Page 44 of SINS & Riley (Dante & Riley #2)

RILEY

T he alluring scent of coffee pulls me down the hall like a siren’s song.

I’m still groggy, yawning, moving slow as molasses, half-convinced I’m dreaming when I catch the clock. Two in the afternoon.

Considering I haven’t slept this well in forever, how the hell did I crash that long?

Jetlag must’ve hit harder than I thought.

Or maybe Zver’s cock is the miracle cure for insomnia.

Either way, I’m shocked my bladder lasted this long.

Low voices drift from the kitchen, stopping me cold at the doorway.

“She’s arriving tomorrow.”

Is that Dominic? Hard to tell through the door. Raise your damn voice, buddy—I’m trying to snoop over here.

And who the hell is she ?

“You want her here ? At the house?” Dominic sounds surprised, and whoever he's talking to is letting his question hang in the air.

The reply comes low, muffled, just out of reach. But it’s clear enough to know he’s not on the phone.

It’s Zver. Dominic’s talking to Zver. So who the hell are they talking about?

Ugh. Their entire conversation is maddeningly faint.

Please, Zver, by all means, shout the house down. Any time now.

Silence stretches. Long. Sharp. My nerves start to spark. I press my ear so hard against the door it’s bound to leave a dent.

Then their voices dip even lower, like they’ve drifted to the far end of the room. For all I know, Zver’s whispering state secrets into the floorboards.

And then, clear as a bell, Dominic’s voice. “And what about Riley?”

My heart stutters, then slams to a stop. Yes, what about me?

I press myself so hard against this damn door, like if I try just a little bit harder, I’d be able to shove my whole skull right through the wood.

Zver’s answer slithers out, calm as glass, agonizingly smooth.

“Riley is my business.”

A pause.

Then the twist of the blade.

“I’ll take care of Riley. Once I make sure she’s gone, I’ll meet back here… with her.”

My stomach drops.

Gone?

And for… her?

I don’t know who the fuck his mystery woman is, and I don’t care.

That’s it.

I throw the doors open wide. “What’s going on?”

The demand rips out of me as I take in the scene. And I stare.

Three dozen roses are front and center on the kitchen table. Along with a spread of food—prosciutto-wrapped melon, strawberries and cream, croissants with apricot jam, espresso still steaming.

And… my suitcase. Sitting by the kitchen island.

The floor flies out from under my feet.

I’d torn through it last night, ripping it apart to grab my charger and toothbrush without waking Zver. Pretty much dumped everything out like a raccoon in a trash can, swearing I’d put it all away today.

Apparently, someone decided there was no need.

Now it’s zipped. Perfect. Neat as a fucking pin.

Just in time to ship me off again.

“Pom.” Zver slides a hand into his pocket, his smile breaking through the stubble. Gorgeous enough to make me want to scream. “We were just waiting for you.”

My throat tightens, a sharp ache carving clean through my chest. The way knives in the back usually do.

Ugh. Stop looking at him like he’s a hot fudge sundae, Riley. He’s trying to get rid of you.

I cross my arms, heat rising up my neck and face. “Oh, I bet you were. Packed my suitcase already, I see.”

Dominic’s gaze flicks between us, shoulders sagging under the weight of whatever this is. It’s obvious he wants no part of it. “I’ll give you your privacy.”

He slips out, leaving me stranded in the wreckage.

Zver pulls out my chair, smooth as ever. Ah yes, the king of manners has arrived. The asshole of the year should be right behind him.

“We should talk.”

I sit, stiff-backed, every nerve stretched tight.

He takes the seat across from me, calm as a storm cloud, then lifts a slice of prosciutto and hovers it near my mouth. I want to tell him exactly where he can shove it.

But damn it, he knows my weakness. The holy trinity of savory, salty, and sweet.

And just because I eat it doesn’t mean I’m not pissed.

Besides, it’s not for me. It’s for the baby.

I bite, then inhale the whole thing as the thin meat cuts against the melon’s softness.

His eyes never blink. Never waver. They stay locked on me…

On my lips.

Finally, he says it.

“You’re leaving.”

The fury comes hot, mercifully drowning the ache.

