Riley McGrath, 22.
Alexan Sarkissian, 30.
Baltimore, Maryland.
Seven weeks until the wedding.
They say robbery is the best way to get to know a man.
Well, okay, I doubt anyone in the history of the world ever said that, but it’s probably true.
At least, it felt true when I came up with it last night.
Right about now, as I use a Slim Jim to jam open the lock on this back window in the middle of the day?
Not so much.
Still, come on, there’s some logic here. People are their truest selves at home, right? And a person’s stuff can tell a compelling story about who they are. My thinking is I’ll never get to know my arranged husband before we’re forced into this stupid marriage without taking some drastic steps.
So I’m going to rob him.
My cousin Liam made it pretty clear that I’m supposed to stay far away from Alexan Sarkissian until I walk down the aisle and sell myself to him. And as the head of the McGrath clan, one of the most influential and powerful Irish crime families on the Eastern Seaboard, what Liam says is immutable law.
But unfortunately for basically everyone that knows me, I’ve never been the kind of girl who follows orders.
So instead of meeting Alexan at some nice gastropub for overpriced burgers and mediocre hoppy beer, I’m going to break into his house.
Seems like a super reasonable and solid plan.
No possible way this could go wrong!
“Open up, you piece of crap stinking bastard.” The window lock suddenly clicks, and the frame cracks as my tool pries too hard. I curse and slip it back out before sliding the top sash upward.
I get a waft of cool interior air to combat the muggy summer afternoon.
“Okay, hard part done,” I mumble to myself as I hoist myself over the ledge and tumble down into a spacious, modern kitchen. I brace myself on the counter and deftly flip onto my feet, landing with a little flourish as I bow to invisible judges. “Thank you, thank you, oh, no need for the perfect tens.”
It’s a nice house in a decent Baltimore neighborhood. The interior’s clearly been redone in the last few years. The hardwood gleams, and the counters are all pristine, almost like they’re never used. I spot only the most basic evidence that a human actually lives here: healthy food in the refrigerator and a neatly stacked pile of history books on the coffee table.
Otherwise, it’s pristine. Almost sanitized. It’s like a tomb for an Instagram influencer or something.
I head down the hallway, heart pattering. It’s a little past noon, and I’m sure nobody’s home, but there’s always the chance I’m wrong. Most amateurs think slinking around in darkness is the way to go, but breaking into a house at night is stupid since people are more likely to be around.
Most regular humans are working in the afternoon. More and more jobs are remote, which complicates things, but my bet is this guy doesn’t sit around his house.
I suspect there aren’t many stay-at-home members of the Armenian Brotherhood.
Upstairs is just like the first floor. Clean almost to the point of obsession. There’s an extra bedroom, tidy and untouched, an office with a huge computer setup and a couch against one wall looking like it’s never actually touched by human hands, and a spacious master. A huge four-poster bed dominates the gray area rug. The furniture is wooden and gleaming, polished to a shine. Watches are lined up on the bureau, and there’s a desk in the corner with another huge computer. Fans whir quietly from the tower next to the monitors.
“What a neat freak,” I whisper to myself as I peer into his closet. I like the way it smells: cedar, nutmeg, masculine. I grab a white dress shirt at random, feeling that old familiar thrill of doing something very, very wrong. It’s Armani and expensive. I stand in front of a full-length mirror on the back of the closet door and hold the shirt up against my body.
It’s huge. It would fit me like a dress. And for whatever bizarre reason, I want it.
Maybe it’s the way the shirt smells. I breathe it in, holding it close. Soapy in a good way. Citrusy and fresh. His smell, whoever he is. I smile, tilting my head, wondering what the man that wears this shirt looks like.
There’s not much about Alexan Sarkissian online, which is remarkable considering the way the world works these days. He’s got no socials, no news stories, no mentions of his name anywhere. The man’s a ghost, and I’d start to think that this whole situation was an elaborate prank if it weren’t for the fact that I’m marrying him in a month.
Something clicks over near the computer. A strange, fuzzy sound blurts out from the speakers. I frown in confusion, heart rate spiking, when I hear the voice.
“Go ahead, Riley, try it on.”
I freeze. Sweat breaks out down my spine. The voice is low and masculine, almost a purr, and it’s coming from the computer in the corner. Panic hits me a second later and I look around wildly, trying to come up with a plan. Do I run? Pretend like I’m not here?
