Page 42 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)

RILEY

K isses. That’s all I feel.

My body still thrums with the wreckage of everything that just happened, and through it all, he doesn’t stop kissing me.

My cheeks. My lips. Every tear.

And no matter how hard I try, I can’t lie to myself—the last smack he landed on my ass was delicious.

The sting still burns, and God help me, I love it.

I also try not to think about how fucked up that is.

Or the fact that I told him I’m pregnant and can’t lose him, and his big, sweeping reply is four little words: “We’re taking a shower.”

Not that I’m asking for a declaration of eternal devotion, but—what the actual fuck?

I stare at him. “Did you just say we’re taking a shower?”

He shimmies off my body, and proceeds to peel off his clothes. “You heard me.”

I push up on the bed, glaring. “Did you even hear what I said?”

Pretty sure he did. Because that smug grin of his stretches so wide, it carves two lickable dimples into his face.

“No,” he growls, deep and teasing. “What did you say, Pom?”

I narrow my eyes. Even if he didn’t hear me, I’m not repeating myself.

Not when I’m this annoyed.

Then horror dawns.

I’ve been traveling forever. Ten hours on a plane, two more in a car. Has my body committed the ultimate betrayal?

I risk a discreet sniff at my underarm. “Is this because I stink?”

“No.” His smirk sharpens. “You never smell like anything but roses.”

I roll my eyes.

“But,” he adds, as he drops his jacket to the floor and kicks off his shoes. “You traveled here without a break? Even roses need rinsing.”

He’s not wrong.

The room grows impossibly hot as he unclips his gun holster and sets it aside, then works his shirt buttons loose one by one.

His belt is already gone, pants unzipped—and Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, he’s got an Adonis belt . That perfect V carved deep in his upper thighs.

I lick my lips, trying to process the fact that he’s talking about a shower. A shower.

By now, I'm babbling nonsensically. “How do you know I don’t want a bath?”

“Because your suite has a garden tub big enough to drown a small army, and you never touch it.” His mouth curves. “You’d rather stand under scalding water for forty minutes, let it hammer your back until your skin’s lobster-red.”

He gets a pillow in the head for that one. “Are there cameras everywhere?”

He just shrugs. “Yes.”

Then his shirt comes off, and my breath stalls. Dante had a serpent coiled around his arm.

Here, in the same place, Zver inked with a skull bleeding roses.

The last of his clothes hit the floor, and there it is—his outrageously large cock.

Naturally, no underwear.

Probably because that beast of a dick refuses to be restrained.

He takes both my hands, pulling me to my feet.

From his discarded pants, he produces a knife. A switchblade. The snap of the blade rips the air in my lungs.

My eyes go wide.

His stare is ravenous. But his words are so soft. “I can just remove your dress if you prefer.”

How he knows about my sick, twisted lust-obsession with knives is beyond me. But he does. And somehow, that’s all that matters.

My voice hitches. “Cut it off.”

The blade answers back. Metal whispering through fabric.

Each rip. Each seductive tear. My nipples harden, painfully tight.

My dress. My bra. All of it discarded in obscene little pieces, like he’s savoring how wrecked I get from the sound alone. Feeding on my enjoyment, dragging it out.

Instantly, I’m soaked.

Then he drops to his knees.

My fingers bury in his thick, dark waves, grip tightening as the knife flashes again.

And just like that, my panties fall in two shreds to the floor.

He casts the blade aside and pulls me into his arms, holding me tight—too tight.

“I heard what you said, Pom.”

Silently, I know he means it. The I love you he didn’t return.

And just when I think he’s about to give it back, he doesn’t say those three little words.

He says so much more.

“It’s always been you. The one thing I can’t control. Can’t fight. Can’t live without. You’re my life, Pom. You and your baby. And for the rest of my life, I will kill or die to protect you.”

It’s more than a declaration of love.

It’s a declaration of us. All of us. The baby, too.

It slams into me in a violent rush. This love. A surge so raw my chest aches with it, my heart pounding like it’s about to explode.

His mouth crushes mine before I can think—rough, consuming, a kiss that takes instead of gives. So hard and devouring, it’s a stamp of possession.

Ownership seared into me, breath by breath.

When he finally tears away, I’m dizzy. Marked. His.

We head for the shower. He sets me gently on my feet, one arm still locked around me, and turns on the water.

Heat and steam fill the room, curling around us.

But all I see is him.

And, the mask.

“Um…” My head tilts. “What about your mask?”

“It stays on.” His voice is iron. Final. Like the damn thing’s fused to his skin, welded there with every secret he’s not ready to give me.

“I can’t let you do that,” I whisper. “I’ll just close my eyes.”

His stare locks on mine. Unblinking.

“No.”

“You can trust me.”

