Page 30 of The Contract

The panic clawing up my throat drifts away when the warmth of his breath feathers across my lips.

“Are you wet for me, Zapretnaya?”

“Fuck you.”

Okay, that came out a little harsh for a girl not actively trying to get murdered. Instant regret drowns whatever fleeting satisfaction I got from saying it.

What did we say about not pissing off the psycho, Riley?

I soften my tone. More measured. “I’m doing this so I can go home.”

“Your worst fear used to own you. Now it bows to me.” He nips my ear. “If you do anything to resist,” he says, “this ends.”

Ends?

As in I end?

“…and you’re here for the week.”

My stomach drops. A fucking week.

My answer slips out, quiet and bitter. “Just get it over with.”

“Fine. Pull up your dress.”

My breath catches.

“You said I could keep my clothes on.”

“Did I ask you to remove them?”

Technically… no.

He didn’t.

For a long minute that stretches into forever, my hands clutch the fabric—frozen. Pulse pounding in my ears, echoing like a countdown.

“Resistance so soon, Zapretnaya?”

Finally, my fingers unlock. Slow and steady, I draw up the fabric until the hem slides over my thighs.

By this point, I’m on autopilot. I should be ashamed. Mortified. But instead, I’m just letting a stranger see my panties. My soaked panties.

And every nerve is on fire. Every sense, every sound, heightened.

His breath. His gasp. His swallow.

Like the glass surface of a lake, I don’t just want to see a ripple. I want to shatter the calm.

I open.

An inch. Nearly two. Then all… the… way.

His breath catches, jagged and hungry. “You… are… perfect.”

The praise hits like a blowtorch between my thighs, scorching the last fragile embers of pride I have left.

Shouldn’t I hate him for putting me through this?

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