But he knows it’s me.
“Uh, okay, I know this looks bad,” I say, trying to think up an excuse. How can I make this home invasion seem cheeky and fun instead of violating and weird? “I probably shouldn’t be here—”
“No, you shouldn’t have broken into my house, you’re right.” That voice sends a pulse of excitement down my spine. I don’t know why, but it resonates with me. A low, almost erotic hum.
“Would you accept an apology and pretend like this never happened?”
I smile and bat my eyelids at nothing. I have no clue where to look, but he’s definitely watching me. A cold shiver runs down my spine.
I’m in so much freaking trouble.
There’s a short pause, almost like he’s thinking.
Then: “No, I don’t think so.”
I grind my teeth in frustration. This is bad, very bad. If Liam or anyone in my family finds out that I came here today, I’m going to be screwed. Forget seeing the sunlight until my wedding day. They’ll lock me in a dungeon and throw away the key.
Not to mention my father’s deeply disappointed glare. I can almost see it now. Stupid little Riley, screwing up yet again. I swear, my father’s favorite pastime is praising my older brother while telling me how I’m such a disappointment.
“I’m talking to Alexan, right? And you know who I am?” I try desperately to think up something I can say to make this all better. But my brain’s working like Jell-O and my hands are trembling with fear. “I know this was a mistake, okay? It was impulsive and dumb, but I was just curious about you, and I couldn’t help myself.”
“So you decided on breaking and entering?”
“I’m aware it seems extreme. I stole your address from my dad, and I just wanted to meet you before the wedding.” I grin sheepishly, looking around for the camera, but I don’t spot one. Clearly, he’s got surveillance in this place, and I must’ve triggered some silent alarm. Normally, I’m on top of that sort of thing, but this guy must have some kind of custom setup. I didn’t even notice any motion sensors on the way up here.
Another long pause. The silence is driving me absolutely crazy.
“Tell you what, my little thief. I’ll let you walk out of here, and I won’t ever mention this again, if you do something for me.”
A strange, nervous flutter fills my stomach. I feel like a mouse trapped by a cat staring at a tiny sliver of sunlight behind the big hungry mouth. “Do what for you?” I ask, not really wanting to know.
“Try on the shirt, little thief.”
I stare at the computer monitor, at the black and empty screen, then look down at the dress shirt still dangling from my hand.
My cheeks turn bright red. “You’re fucking kidding me,” I blurt out, unable to help myself. “Are you being serious right now?”
“Deadly serious. You broke into my house, and now this is your punishment. Take off your clothes and put on my shirt.”
This guy’s insane. Like certifiably crazy. I’d laugh, but it’s not funny. “I’m not taking my clothes off for your cameras. For all I know, you’re recording this.”
“Of course I’m recording. Now take off your clothes and try on my shirt. I’m waiting.”
Shit, shit, shit. He’s not messing around. My heart’s going crazy, and my hands are shaking. But this isn’t that bad, right? I mean, the shirt’s big enough to be a dress. I can get changed in the closet, come back out here, do a little twirl, and it’s all over. We forget this ever happened.
My family never finds out I went against Liam’s orders.
“Okay, fine. This is so freaking weird, but I’ll do it.” I hesitate, waiting for a response, but there’s nothing. “I’m just going in here—”
“There are cameras in the closet too.”
I groan, shaking my head. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I’m losing patience. If you don’t hurry, I’m going to come home and help you.”
The edge in his voice makes my eyes go wide. It’s a sharp, erotic anger, and I find a thrill sparking between my legs.
This is crazy. It’s absolutely insane. But what choice do I have?
Besides, I’m going to marry this guy in a month.
Sooner or later, he’s going to see me in my underwear, and I might as well break that ice now.
Nothing’s making me do this. I can turn around and walk right out of here. I’m willing to bet he’s bluffing. He doesn’t want to complicate our future arrangement any more than I do, and ratting me out to my family is definitely going to make things hard.
I still don’t move. That thrill’s still in my guts. And there’s the real problem with me.
I’m impulsive to the point of recklessness at the best of times, and I’m not working at peak capacity right now.