I shove the food aside, my voice steady even though my chest shakes with it. “Oh, I’m not going anywhere.”

And definitely not for her . Whoever she is.

“Yes, you are.” His voice is calm, firm, cutting no room for argument. “Your new brother-in-law’s probably chomping at the bit to get his jet back. And your sister’s likely missing you.”

“She’s not,” I lie without blinking. “Because she’s coming here. She and Enzo.”

His mouth twists, the first crack in that unshakable control. “When?”

I don’t know. I’m making this up as I go. “Tomorrow.” Another lie.

One he sees through instantly. “Enzo’s jet is right here. At the airport.”

“He has another one,” I shoot back, waving it off because honestly, what billionaire doesn’t have a fleet parked in a hangar?

I tear into a croissant, flakes falling everywhere. “If you think you’re getting rid of me for her , think again.”

His smile edges up, slow and smug. “Since when did you become so possessive?”

“I’m not possessive.”

Okay. Maybe a little. Maybe to the point where I’d happily claw another woman’s eyes out if she so much as looks at him.

But I’m not giving him the satisfaction of saying that to his face.

Before I can pop more of the delicious croissant in my mouth, he jabs a knife into the jam and slathers it on the piece I'm about to bite into.

And it is heaven.

I stifle a moan and glare at him, but it bounces right off.

“You can relax, Riley.” His gaze pins me. “There’s no other woman for me. The woman coming here—it’s business. Nothing more.”

The strange part is…I believe him. Against my better judgment, I think he’s telling the truth.

I chew slowly, the words slipping out smaller than I mean them to. Sad. “If it’s business, then why are you trying to get rid of me?”

He lifts my chin. “Because you are my world, and I need you safe.”

The word set an alarm bell. Safe. It sounds less like safety and more like he's worried.

“What if I don’t want to go?” I whisper, the disappointment burning thick in my throat.

He catches my hand, brings it to his lips, and presses slow along each finger. “It’s not forever.”

“Swear?” My voice cracks as I hold out my pinky like a child bargaining with fate.

He doesn’t hesitate. Hooks his finger around mine. “Pinky swear.”

“How soon?” I try for professional, detached.

“I was hoping to get you out of here today.”

“Tomorrow?” I counter, batting thick lashes up at him, laying it on.

He exhales, thinking it over, then tilts his head. “And what will you give me if I let you stay until tomorrow?”

I smile sweetly. “Me. Any way you want.”

He doesn’t hesitate. His mouth crashes down on mine. A savage kiss like he’s been dying of thirst and I’m the only drop of water left on Earth.

His hunger devours me, dizzying, until I can’t breathe.

The sound that rumbles from him is a low, primal growl. Like if he doesn’t have me right now, the world will end.

God, I love that sound.

He strips off his clothes. I strip off mine. His takes no time at all while I’m stuck fumbling with the bra clasp, fingers slipping uselessly over the hooks.

He watches, amused.

I've been squeezing my ever-growing puppies into the stupid bra, and now the clasp is stuck. Heat creeps up my neck until I huff, exasperated.

“Seriously? Who designed these things?” I sneer. “A sadist?”

His laugh rumbles across my skin, curling heat low in my belly. He nods toward the butcher block. “Pick your pleasure.”

My breath catches. It’s twisted, but I’m like a kid in a candy store when it comes to knives.

I skip the cleaver entirely, and point to a long, thin blade.

His eyes flash approval as he pulls it free. With one finger under my strap, he slices clean through.

Then the other.

My breasts spill free, heavy and aching for his touch.

One more stroke and the last scrap of fabric falls to the floor. He makes quick work of my panties too, and I can’t help wondering how many of these we’ll go through in a year.

He lowers his head, tongue dragging down my neck, lips closing around my nipple before sucking it in, then biting down.

“Ahh!”

The sound rips up my throat, half laugh, half sob. I’m half out of my mind with how good he makes me feel.

He lashes the other one, then takes a step back. I sense it before I see it—the shift.

The dark presence. The command.

“Look at me,” he growls.

The words are soft, but they land like an axe. My eyes meet his.

God, the way he looks at me.

His gaze drags down over me like I’m something rare, something he’s been starving for. My skin prickles, my pulse sprints. No one has ever looked at me like this.