“Trust you?” He lets out a sharp, taunting breath of a laugh. “Not a chance. You’ve got the curiosity of ten litters of cats—and none of the self-preservation.”

Heat sparks in my chest. This man. I’m not giving in. “Fine. Then I’ll stay turned around. But if we’re taking a shower together, everything comes off.” I lift my chin, daring him. “Or I’m not going in.”

He studies me for a beat, then mutters low, “I swear to God, if Enzo doesn’t kill me, you will.”

His eyes hold mine, smirk curving sharp under the mask. “Suit yourself.”

He steps into the shower. Alone. Hot water cascades over the planes of his body, those perfect, mesmerizing muscles, and the mask still firmly in place.

And he thinks I’m the stubborn one.

I can’t take my eyes off him as he soaps up, big hands gliding over every muscle, every scar, eyes locked on me as he strokes himself slow.

And fuck—I can’t breathe.

“This is what you do to me,” he growls. “Always.”

I do?

Does he mean I make him hard, or that he touches himself, stroking faster, losing control. “Always?” I ask, breathless.

“Every day.”

“Every day?” I ask, voice breaking in the steam.

His hand fists harder around his cock, lips curling under the mask.

“Three times a day, Pom Zapretnaya.”

My newly christened name makes me smile. “What does Zapretnaya mean?”

“Forbidden.” His voice is a growl, low and reverent. “My sweet, innocent, forbidden fruit.”

Everything inside me unravels.

Watching him this rough, this filthy—thinking of me as forbidden —my last shred of resistance snaps.

I step into the shower, water pounding over us both, and wrap my hand around his length—stroking with him, matching his rhythm, every glide slick against my palm.

His head tips back with a guttural groan. “ Mmm . That’s it.”

He’s thick. Heavy. Gloriously hung.

Hard as steel, straining in my grip.

Greedy for more, I try with both hands.

Heat coils low in my belly as water slicks our bodies together. His hand slides over my wet curves, lower, between my thighs. Two thick fingers press into me. I moan, back arching into the bite of his teeth at my neck.

“So fucking wet,” he growls.

My eyes flutter open, clit throbbing as his thumb circles tight. The word tumbles out, desperate. “Your mask.”

Not an order. A plea.

A beg. “I want you bare.”

“Bare…” he echoes, lips dragging down my collar, closing around my nipple with a rough suck. His teeth scrape, and a wicked smile cuts through his voice. “I like the sound of that.”

Oh… shit .

He thinks I meant bareback.

Not that I have anything to worry about. I know I’m clean. Pretty sure he is too.

And, well… hello? Knocked-up central.

He nips my other breast and I yelp, body arching. I’m so close, ready to shatter as his fingers pump in and out, hard, relentless. “So…close…” I whimper.

Then he pulls them free.

“Turn around,” he commands.

I obey, palms flat against the wall, steam curling around me as my eyes flutter shut.

For the moment, he’s not touching me at all. Then, the black mask is placed on the shower handle in front of me, voice dangerously low. “Bare.”

“Bare,” I whisper back.

“Spread your legs.”

I do, and his arms come around me, caging me in. The blunt tip of his cock throbs at my entrance. And I half wonder if I can take him.

His lips drag across my shoulder, teeth grazing, his control stretched to its breaking point.

“If I hurt you?—”

“You won’t.” My voice shakes, but it’s steady enough.

He pushes in an inch. My head spins, dizzying need taking over. My hand claws at his hip, dragging him closer, urging him deeper as I start to rock against him.

“Fuck, Pom,” he growls with enough raw, feral need my body opens up, giving him access to more.

I sink down another inch, the burn curling hot through my body.

Did I say he was big?

I take it back.

He’s monstrous.

Another slide, deeper this time, and I swear I can feel him in my throat.

His growls and grunts wreck me, driving me wild until we’re rocking harder, faster.

Strong hands clamp my hips, the width of him stretching me so… fucking… wide.

“Holy smokes,” I gasp.

He stills, chest rumbling with a laugh. “Holy… smokes?” His hips snap forward, punishing. “Remind me later to deal with that filthy mouth of yours.”

My laugh breaks into a cry. “Ahh!” He hits just the right spot, and more wetness floods as he slams in deep.

“Yes! Fuck, yes!” he cries.

Thrusting hard until the world explodes into a million shards of light.

The heat of him fills me as his cries climb over mine until we are nothing but ragged breaths and shaking limbs.

Panting, his forehead drops to mine. His voice is wrecked, torn from the deepest part of him.

“You… are… mine.”

Boneless, I drift against him as he lathers soap in his hands. Then he’s washing me, my breasts, my back, slow, reverent strokes along my belly.

My hands cover his. I’m overwhelmed with emotion, fear and hope all at once.

One word leaves my lips. A reckless need for everything to work out.

“Yes.”