She opens it and steps aside, her eyes fixed carefully on the floor. I step in, and the air changes—warm, heavy, scented with old smoke and expensive cologne, leather and something darker. The door clicks shut behind me, sealing me in.
I stand just inside, trying to steady my breathing, the lace at my wrists trembling. He sits on the edge of the bed, head bowed, sleeves rolled up. When he looks up, his eyes catch me and hold. The room shrinks around us. I feel pinned beneath his gaze.
Neither of us speaks for a long, electric moment. He rises, moving with that deliberate, predatory grace that always makes me want to run and reach for him at the same time. His footsteps are slow, measured, almost careful, as though I might shatter if he gets too close.
“Clara.” My name is a rasp, almost lost in the hush. “I won’t hurt you.”
I don’t trust myself to answer. My body’s trembling, but it isn’t fear that fills my veins. It’s heat, thick and dizzying, melting through every wall I’d tried to build. He comes closer, stops just in front of me, his hands at his sides, open and empty.
“I want you to trust me,” he says, his voice low, rough with restraint. “Not because I force you, because you choose to.”
I swallow hard, head swimming. “You make it hard to choose anything.”
He huffs a sound that might be a laugh or a sigh. “I know.”
He reaches for me, his fingers slow, giving me every chance to step away. I don’t. I can’t. His hand lifts, brushes the hair from my jaw, his thumb grazing the edge of my cheek. My breath catches. The contact burns—gentle and claiming all at once.
I want to say no. To remind myself that this is wrong, that he’s my captor, not my lover, that nothing about this should feel like longing. But when his fingers trace down to my chin, tilting my face up to his, my body betrays me—heat spirals low in my belly, my lips part, a small, helpless sound escapes.
He leans in, breath fanning across my cheek, his mouth barely an inch from mine. “Clara,” he says again, softer now, full of something I don’t dare name. My name doesn’t sound like a threat. It sounds like a promise, dark and absolute.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, voice trembling with control.
I want to. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out except a sigh, need curling through me so sharp it aches.
His thumb traces the seam of my lips. His other hand finds my waist, anchoring me, pulling me closer. The heat of himseeps through silk and skin, his palm broad and sure. My pulse thrums, wild and frantic.
He kisses me, at first barely a touch—just breath, just the ghost of his mouth. I lean into him, unable to keep myself away.
His mouth is rougher now, hunger laced in every slow movement, his hand sliding to the small of my back, holding me so I can’t escape—though escape is the last thing I want.
He pulls back, searching my eyes. “You’re mine now,” he whispers, but the words aren’t a threat. They’re a plea, a confession.
I drag my hands up his chest, knotting them in the open collar of his shirt. “Then show me,” I whisper, voice shaking with fear and want.
The last of my resistance melts away as he claims my mouth again, deeper this time. The kiss is searing, dizzying, everything I’ve denied myself since the first time he looked at me. My world narrows to the press of his body, the taste of his tongue, the shiver that runs through me when his teeth catch my lower lip.
The air between us is molten, thick with longing and the ache of everything we’ve never said. I press myself against him, my hands exploring, desperate and bold. He groans, low in his chest, his hands mapping the curve of my hips, my waist, my thighs through the thin fabric of my dress.
“Clara,” he breathes, breaking the kiss to press his lips to my jaw, my neck, his stubble scraping my skin in the most delicious way.
I arch into him, body flushed and needy, wanting more—more of him, more of this, more of the dangerous promise coiling tighter with every touch.
He backs me toward the bed, never breaking contact, his hands slipping beneath the hem of my dress, fingers tracing the bare skin of my thigh. My knees hit the mattress. I gasp, but I don’t pull away. I don’t want to.
He pauses, forehead pressed to mine, both of us trembling with restraint. “Tell me you want this,” he says again, voice wrecked.
“Don’t stop,” I whisper.
The last of the world outside disappears.
He crashes his mouth to mine, the kiss deep and claiming. I open for him, letting his tongue sweep into my mouth, tasting, exploring. His hands slide down, fingers threading into my hair, holding me close as he devours me. He pulls me against him, and I feel the hard length of his cock pressing against my belly through his slacks.
He breaks the kiss only to yank my dress up and over my head. I stand bare in the cool air, shivering, nipples hardening as his hands roam over me—cupping my breasts, rolling my nipples between his fingers until I gasp. His mouth follows, lips closing around one nipple, sucking, biting just hard enough to make me arch and moan.
“Lukyan,” I breathe, desperate for more. He answers by dropping to his knees, dragging my underwear down my legs, tossing them aside.
His hands grip my thighs, spreading me open, and then his tongue is on me—slow at first, teasing, flicking over my clit until I’m shaking, clutching his shoulders. He licks deeper, tongue circling my clit, then plunging into me, lapping up how wet I am for him.
