Page 21 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)

RILEY

W hy do I want to see the doctor?

My pulse slams, hard and frantic. I’d been too busy climaxing all over the man’s hand to notice I was free falling straight into a trap.

I’m cornered. He knows it. And I know it.

Shit.

Call it intuition, but there’s no way I can tell him I might be carrying another man’s child. There’s a reason I’ve kept it out of my journal.

I may not know much about Zver. Hell, I don’t know much about men, period.

But I do know this: men are fucking weird.

Emotional.

Territorial.

More than willing to die on a hill over remote controls and the fucking thermostat.

So I’d say that the woman they’ve kidnapped—and access to said woman’s womb—probably ranks somewhere near the top.

And blurting out, “Hey, I know you bought me at an auction for more money than I’ll see in ten lifetimes, but surprise, I’m already knocked up,” feels like, oh I don’t know…

Suicide.

His brow lifts, carved in impatience. “Well?”

If I lie, I risk losing my sister. Twice. Once to Enzo, and again to a killer who might not think twice about going after her.

He wouldn’t actually hurt my sister.

…Would he?

I can’t risk it.

But if I tell the truth? Who the hell knows.

Maybe it’ll be fine and he takes it in stride. Him and his unicorn.

More likely, he sells me to the highest bidder.

Or, if he’s truly on brand, I walk out of this room just to end up as fresh shark food.

In any event, my lips seal shut.

I say nothing.

At this point, silence is the only shield I have left.

“Tight-lipped?” Those pitch-black eyes meet mine. “You should trust me, Riley. The man who rescued you. More than once.”

“Trust is a two-way street.” I slide my fingers over the leash at my throat. “Is this trust? You watch me like a hawk. Track my every move. You won’t even let me see Mila. See for myself she’s safe.”

“It’s for your protection.”

My chin snaps up. “Bartering my sister’s life is not protection.”

His jaw clenches, and for once, the big bad wolf has no clever retort. Just a low, angry huff. “Very well. We had a deal. You lost.”

He’s right. The room shrinks. And instead of answering, or arguing, I bite my tongue and do the only thing left.

I curl my fingers beneath the hem of my shirt.

And pull.

Fabric wisps down my skin, pooling at my feet. My bra follows, my flimsy armor stripped away.

The cold air teases my nipples into hard points. Instinct screams to cover them up.

I don’t.

Yes, Zver’s touched me before. Tasted me, too, in that intimate way that crawls into my dreams every single night.

But this … this is different.

His gaze is all over my body and I feel so…

Exposed. Vulnerable. I’m bare and still soaked from my orgasm, and if there’s a god, the floor will crack open and swallow me whole.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just drinks me in—curse and cure wrapped in one bare body.

The longer his stare holds, the more the goosebumps scatter across my skin.

Then, without a word, he turns and crosses the room, then drops into the leather chair. A dark king taking his throne.

Legs spread wide. The muscles of his chest lifting and falling in controlled breaths. Possession carved into every line of him.

He owns this moment. He owns me.

And all I want to do is own a sliver of it, too.

No one has ever looked at me like this. Not once. His eyes trace over me like he’s committing every curve, every flaw, every inch to memory. The heat of it sinks into my skin, branding me until I’m burning from the inside out.

Then he reaches back, pulls a pillow into his hand, and lets it drop at his feet.

My lungs seize. The room tilts.

Dante?

A rush of déjà vu hits me so hard I nearly sway. The night I got knocked up. The night Dante died. He did this exact move.

Only with Dante, it had been, I don’t know, teasing. Light. Almost playful to get a rise out of me.

The kind of move that nearly earned him a nut-punch.

I blink and shake it off.

This isn’t Dante. Get a grip, Riley. It’s just in my head.

What Zver’s doing is nothing more than a stupid caveman ritual. Grunts optional.

And yet… it feels different. A heady mix of dangerous and intoxicating, like something I shouldn’t want but can’t ignore.

Or maybe that’s just in my head, too.

A lump bobs in his throat. “Breathtaking.”

That’s it. Another piece of my brain just fried.

Whatever awkwardness was holding me back is gone. My feet shuffle forward.

He leans back in the chair, one hand stroking the bulge straining his pants. The sight steals my breath.

Even in a mask and suit, this man is gorgeous. And that he wants me so much he can’t keep from touching himself sends a rush of heat straight through me.

I sink to my knees, not settling on the pillow but straddling it, claiming the space instead of surrendering to it.

