Page 14 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)

RILEY

T he next thing I know, my wrists are unbound. Then, my body tips. I’m in the air. Two strong arms wrap around me, carrying me like a bride.

“Where are you taking me?” My voice breaks, half-breathless.

“To be punished.”

An obvious if not cryptic response.

Somehow my arms wind around his neck, fingers skating over taut skin and iron muscles. Heat pours off him, each touch a lit match against my fingertips.

Not pain. Not exactly. But enough to quiet the tremor that’s always just beneath my skin.

My fingers wander higher, combing through the thick waves of his hair. Nervous strokes, small and seeking.

I should stop.

I don’t.

“Are we going to your room?” I try not to sound too excited, but I’ve never been to his room. Never crossed into the forbidden East Wing.

The West Wing—or what I call the commoner side—is predictable. Guards. Dominic and his family. A gleaming kitchen. The library that spills into my room. Sunlight and laughter, at least when I get to play with his kids.

But the East Wing? That’s a vault. Massive doors that hum with secrets. Every time I see them, my fingers itch to twist the knob, and pry where I’m not supposed to.

I already know that’s where they keep the monster. But what else is hidden there?

Once, I joked with Dominic, “Is that where he tortures people?”

He didn’t answer.

Despite every red flag screaming murderer’s lair, my subconscious doesn’t care. It happily turns the East Wing into some twisted mashup of Notre Dame and Disney’s Haunted Mansion .

Gargoyles. Ghosts. Chains clanking down candlelit halls.

Zver cuts through my fantasy. “No.”

“No?” I’m actually pouting now.

He shifts me higher against his chest, the move too smooth, too controlled. My fingertips snag his collar, then trail lower to the broad muscles beneath.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react at all.

He just repeats himself, firmer this time, like he needs to hear it as much as I do. “We are not going to my room.”

“Why not?”

An irritated huff rumbles out of him. “I know you, Zapretnaya.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Snooping is your trademark.” Okay, maybe he does know me.

Reckless as a cat on her eighth life, I push back.

“If I’m blindfolded, what does it matter?”

“Exactly my point.”

He’s got me there.

I tilt my chin, straining for any glimpse through the blindfold’s slit. All I get is blur and shadows.

“Why Ricardo Ricci?” I ask. “You could’ve just—oh, I don’t know— bought a dress.”

His exhale is slow, measured. “He is the best.”

And he’s right. No argument there. The man’s a genius.

“Still, kidnapping a dressmaker just to squeeze a designer gown out of someone feels a little… extra ,” I say, swinging my legs.

“You will only have the best.”

My pulse stutters. Warmth floods my chest. A compliment? A kindness?

The quiet pride of possession?

I don’t know which, and it shuts me up. For a hot minute.

The rhythm of his stride changes. Sometimes slow, sometimes a full stop.

A left.

A right.

By now I’m not even convinced we’re still in the Midwest. Feels more like he’s marched me straight off the map.

“So…” I yammer, nerves bubbling over. “Scenic route’s kind of wasted on me, don’t you think? Blindfold and all?”

Silence.

“If we go much further, pretty sure we’ll hit Narnia,” I tease.

His patience snaps like a twig. “So much talking, little girl. Should I make that bishop into a ball gag?”

My mouth crimps shut.

His footsteps stop.

I guess this is it. The Dungeon Master Suite. Five stars on Yelp.

The door groans open. They all sound like this here. Even mine. Like the house is breathing, a silent witness to every sin.

Then ever so carefully, he sets me down. Like he knows one wrong move will send me careening off these twenty-inch heels I’m strapped into.

We’re toe to toe. My breasts against the hard plane of his chest, his breath stirring the hair at my temple. A wall of heat and muscle, caging me in, branding me alive.

Every cell in my body lights like a carnival ride.

And I know his neck is right there. Veins, pulse, skin so close that if I were truly suicidal, I could flick out my tongue… and taste him.

Stop it.

He’s your captor. Not a waffle cone.

His hand slides up the back of my neck, goosebumps scattering like sparks off a live wire.

His breath sears white-hot against my ear.

“Turn around.”

Slowly, I do. My pulse drumlines in my throat.

“Who will fuck you better, Zapretnaya? Me? Or a ghost?”

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to talk.”

“Answer me.”

You .

“A ghost,” I snark instead.

The sound that slips out of him isn’t a growl. It’s darker, richer—heat wrapped in sound. It vibrates through me until it pools low, where I’m already wet for him.

All he says is, “Very well.”

In one knife slice, the silk slips away, sliding to my feet, and I. Am. Naked.

Well, naked and balanced on stilts.

“Turn around.”

Every reckless nerve in me screams to defy him. I simply nod.

His hand slides over my belly, up my breasts, cupping, squeezing, pinching my nipple until a cry out in pleasure.

My what-the-fuck meter spikes into oblivion.

Instincts win.

Both my hands clamp onto his hips.

And holy hell, did I just grind on him?

