direction to save my life in broad daylight, let alone at night.
He exhales, jaw ticking once, already tired of negotiating with a hostage.
“A kiss, and you leave at sunrise, Zapretnaya . Otherwise, you’re here for a week.”
I weigh my options.
Not that there are many.
Or any, really.
Eventually, I agree. “One kiss.”
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t blink.
Just reaches into his pocket and pulls out my worst nightmare. A slip of black fabric.
A blindfold.
My stomach drops.
Cold slams into me like a punch to the chest.
Sweat beads at the back of my neck.
No air.
Just panic.
Tight, fast breaths claw at my lungs as my own body chokes off the air.
I told him.
Not the dark.
Anything but the fucking dark.
Before I say a word, he’s already in front of me. A raw tower of dominance, carved from stone.
He sees it the second it slips through—the fracture in my expression.
Of course he does. My fear lights up like neon, and he reads it like a DoorDash menu—memorized, ordered, and already making room for seconds.
Is there a school for this?
Knowing exactly which primal fear pairs best with which carefully curated psychological torture du jour?
His voice stays maddeningly calm.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t reach for me.
Just tosses the blindfold into my lap like a gift.
Or a leash.
“You… put it on.”
A big, fat duh rattles around the back of my skull as my fingers twitch, fumbling with the soft black silk. “I know, I know ,” I snap—too sharp, too fast, too much. “Just… give me a minute.”
“It wasn’t a command.”
Huh?
The rough edges in his voice soften.
“You put it on. When you’re ready. You tie it—tight or loose, your choice. But it must cover your eyes.”
He leans in just enough to set my nerves on fire, a single finger lifting to point at my face.
“And I will test you,” he warns.
Test me?
How?
My brain goes rogue, picturing him stripped bare, nothing on but that chiseled physique and a complex math problem tattooed across his abs.
Solve for fuck me sideways.
Show your work.
Yeah. Okay, Riley. You’ve officially lost it.
I stare down at the blindfold.
So much control. So many expectations—all threaded through a flimsy strip of silk.
“Why do you need this?” I whisper. “I can just… close my eyes.”
“Because for this kiss,” he says quietly, “I will remove my mask.”
He will?
“And you can’t see my face.”
Again with the face.
No name. No identity.
Just a kiss. A blindfold.
And me—spread-eagle for a total stranger.
For my captor.
Heat flickers low. So much so I have to clench my thighs.
My voice barely scrapes its way out.
Thin. Shaky. Not even recognizable as my own.
“If it’s just a kiss…Can I… can I at least keep my clothes on?”
Flames in his eyes ignite.
“Yes.” No pause. No cruelty. Just a concession that comes so readily, it throws me.
The word hits like a blowtorch between my thighs, and a wrecking ball against the flimsy armor I barely managed to keep in place.
Inside, it’s war.
Fury collides with hope.
Hatred crashes into curiosity.
And fear—fear licks at the heels of something darker.
Something I don’t want to name.
Something hot .
“When you’re ready,” he continues, gaze like fire over ice, “slip it on and lie back.”
Or maybe it’s the way he says it.
That bob in his throat. The flicker in his voice.
The stare.
Control on the edge of collapse.
I bite my lip so hard the taste of metal floods my mouth. It jolts me back just enough to move.
Before I know it, I close my eyes and slip it on.
The panic clawing up my throat drifts away when the warmth of his breath feathers across my lips.
“Are you wet for me, Zapretnaya ?”
“Fuck you.”
Okay, that came out a little harsh for a girl not actively trying to get murdered. Instant regret drowns whatever fleeting satisfaction I got from saying it.
What did we say about not pissing off the psycho, Riley ?
I soften my tone. More measured. “I’m doing this so I can go home.”
“Your worst fear used to own you. Now it bows to me. ” He nips my ear. “If you do anything to resist,” he says, “this ends.”
Ends?
As in I end?
“…and you’re here for the week.”
My stomach drops. A fucking week.
My answer slips out, quiet and bitter. “Just get it over with.”
“Fine. Pull up your dress.”
My breath catches.
“You said I could keep my clothes on.”
“Did I ask you to remove them?”
Technically… no.
He didn’t.
For a long minute that stretches into forever, my hands clutch the fabric—frozen. Pulse pounding in my ears, echoing like a countdown.
“Resistance so soon, Zapretnaya ?”
Finally, my fingers unlock. Slow and steady, I draw up the fabric until the hem slides over my thighs.
By this point, I’m on autopilot. I should be ashamed. Mortified. But instead, I’m just letting a stranger see my panties. My soaked panties.
And every nerve is on fire. Every sense, every sound, heightened .
His breath. His gasp. His swallow.
Like the glass surface of a lake, I don’t just want to see a ripple. I want to shatter the calm.
I open.
An inch. Nearly two. Then all… the… way.
His breath catches, jagged and hungry. “You… are… perfect .”
The praise hits like a blowtorch between my thighs, scorching the last fragile embers of pride I have left.
Shouldn’t I hate him for putting me through this?
But it’s the heat of him. He’s everywhere all at once. Pressing into the edges of me, filling the space between fear and want until I can’t tell them apart.
He’s impossibly bigger. Endless. Like there’s no space left for me at all.
Because he isn’t just looming anymore. He’s settling in. Taking up residence under my skin, to the point I can’t breathe.
When his mouth ghosts over mine, I taste him.
Taste the heat. The hunger. That whisper of desire I never asked for and can’t move an inch to resist.
His growl rumbles low in warning. In frustration …
The heat of his mouth drifts lower.
Down my neck.
Between my breasts.
Lower…
His groan curls against my skin. And the tremble that’s lived in my bones disappears the moment I feel heat against my panties.
One. Lick.
And that’s all it takes.
My back jerks off the bed, a helpless buck of instinct.
My fingers find his hair—thick, wild curls I grip for dear life.
Maybe in protest.
Maybe in pleasure.
Maybe just to stave off a dark need rising to the surface. Stretch out the moment that much longer. Delay the fall.
But then, he stops.
Freezes.
And I do the unthinkable.
My grip eases.
But instead of pushing him away…I stroke through his thick curls.
Slow. Gentle.
Sinking into the feel of him.
Of this.
The next thick glide of his tongue hits me with the force of ten Mack trucks.
Oh, God…
The way he licks me, not soft, not sweet, but like he owns me. Ravishes me like creamy vanilla ice cream on the hottest summer day—slow, messy, greedy strokes.
A moan rips from my throat, followed by another.
And another.
Warmth spreads like wildfire.
Wetness.
His touch.
His tongue.
Holy fuck.
I’m dangling over the cliff’s edge—knowing it will destroy me. Euphoric at the thought.
He licks along the sheer fabric of my panties, forcing his way in, lapping, pressing, circling, invading.
Right through the cloth.
And I don’t even recognize the sounds coming out of my mouth anymore. Just one frantic mess of “Please,” and moans and…
Zver. Zver. Zver…
Until I’m not even speaking.
I’m screaming.
His name.
Begging.
Crying out—Tears slip down my temples, salty and hot.
Because I’m surrendering in all the ways I swore I never would. Years of defenses—bricked and welded—falling apart like acid tearing through hardened steel.
And I—I can’t stop the tsunami rising to crash over me.
Somewhere between one whimper and the next, I stop feeling the fabric.
The barrier—whatever was left of it—vanishes.
It’s just his mouth.
My pussy.
Him.
Me.
A brutal, messy blur of me unraveling, sobbing, riding his face like I’ve lost my mind.
Until I come.