Page 12 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)
RILEY
Z ver .
His words slide over me, ignite every vein, and strike a blowtorch between my thighs.
He moves through the room like smoke, curling into every corner until I’m drowning in him.
I go rigid, trying to control my pulse. Fight. Don’t let him own you.
But my body remembers.
Last time we were alone he kissed me…
Down there.
Repeatedly.
The memory sparks low and hot, pooling where I can’t ignore it. And somehow, clenching only makes it worse.
When his hands lift from my shoulders, the breath I didn’t know I was holding finally slips free.
Am I petrified?
Absolutely. To the point I’m shivering and my teeth are on the verge of chattering.
Am I also Scottish?
Without a fucking doubt.
Show no fear , Da always said.
Easier said than done.
I tap into my fury, coiling it tight, and hit him with the only weapon he hasn’t bound.
My mouth.
“Get this goddamn blindfold off me. Now!”
“The sharper your claws, the sweeter they’ll feel sinking into my skin.” His voice comes from in front of me this time, low and unrushed.
It knocks the breath from my throat. I go still, only for a heartbeat, before the silence grows too tight again.
“You know I hate the dark.”
That’s when it comes—a low chuckle, dark and amused.
“No, Zapretnaya . You and I both know you haven’t hated the dark for quite some time. Not since our first encounter. In fact…”
Warm breath skates along my ear. His lips brush close enough to steal the air from my lungs.
“You’ve been very naughty in the dark, haven’t you?”
Oh, hell.
He’s not talking about my little trip to the doctor’s office. I know exactly what he means.
But the hell I’m admitting it. My voice scrapes out thin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do.”
Heat roars up my neck. He’s right. Of course, he is. He’s always right, and it pisses me off.
Zver didn’t just cure my fear of the dark. He turned it into a playground. That’s why I did it. In the one room I thought was camera-free. The library.
I grabbed the biggest, fattest chess piece I could find and rode it like it was checkmate or bust.
My own personal “fuck you” to Zver.
Not that I ever imagined in my wildest dreams he’d see me.
What—does this necklace have a spy cam now?
“You can’t punish me for that,” I blurt, raw heat scraping my throat.
“The act? Never, Zapretnaya.” Ice cold glazes my breast. My nipple puckers so hard I can’t breathe—mostly because I’m ninety-nine percent certain it’s the same goddamn chess piece I used between my legs.
“I’m not even punishing you for desecrating an eighteenth-century chess piece for your personal pleasure. The bishop, no less.”
His growl rolls against my neck, vibrating all the way down my back. “I’m punishing you for not finishing the job.”
My heart stutters.
How the hell does he know that?
I heard a noise and panicked. And when my brain screams abort, abort, abort , I obey—whether I’m stranded on the cliff of Half-O or not.
“Spread your legs,” he commands.
“Why?”
“Because I said so.”
A protest rises from my chest, sharp, reckless, and begging to be stupid. But before I can spit it out, his voice slides in.
“I suggest you do it now. Before I let the guards back in.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“You know me, Zapretnaya. I am a man of my word. Do as I say… unless you’d like them to watch.”
Air rips from my lungs. I most certainly do not.
Agonizingly slow, my legs inch apart. He doesn’t rush me. He never does. He’s too busy savoring the control.
I know I’ve given him enough when he moans, low and guttural. “Mmm.”
His fingers slide past my panties. A rough stroke, followed by a slow, filthy caress.
“Soaked,” he murmurs, dark delight curling through every syllable. “Dirty girl.”
Then comes the bishop.
Big. It’s so much bigger than any ordinary chess piece. It’s like, I don’t know, decorative.
He barely pushes, and it slides in with humiliating ease. Like my body’s been waiting all her life for it.
And it feels so… good.
One pump.
Two.
I move with it as another moan rips out of me, raw and needy.
Then… nothing. He pulls free. And stops .
What the actual fuck?
I’m clawing out of my skin, clenching against the chair, so fucking desperate for relief.
His footsteps move away.
“We’ll finish after dinner, Riley.”
“What?” I croak.
I hear a door open. The rustle of feet.
My legs snap shut. I am officially dead. Cause of death: mortification.
Then, a sweep of scents hits the air.
Garlic and olive oil. Fresh torn basil. Slow-braised meat collapsing in its own juices, and fresh bread to soak it all up like a sponge.
What’s he trying to do? Kill me softly with salacious chess pieces and five-star cuisine?
I haven’t eaten all day and I’m practically scissoring myself into flames. As dirty tactics go, this one takes the cake.
“Lick,” he orders.
Did he just order me to lick something?
In front of his guards?
I hesitate, because I’m not exactly sure what I’m licking.
He repeats in that control freak tone of his. “I. Said. Lick.”
So I do.
A cautious lick at first. Then, another. I’m actually relieved it’s chocolate. Or more precisely, it’s his finger covered in chocolate.
“Now suck.”
Oh. My. God.
He’s trying to humiliate me—more than he already has. So fuck it.
He wants a show for his guards? Fine. Let him choke on it.
Buckle up, buttercup.
I suck so hard, I nearly gag. But when his finger taps the back of my throat, I fake a full blown orgasm. “Mmm! Mmm! Mmm! ” I hum around his finger.
Slowly, he pulls out.
I moan. “If the guards enjoyed the show, tip the server.”
His growl rips the room apart. “Get. Out.”
Plates clatter. A thunder of retreating steps. The room empties like roaches scattering under a heat lamp.
Shit .
I quickly realize I may have mouthed off one moan too many.
“Playtime’s over, Zapretnaya. And you’re definitely getting the tip, my dirty little girl.”