“Screw it,” I mutter and rip off my top. I’m wearing a simple black tank, a sports bra, black running tights, and a pair of black panties. There’s a slight sheen of sweat on my skin. I jogged over here as a cover for my long absence this afternoon.
“There you go. That’s a good girl.”
Holy fuck. I shiver at that voice. I’ve never been called a good girl like that before in my life. His voice drips with sin and promise.
I quickly pull the shirt on and start to button it, but he clucks his tongue with disapproval.
“Bottoms too, my thief. Wear it like a dress.”
“You’re getting a little too demanding,” I say through my teeth.
“Should I call the police then? Or maybe I should skip all that and go straight to Liam?”
That fucker. He’s got to be bluffing. But I like that he’s being so damn assertive. My jaw works with frustration as I kick off my running shoes. I’m burning with embarrassment and tingling from pure sexual excitement as I peel off the tights and toss them aside.
“Happy now?” I ask, glaring everywhere at once, not sure where I’m supposed to look.
The shirt hits me mid-thigh. It’s baggy on top, and if I weren’t wearing a bra, he’d be getting a nice little show. I can smell him even stronger now, the scent sending little wafts of excitement into my core.
Something beeps in the ceiling. I blink and realize it’s a single red LED. The camera descends from a recessed container that blends perfectly with the paint job and swivels to stare at me.
“Spin,” he says. “Let me look at my future wife.”
“Fucking prick,” I mutter, but I do as he says. The shirt’s big, but I feel totally exposed. I despise following orders, but given the situation, the fact that he’s staring at me and sounds as though he likes it, I’m shaking with pure arousal.
Breaking rules always gets my blood pumping, and this is messed up on so many levels.
“Are you happy now?” I ask, breathing fast.
“You look beautiful, Riley, wearing my shirt. If I were there, I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands to myself. Fuck, you don’t know how hard you’re making me right now.”
Holy shit.
That velvet voice is like honey in my ears. I can almost feel his hot breath on my neck. It sounds like he’s whispering right into my head, and I feel dizzy with excitement. The rush of this is driving me crazy. I’m breaking so many rules and crossing a ton of lines, and I absolutely love it.
This is what I live for.
Passion. Excitement. Danger.
Everything a sweet little McGrath girl should never, ever want.
“You like this?” I ask, feeling a devilish thrill. Two paths fork in front of me. I can take the right path, apologize profusely again, hope he doesn’t tell anyone, and get the hell out of here.
Or I can take the left path and find out where this little game is going.
Without thinking about it, because all my biggest mistakes are total failures of impulse control, I reach inside the shirt, peel the sports bra off my shoulders, twist out my arms, and yank it down. When I step out, I kick it aside, then reach up and slip off my panties too.
Which leaves me entirely naked beneath the big, white shirt.
Guess I took the wrong path.
My nipples are so hard. I’m aware they’re showing, and he can probably see through the fabric if he looks close enough. The right one is particularly sensitive ever since I got it pierced, and it sends little pings of pleasure into my core every time I move. I’m dripping wet, damp against my thighs, and trembling with arousal. I don’t even know why—I’m not even totally sure what this guy looks like. All I’ve seen are a few grainy photos of a big, dark-haired man with a stoic look and a chiseled jaw.
“Now you’re teasing me, Riley,” he whispers, the bass rumbling down my spine. “You look fucking good in nothing but my shirt. Like I’ve already claimed you.”
“Is that what you want? To claim me?” I ask, chewing my lip. I’m shaking with anticipation. “Tell me how you’d do it.”
“Get on my bed.” His voice is pure command. I release a whimper, shocked by how turned on it gets me. Bossy assholes are basically everything I hate in the world, except for right now, it totally works.
The bed is big and comfortable, and I crawl up the neatly made comforter, messing it up a bit as I lean back on the fluffy pillows.
“Like this?” I ask, pretending to be calm as I continue to spiral into pure lust.
“That’s such a good girl. Do you like following orders?”
“Normally, I’d tell you to go to hell.”
“But right now, you’re doing so good.”
I lick my lips, breathing hard. “Tell me what you’d do if you were here right now.”
I’m impulsive. I know that about myself. It’s probably my biggest character trait. My whole life’s been defined by all the really dumb, poorly thought-out decisions I’ve made over the years.
And this is a prime example.
My masterpiece of stupidity.
Even knowing that, I still spread my knees and brush my right hand across my inner thigh.