Anxious instincts kick in. I fold in on myself, arms crossing over my chest.

“Don’t.” His voice cuts low, a growl against the air. “Don’t you dare hide your body from me.”

I force my arms back to my sides, every muscle trembling.

“Good girl.” He slides a hand to my stomach. “As this baby grows in your belly, I will look at you. I will worship you. And you will let me.”

The words sink deep. Heat floods my cheeks, sliding lower, pooling thick between my thighs.

He circles me slow, a predator at ease, and my body thrums beneath the weight of his stare. Every nerve alive.

But I don’t stop him.

I let him take me in—piece by piece, inch by inch.

“You think I’ll ever get enough of you?” His knuckles graze down my breast, trace my ribs, skim my hip, leaving fire in their wake. His voice goes rough, unholy.

“I’ll never have my fill of you, Pom. Not in four minutes, not in four lifetimes.”

My breath stutters.

He takes my wrist and presses my palm to his chest. His heart hammers against my hand, thrashing so hard it steals the beat from mine.

“You feel that?” His eyes burn into mine. “It beats for you. When you go, I die.”

He lifts me onto the ice-cold marble counter. The chill bites, but God, it feels good.

My legs tremble, then fall open for him.

They know what’s coming. They know how devastatingly good it’s going to feel.

His hands grip my ass, dragging me closer, grinding me against the thick length of him. The blunt head of his cock circles my entrance, and for a split second I can’t breathe.

He’s so… big.

My wetness glistens over his tip as he rubs it.

“I’m not sure I can hold back,” he rasps against my throat.

“Don’t,” I whisper, nails dragging down his back.

And he doesn’t.

He slams into me with a thrust so good, so fevered, so fucking impatient my whole world tilts sideways.

And for a long moment, we just breathe as he lets me adjust to the size of him.

The next thrust is brutal, but he finds a rhythm, pounding into me, every stroke deeper, rougher, merciless.

My body scrambles to take all of him, every inch. I’m teetering at the breaking point when I hear him.

“Come for me,” he commands.

And, damn, I do.

My climax rips through me—so violent, so fucking unstoppable—just as his thick, punishing cock drives deeper.

I shatter, and he does too. His head tips back, voice breaking rough and raw.

“Yes. Fucking yes.”

For a long while, we’re nothing but ragged pants and desperate grips, clinging to each other like the world might end.

And with how loud we were, maybe it did and we just haven’t noticed yet.

When I finally drift back down, pant by pant, he’s still there—kissing, praising, coaxing the fire out of me until I’m nothing but sparks and shivers in his hands.

“Good girl.”

Silent fingers trail along my neck, his gaze locking with mine. Eyes hidden behind the mask.

I’m still gasping when I manage, “How many masks do you own?”

“Enough to keep me stocked for a lifetime.”

My throat tightens. “When will you let me see you without it?”

He mouths his way across my lips, down my chin, grazing my shoulder, each kiss a promise and a denial all at once.

“Soon.”

“Really?” I whisper.

“You won’t have this baby without seeing who I am,” he promises.

The consolation of his words hits me raw. I deadpan, “So I won’t see your face for nine months?”

“Seven months and thirteen days.”

He says it like he’s clocked the exact moment of conception. And even without math, I know—he’s right.

His hands grip my thighs as he pulls out slow, hissing, taking his sweet, sweet time.

Even spent, he’s still hung like a beast.

Then he drops to his knees in front of me, while I’m still perched at the edge of the table. “Spread,” he demands.

I do.

His gaze pins me as he says, “I will not have this mask on when you have the baby. And I will not have this mask on when you marry me.”

“Marry you?” My head spins in disbelief. “I don’t even know you.”

“You know me, Riley Mullvain. In all the ways that matter.”

“Like, your mask,” I counter. The one he’s never without.

“My touch.” His tongue flicks my nipple.

My eyes flutter shut as he makes his way down. “Your hot Russian voice.”

He growls against my skin.

A million questions claw at my throat?—

But I don’t get to ask a single one, because his tongue is already at my center, beard sweet and rough against my thighs. He’s licking and lapping me into another round of seductive bliss.