Page 7 of Hostage with Benefits

The air between us thickened. I was acutely aware of how small the bathroom was, how close he was sitting, and how his eyes had darkened to that dangerous blue that meant he was thinking things that would make it seem like Galina’s matchmaking efforts hadn’t been in vain.

“This is a terrible idea,” I said, even as I took a step closer.

“Most good things in life are, aren’t they?” He stood to tower over me.

He led me back to the bedroom, his hand firm on my lower back. The touch was proprietary and possessive; it should’ve set off alarm bells but instead sent heat pooling low in my belly.

Once inside, he turned to me, his eyes traveling from my face down the length of my body. And the hunger in his gaze— oh boy.

“Take it all off,” he murmured.

I stepped out of my jeans and panties at once and then unbuttoned my shirt slowly, hyperaware of his eyes tracking each movement.

When it fell open, I let it slide from my shoulders to puddle on the floor.

Standing naked before him, I felt powerful, if only because Mikhail’s face lit up as he took the view in.

“Now you,” I said.

A flicker of amusement crossed his face as he began to undress, wincing slightly when the movement pulled at his injured arm.

When he was naked, he sat on the edge of the bed and beckoned me forward. I approached, standing between his spread knees. His hands settled on my hips, thumbs stroking over my hipbones.

“You make me forget myself.” He brushed a kiss to my neck as he pulled me into him. “Make me forget why you’re here.”

“Why am I here, Mikhail?” I asked, my fingers threading through his hair.

His mouth found mine, and the kiss was surprisingly tender. His injured arm limited him, so I took control and straddled his hips. His cock lay hard against his stomach, and I took him in my hand, stroking slowly.

“Careful,” he warned, eyes half-lidded. “I’m injured, remember?”

“Poor baby,” I teased, positioning myself above him. “Should I kiss it better?”

“I can think of something better than a kiss.”

I sank down onto his cock, taking him inch by inch until he was fully seated. The stretch and fullness made me gasp.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise. His eyes met mine, startlingly vulnerable and icy blue. “It’s like you were made for me.”

My heart stuttered; whatever this was, it was too close for comfort.

So, instead, I started to roll my hips, setting a pace that would push away any trace of coherent thought from both our minds.

His hands guided my hips, his mouth finding my breast, sucking and nipping at my nipples, sending electric shocks straight to my core.

“I should keep you like this,” he said into my skin. “Just for me. Always ready, always wet, always horny.”

The words sent a shiver through me, a dark thrill I didn’t want to examine too closely.

“Would you like that, kukolka ?” His thrust upward met my downward motion, hitting a spot that made me cry out. “To be kept in my bed? To be mine?”

“Yes,” I admitted, the word torn from me before I could think better of it.

His rhythm faltered, then resumed with new intensity. One hand slid from my hip to my lower abdomen, pressing lightly.

“I should keep you full of my cum, too,” he said, his accent thickening with arousal. “Until you’re pregnant with my child.”

The words should have been a bucket of cold water. Instead, they sent heat spiraling through me, tightening the coil of pleasure building at my core.

“You’d look beautiful,” he continued, watching my reactions closely. “Your belly round with my baby. Everyone would know you belong to me.”

“Mikhail—” I gasped, torn between shock and arousal.

He flipped us suddenly, ignoring his injury to pin me beneath him. The new angle let him drive deeper, each thrust more possessive than the last.

“If you’d let me, I’d keep you barefoot and pregnant,” he growled against my ear. “Fill you with my cum every night until that happens.”

His hand slid between us, fingers finding my clit with unerring accuracy. “Tell me you want it,” he demanded, his thrusts becoming more erratic. “Tell me you want it too.”

“I want it,” I heard myself say, caught in the heat of the moment.

The words pushed him over the edge. He came with a guttural groan. I clenched around his cock as I shattered around him, mind blank and body begging for more as he held me tightly against him.

But instead of collapsing beside me as he had before, he stayed perfectly still, his cock still hard inside me. When I shifted, he placed a hand on my hip.

“Don’t move,” he commanded. “Keep it all inside you.”