His eyes blaze.

He shrugs out of his blazer and drapes it over my bare shoulders. It’s a tender gesture, and the heat of him seeps into my bones.

“Undo my pants.”

Oh. Hell. Here we go.

My hands tremble—just a little. But I remind myself I’m not the na?ve girl who fumbled her way through this with Dante. Not anymore.

I’ve got a D’Angelo blowjob under my belt.

And with the kind of man-meat Dante carried, I’m practically certified.

My fingers work his belt loose, sliding the zipper down?—

—and then all the air leaves my lungs.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

He’s huge.

Was Dante this big?

Or, are all cocks colossal and no one shares the memo.

Hard to say, since they’re the only two I’ve ever seen and, honestly, they’re hard to tell apart.

Maybe they should just wear name tags.

A sly smile tugs at his mouth as he waits, unhurried. Well, he’s going to have to. I’m going to need a minute to unhinge my jaw.

I wrap my fingers around him, tentative at first.

Thick.

Hot.

Heavy.

The steady thrum of his pulse beats against my palm while a bead of pre-cum glistens at the head.

His hand slides into my hair, anchoring me, but not with the harsh dominance I pretty much expect. Instead, his other hand closes over mine, almost steadying, guiding.

Not forcing. Just… connected.

And then, softer than I’ve ever heard him, his voice cuts through the static in my brain.

“Take your time, Pom.”

I freeze, blinking up at him. Thrown completely off because for a second, I swear, there wasn’t a trace of a Russian accent.

The first slide of my tongue over him is timid. I’m not sure what to expect, but he tastes so good.

I go for the gusto, and take him at once.

“Fuck,” he hisses.

The first few pumps are brutal, stretching, choking.

Tears sting instantly.

I do what I always do when hit with physical pain. I lean into it. Sucking noises surround us.

“That’s it, Pom.”

He keeps stroking my hair, thumb brushing slow circles at my cheek, grounding me.

I take him in so deep, I nearly gag.

“That’s my good, dirty girl. Breathe through it.”

I love his words. That I’m good. And his dirty girl. His words burn hotter than the stretch of him.

The pillow isn’t soft—too overstuffed, heavy with down, the kind that props up a rich man’s headboard. But here, on the floor, it’s the perfect size to rub against.

My knees straddle it, sinking deep, thighs spreading over its edge. He shifts it just enough, angling it so the seam drags straight against my clit.

“Ride it.” His hips thrust once, wrapped in so much control he’s trembling. Heat coils low in my belly. “Grind on it while you choke on me, dirty girl.”

Jesus, the way this man talks.

The sound leaves me in a shiver. My hips tilt forward, dragging across the pillow. I’m already soaked.

Pressure sparks against my clit—a fuse catching flame.

We fall into a rhythm. His cock stretching my mouth, my hand stroking his girth, my clit rubbing against the seam until the friction blends into something other worldly.

Every scrape, every grind pulls me tighter, sharper, closer. Euphoria builds in a way that’s brutal and exquisite all at once.

His fingers tangle in my hair, tugging me down, not cruel but unyielding. Just raw need.

I give in. Stroking. Grinding. Gagging. My whole body lit, every nerve blazing.

A low, guttural groan rips through him. His hips flex once before locking tight, every muscle straining.

It’s like watching a man wrestle himself from full submission, both hands clenched on the reins, holding back a stampede of desire.

And I know he’s doing that for me.

The thought detonates inside me. I don’t know if I want to scream or shatter.

He looks down at me, eyes dark and unrelenting, while I choke on him, tears streaming. His stare burns so hot it borders on pain. “You look fucking perfect like this, Pom.”

A strangled hum vibrates from my throat, muffled around him. Shame. Need. Fury. Lust. I don’t even know what I am anymore.

All I know is this: I’m grinding against his pillow with his cock buried so deep in my throat, I can barely breathe.

And God help me, I love it.

I’m teetering on the edge, desperate to fall.

His control unravels as mine slips away, the rhythm building—fast, furious, and decadently filthy—until the tether snaps.

The sound that rips from him is primal.

His hips drive forward, hard , as thick heat floods my mouth, trickles down my throat.

I take it all. Swallow every drop as my release slams into me in a violent, shattering crash.

Until we’re nothing but a tangle of sweaty sex and breathless pants.

A strong hand strokes my hair as I float down, trembling and utterly undone.

“You’re everything, Riley.”

And all I can think is?—

And you’re everything I hate.

My enemy.