God, this is bad. This is so, so bad.
Which is exactly why I love it so much.
“I think you need a firm hand. You’re the kind of woman that likes to fight, aren’t you? I’d start by teasing your wet little pussy. I can see how soaked you are. Your beautiful pussy is glistening, little thief, as you stroke yourself for me.”
I do exactly that, fingers rolling up and down my slit. It feels so fucking wrong, and that’s what makes it so perfect.
“More,” I moan softly.
“I’d pull your hair as I kiss your mouth. I’d dominate those pretty lips of yours. I’d lick those freckles on your nose and grip your auburn curls until you moaned my name and begged me to finally touch your delicious little cunt. But I’d go slow, baby, nice and slow until you’re grinding up against me and begging for more.”
“I don’t beg,” I say, stifling moans as I stroke my clit then sink two fingers inside. “Oh, god, that’s good.”
“You think you don’t beg, my sweet thief, but you will. As soon as you taste my thick cock between your legs, you won’t be able to stop thinking about getting more. I’ll lick and suck your pussy until you’re dripping on my sheets, getting all messy and wet, and only when you’re panting and moaning for my dick will I finally sink between your beautiful thighs.”
“Fuck,” I moan, stroking myself faster. I use my free hand to unbutton part of the shirt to reveal my breasts. I squeeze one, stroking my pierced nipple. I’m extremely sensitive there ever since I got the bar set in, and it makes me tingle all over.
“Do you like that, baby? Think of me sucking your tits nice and hard as I fuck you deep. I won’t be gentle, since you’ve been so fucking bad. Breaking into my apartment like this? Wearing my clothes? Touching yourself on my bed? You’re a filthy fucking girl. A messy, needy, greedy little slut, aren’t you? Look at that pussy, begging for my thick cock. I want you to say my name as you come, baby. Say my name, and that’s how I’ll claim you.”
I stroke faster, climax building. His voice is incredible. There’s something deeply sensual about the tone and the timbre, and it’s driving me crazy. I like the nasty way he’s talking. Nobody’s ever called me a slut before and walked away without a bruise, but coming from that voice?
God, I want him to call me every terrible name he can think of while fucking me from behind and grabbing my hair like I’m a goddamn pony.
“More,” I gasp, so close I can barely stand it. “More, please, more.”
“Listen to you begging already. You’re going to melt on my big dick, baby. I’m going to shove my fingers in your mouth and make you suck them while I stretch you wide on my cock, over and over again, until you’re shaking and soaking the whole bed. That’s right, baby, keep going, you filthy fucking girl, you bad fucking slut, touching your slick pussy for your husband. You’re in my bed, in my shirt, and in a month, you’re going to be riding my big cock. Now come for me, baby, and say my fucking name.”
“Oh, SHIT,” I gasp, back arching as the orgasm builds and hits a peak, and I open my mouth to give him what I want, that name ringing on my lips, Alexan, Alexan—
Instead, I bite down on my lip to keep from screaming it out, as I have the best orgasm of my entire life.
He moans as I finish on my fingers, and oh my god, I’m pretty sure he just came too.
I lie there in a strange man’s bed wearing a strange man’s shirt and feeling a sudden overwhelming sense of post-orgasm shame.
“Well, that was unexpected,” I say over the sound of his heavy breathing.
“You look incredible, baby,” he whispers as I climb out of the bed. “I’ll be seeing you soon. Next time, you’ll say my name.”
“I don’t think there’s going to be a next time.” I head over to my discarded clothes and do my best to get them back on with the maximum amount of dignity possible. Which isn’t much, all things considered. “Look, that was fun and also pretty weird, but our marriage is just a formality. We’re not actually, you know, going to be husband and wife.”
There’s silence. I pause once I’ve got my stuff back on, his shirt tucked under one arm. I should hang it back up or maybe toss it in a hamper—but no, I came in here, I got myself off, and I’m keeping a prize.
I wait another few seconds for him to respond, but there’s nothing.
The red LEDs are still glowing in the ceiling.
I give it a little wave and blow a kiss.
“See you in a month,” I tell him, “and I’m keeping the shirt.”
Then I get the hell out of there with my new prize bundled under one arm before I do more stupid crap, though I’m pretty sure there’s no way I can top what just happened.
