Page 48

ALLURE

My legs gave out the second I crossed the threshold. I sank onto the edge of his king-sized bed, the silk sheets cool against my burning skin. The room smelled like him. I could hear his footsteps behind me, slow and measured, like a predator who knew his prey had nowhere left to run.

The door clicked shut.

"You pointed my gun at me," he said, voice low enough to rattle my bones.

I didn't turn around. Couldn't. My hands gripped the sheets so tight my knuckles were bursting through.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you."

That command. That tone. It shouldn't have made heat pool between my thighs, but it did. Everything about this man was wrong for me. He'd taken my father from me. And still, my body betrayed me with every breath.

I turned slowly, meeting those dark eyes that held no mercy.

"You wanted to kill me," he continued, unbuttoning his shirt with deliberate slowness. "But you couldn't. You know why?"

I lifted my chin, defiant even as my pulse hammered. "Because I'm not like you."

He laughed—a dark, rich sound that made my stomach flip. "Nah, baby. Because you need me. Your body needs me. Even when your mind is screaming no."

"You're wrong."

"Am I?"

He was in front of me now, shirt hanging open, revealing the intricate tattoos that mapped his chest like battle scars. His hand cupped my jaw, thumb pressing against my bottom lip.

"Your brother told you I killed your pops, and what did you do? You came to my room. You obeyed me." His grip tightened. "You know what that makes you?"

I jerked my face away, but he caught me, fingers tangling in my hair, pulling until my neck arched back.

"Mine," he growled. "It makes you mine."

"I hate you."

"Good." He pushed me back onto the bed, crawling over me like darkness itself. "Hate me all you want. But your body? Your body loves me."

His mouth crashed into mine, all teeth and tongue and possession. I fought him. My hands pushing at his chest, nails digging into his skin. But he was immovable, a force of nature pinning me to the silk. When I bit his lip hard enough to taste copper, he pulled back with a hiss.

"There she is," he murmured, blood on his mouth like war paint. "My good girl's got claws."

"I'm not your anything."

"No?" His hand slid up my thigh, under the hem of his hoodie I wore. "Then why are you so wet for me?"

I bucked against him, trying to throw him off, but he caught my wrists and pinned them above my head with one hand. The other traced patterns on my skin that made me shiver despite myself.

"You want to fight me?" he asked, voice rough with want. "Then fight. But we both know how this ends."

I twisted beneath him, testing his grip. "You think you own me because you took my innocence?"

"I don't think shit." He leaned down, lips brushing my ear. "I know."

His free hand found the edge of my panties, and I gasped as he tore them away like tissue paper. The sound echoed in the room—violent and intimate all at once.

"Riot—"

"That's not what you call me in here," he corrected, fingers ghosting over my most sensitive places but never quite touching. "Try again."

I pressed my lips together, refusing. He could take my body, but he couldn't have my surrender. Not after what I'd learned.

"Stubborn," he mused. Then without warning, he flipped me onto my stomach, the movement so swift I barely registered it before I was face-down in the sheets. "That's fine. I like breaking you."

His weight settled over me, chest pressed to my back, and I could feel every hard inch of him through his pants. One hand stayed locked around my wrists while the other lifted my hips, positioning me exactly how he wanted.

"You pointed a gun at me," he said again, and this time his voice held an edge that made me tremble. "You know what the punishment is for that?"

I turned my face to the side, breathing hard. "Do your worst."

The first smack came without warning—his palm connecting with my ass in a crack that echoed off the walls. I bit down on a cry, body jerking forward, but he held me in place.

"Count," he ordered.

"Fuck you."

Another strike, harder this time. The sting bloomed across my skin like fire.

"Count, or I'll keep going until you pass out."

"One," I gritted out.

"Good girl."

By the fifth, tears pricked my eyes. By the tenth, I was panting, skin burning, body trembling with a confusing mix of pain and need. He soothed the marks with gentle touches between each strike, the contrast making my head spin.

"Look at you," he murmured, admiring his work. "So pretty when you're marked up. When everyone can see you belong to me."

"I don't?—"

He cut me off by sliding two fingers inside me, and the protest died on my lips. I was embarrassingly wet, body responding to his dominance even as my mind rebelled.

"Your mouth lies," he said, working me with expert precision, "but this pussy tells the truth."

I buried my face in the sheets, muffling the sounds trying to escape. But he wasn't having it. He pulled his fingers away, making me whimper at the loss.

"Nah, baby. You're gonna look at me while I fuck you. You're gonna see exactly who owns this body."

He flipped me again, and this time I didn't fight. Couldn't. My limbs felt like water, skin hypersensitive, core aching with need I hated myself for feeling. He stood at the edge of the bed, undoing his belt with slow, deliberate movements.