A second later, his palm snakes around my throat. “I’m going to remove the blindfold now. You will not turn around. Do you understand?”

No. Not really.

When his monster cock is pressed hard into my spine, I couldn’t understand the alphabet.

His grip tightens, a soft squeeze. “Do. You. Understand?”

My voice is a rasp. “Yes.”

Then he shoves me onto the bed, face down, ass up.

The sheets smell faintly of roses, and I wonder if every sheet in this house has been tumble-dried with them.

My wrists are wrenched back, bound in the same silk that held me earlier. Smooth fabric bites tight. Deliciously tighter than before.

And God help me, the feeling is euphoric.

Then, the blindfold is off.

And sure enough, we’re not in his room. We’re in my room.

I don’t know why it took ten years to get here, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is I can see.

Like the brat I am, I twist.

If I’m going to steal a look at him, it has to be now.

My body writhes. Just one glimpse of his face.

Ugh .

He’s dead center behind me, and he’s not having it. His strong hand pins my neck.

“Disobedience so soon?” His voice is a dark purr. “Naughty girl.”

The smack lands sharp on my bare ass, and the sensation is a power grid, blown up, every circuit sparking.

“I need to see you,” I gasp, reckless, needy.

Another slap, harder this time. Heat blooms under my skin as he caresses the spot.

“You don't need to see me. You only need to feel me. And imagine that ghost of yours.”

The slow glide of his finger makes its way along my back, tracing the line of my ass, lower, lower.

He pauses between my cheeks. I freeze as his finger grazes the tight rose of my ass. “You’re not ready for my cock yet. But soon enough, you will be.”

That sets me off. “Fuck you.”

Another smack. Then, his tongue along the back of my neck. “Such a bad, dirty girl. No finger either, I guess. That just leaves one thing…”

He lowers it in front of me. The bishop.

A sculpted piece of stone that, this close up, feels absurdly huge. Ten feet, at least. Or maybe that’s just me.

He scoops it up, and presses it into my wetness. Just a taste, a hint of pressure—enough to send a jolt ripping through my nerves like lightning.

Trembling against the bedspread, my body melts into the sensation.

My head says stop .

My body screams ruin me .

Guess which one I beg for?

“More…” I cry out.

Shameless, obscene, obnoxiously loud—lust in all its glory.

His hand clamps over my mouth.

“Don’t be too loud, Riley,” he warns. “Unless you want the whole damn house to hear you.”

I most definitely do not.

He pumps in, giving it to me so deep, so good. He hits that perfect spot and I’m so close.

I bite into his hand hard enough to taste blood.

His chuckle is dark. “You like that, dirty girl.”

So much, I’m rocking into him, thrusting with each word. “Nope. Not. One. Bit.”

“Shh—” he hushes against my hair. His hand finds its way to my clit.

My legs spread to give him access.

Two more thrusts, maybe three, and that’s all it takes. The orgasm rips through me so hard, a freight train would've hit me softer.

Tender kisses graze my shoulders, trailing down my back as I float back to earth.

It’s a tenderness I wasn’t expecting. I wasn’t prepared for.

With great care, he removes the bishop. Fresh tears streak hot across my cheeks.

For a while, we just stay there. Me, panting, sobbing quietly into the pillow. Him, steady, a wall of warmth and gentle caresses against my skin.

Then, softly, he whispers, “If I let you turn around, will you promise to keep your eyes closed?”

“Yes.” It’s a lie, but I need to see him. I have to look into the eyes of the man who just ruined me for life.

Especially since I haven’t even had his dick.

“Swear on your sister’s life you’ll keep them closed. For ten seconds at least.”

Fine. I can do ten seconds. But not a half-second more. “I swear.”

“Then close your eyes, and count down from ten.”

I do. “Ten…”

He unbinds my wrists.

“Nine… eight…” A featherlight duvet slides up my body.

“Before you open your eyes, I need one more thing, Zapretnaya.”

I stop counting. “What?”

“A kiss.”

The first time he demanded a kiss, it wasn’t on my mouth.

And it sure as hell wasn’t ten seconds. It was three glorious hours of relentless devotion to the gods of oral.

And even though I’ve already shattered harder than I thought possible, my body answers him instantly.

My legs part on instinct.

My eyes stay shut.

Before I reach one , his mouth collides with mine. A rough, consuming kiss that takes all the air from my lungs.

His hands cage my face, and he kisses the hell out of me. Suction on my lips. Tongue sweeping in and out. Heat. So much heat.

It’s a kiss that erases every kiss before it. Scorched them from memory until there’s nothing left but him.

When he finally pulls away, I’m breathless, heart pounding hard against my ribs.

I catch my breath and my brain catches up. I’m pretty sure it’s been ten seconds. Hell, it might’ve been ten minutes. Then, I whisper, “One.”

I open my eyes…

And deflate.

Three dozen roses crowd my nightstand with fresh blooms that weren’t there this afternoon. And in the largest one, the bishop stands, still damp and glistening.

But Zver, my big brut of a Russian beast…

Is gone.