When he finally withdrew, he did so slowly.

His cum begin to leak out, but before it could, he was there, gathering it with his fingers and pushing it back inside.

The possessiveness with which he ensured his cum remained deep in me sent another wave of pleasure through my body and made my walls clamp around his fingers.

“Perfect,” he murmured, his fingers still working, pushing it deeper. His eyes were fixed on what he was doing, a look of primal satisfaction on his face.

I should have been horrified. I should have pushed his hand away. Instead, I lay there, letting him claim me in this most primitive way, as a strange contentment washed over me.

When he finally looked up, meeting my eyes, I saw that this went beyond lust or possession; it was dangerously close to tenderness and…

We didn’t speak about what had just happened. He simply pulled me against him, his hand resting possessively on my stomach.

Eventually, we disentangled ourselves, cleaning up with the efficiency of people deliberately avoiding a deeper conversation. I showered, and by the time I emerged from his bathroom, wrapped in a towel, he had changed into fresh clothes and was sitting on the bed, staring at his phone.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

He looked up, his expression unreadable. “Fine. Just business.”

We spent the rest of the evening in a strange, domestic bubble: dinner, then an old movie in his private theater, where I fell asleep against his shoulder halfway through. I was carried to his bedroom after that, with his arms strong and sure around me.

I woke the next morning to an empty space beside me where Mikhail had slept all night. Stretching, I contemplated the events of the previous day, particularly the unexpected turn his dirty talk had taken.

It was just dirty talk, I told myself firmly. People say crazy things during sex. The fact that I couldn’t stop thinking about the possibility of actually carrying his child, was just hormones and Stockholm syndrome playing tricks on my mind. At least I hoped.

I slid out of bed, intending to find coffee and maybe some perspective, when I heard Mikhail's voice from the office. He was speaking Russian, his tone clipped and professional. I shouldn't have listened. I definitely shouldn't have crept closer to the partially open door.

I caught fragments; there was something about a “shipment” and “delivery.” The conversation was about my father's stolen shipments being returned.

When he switched to English, I froze.

“Yes, today. The exchange is arranged for noon.” A pause. “No, she doesn't know.” Another pause. “That's not your concern. I'll handle it.”

He ended the call, and I barely had time to step back before the door opened fully.

Mikhail stood there, already dressed in what I was beginning to think of as his “business attire,” which consisted of a dark suit, a crisp shirt, and the serious look of a man who might get into a fistfight with a business partner.

“You're awake,” he said, seeming unsurprised to find me hovering outside his office.

“I was about to grab coffee. Will you have breakfast with me?” I asked, lying through my teeth.

His eyes narrowed slightly, and I knew he didn't believe me. “I have to go out. Business.”

“Is it my father's shipment? The one you kidnapped me over?”

“Natalia—“

“If you get what you want, does that mean I'm free to go?” The question came out sharper than I'd intended, edged with a fear I didn't want to examine.

Something flickered across his face—regret? Resignation? “It's complicated.”

“Uncomplicate it.”

“I don't have time for this right now.” He moved past me. “Stay here. We'll talk when I get back.”

“What if I don't want to stay? What if I want to leave?”

He paused at the door, looking back at me with an expression I couldn't interpret. “Do you?”

The question hung between us, weighted with more than just the immediate context. Did I want to leave? To go back to my shoebox apartment, my demanding clients, my solitary life? The answer should have been an immediate yes . The fact that it wasn't terrified me.

“I want the truth,” I said instead.

“When I return.” He checked his watch again. “I have to go.”

After he left, I couldn’t stop thinking. The shipment was being returned today. The entire reason for my kidnapping would be resolved. Which meant... what, exactly? That I'd be released? That I'd go back to my normal life like none of this had happened?

The thought sent a spike of panic through me that had no logical explanation. I should be relieved. I should be packing my things, eager to escape this bizarre captivity.

Instead, I went back to my original room, the one I'd been given and that was intended for me to be kept as a hostage, and sitting down on the the bed, staring at the door. Waiting, though I wasn't sure what for.

Funny how being released now was starting to feel like the worst possible outcome.