"Take off my hoodie," he commanded.

My hands shook as I pulled it over my head, leaving me bare and vulnerable under his burning gaze. He drank me in like a man dying of thirst, eyes lingering on every mark he'd left.

"Perfect," he said, more to himself than me.

When he finally freed himself, I couldn't look away. Everything about Riot was oversized—his presence, his power, his body. He gripped my ankles, pulling me to the edge of the bed until my legs wrapped around his waist.

"Tell me you want this," he demanded, teasing my entrance but not pushing in. "Tell me you need it."

"I hate you," I whispered instead.

"I know." He leaned down, capturing my mouth in a kiss that tasted like blood and broken promises. "But you're still gonna beg for my dick."

He pushed in just the tip, and my back arched off the bed. The stretch, the fullness it was almost too much. But he held back, torturing us both.

"Beg," he growled against my lips.

"No."

He pulled out completely, and the emptiness was worse than any punishment. My body cried out for him, hips lifting, searching. But he stayed just out of reach, stroking himself while I watched.

"You think you got power here?" he asked. "You think pointing that gun at me gave you control?"

I glared up at him, nails digging into the sheets.

"The only power you got," he continued, "is the power I give you. And right now? I'm giving you the power to choose. Beg for it, or I'll jack off on your pretty skin and leave you here desperate."

My pride warred with my need. But when he groaned, hand moving faster, I broke.

"Please," I whispered.

"Please what?”

“Please... Daddy."

The word tasted like surrender on my tongue. Like giving up a piece of my soul. But the way his eyes darkened, the way his control finally snapped—it was worth it.

He slammed into me without warning, burying himself deep within. I screamed, the sound torn from somewhere primal. He didn't give me time to adjust, setting a punishing rhythm that had the headboard banging against the wall.

"This what you needed?" he growled, one hand around my throat, the other gripping my hip hard enough to bruise. "Your daddy's killer fucking you stupid?"

The words should have made me sick. Should have made me fight. Instead, they pushed me closer to the edge, body tightening around him.

"Look at me," he commanded when my eyes started to close. "Look at me while I ruin you."

I met his gaze, and what I saw there broke something inside me. It wasn't just lust or dominance. It was possession so complete it bordered on obsession. He fucked me like he was trying to brand himself on my soul, like he could make me forget everything but him.

"You're mine," he said, pace becoming erratic. "Say it."

"I'm—" I gasped as he hit that spot deep inside that made me see stars. "I'm yours."

"Even though I killed him?"

Tears streamed down my face, but I nodded. Because in that moment, with him inside me, owning every inch of my body—it was true.

"Even though you killed him," I sobbed.

He groaned, dropping his forehead to mine. "That's my good girl. My perfect, broken girl."

His hand moved between us, fingers finding my clit, and that was all it took. I shattered around him, crying out his name like a prayer and a curse. He followed me over, filling me with his release while whispering dark promises against my skin.

We stayed connected, both breathing hard, sweat cooling on our skin. When he finally pulled out, I felt the loss like a physical ache.

"This doesn't change anything," I said, voice hoarse.

He traced a finger down my cheek, catching a tear. "It changes everything."

"I still hate you."

"I know." He kissed me softly this time, almost tender. "But you're still gonna stay. You're still gonna let me fuck you. And eventually? You're gonna love me for killing him."

slid out from beneath him the second I felt him soften, my body aching, my soul cracked wide open. The sheets clung to my skin like a second shame, and when my feet hit the floor, I felt cold all over.

“I can’t be here right now,” I said, reaching for the hoodie I’d tossed to the side earlier. My voice was shredded, trembling, but still mine.

He didn’t move from the bed, just watched me with that maddening calm. Like he already knew how this ended.

“You’ll be back,” he said simply, like he was stating the weather.

“No,” I snapped, pulling the hoodie over my head. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to know that.”

His eyes darkened, but his voice stayed smooth. “We both know what this is.”

I turned, grabbing my bag, my phone. “This?” I let out a bitter laugh. “This is trauma. This is betrayal. This is a woman losing her goddamn mind over the man who murdered her father.”

“Your father wasn’t a good man,” Riot said, rising from the bed with the slow grace of a lion. “You know that.”

“And neither are you!” I shouted, the words sharp enough to draw blood. “You say Boaz painted your vineyard red, but you’ve been painting me with your darkness from the start.”

He moved closer, but I stepped back.

“Don’t.”

He stopped, but the look on his face said he didn’t have to touch me to own me.

“You leaving?” he asked, voice low.

I nodded. “I have to.”

I turned toward the door, heart racing, lungs tight, legs made of static.

“Keep your location on,” he said behind me, cocky and composed like I hadn’t just tried to break up with him.

I didn’t answer.

Because we both knew I would.