I said I was changing my life, but this really wasn’t what I was expecting. It’s been four days since I was kidnapped. No one has come for me. No one has even rung me.
I’ve dialled the police from my phone a dozen times, then stopped. Because what if he’s right?
Actually, I have no doubt that’s the truth. Mafia boss clicks. It makes perfect sense for sir. Artem Moroz.
After he left on the first day, his housekeeper, Galina, turned up. A matronly woman with smile creases around her eyes. She ushered me through the house, chattering in a combination of English and Russian. She made a point of telling me what every room was, opening doors and knocking on others.
“Mr Morez’s bedroom,” she said when we were at the front of the house upstairs, one side of the main staircase. And on the other side? “You sleep here.”
The room allocated to me is extraordinary. It’s all the cliches about old, refined luxury. Decorated in a pale powder blue with fancy white edges, the carpet is so thick you could get lost in it, and everything is spaced out, like a normal set of rooms, but for giants. Whereas in my old room I could reach my wardrobe from the bed, here I not only have a separate sitting room—this in addition to the rooms downstairs—it’s like ten paces between the bed and the dressing table. I can do laps in it. Run a marathon.
I mean, I could run around it if I wanted. Actually, what I did was take a running leap into the massive four-poster bed. Only once though.
Okay, five times before I tried to be an actual adult and just look in every wardrobe and drawer like a normal-level weirdo.
I have considered escape, there is constant security. When I got close to the wall that surrounds the grounds—after several football pitches’ distance of garden—a guard appeared behind me.
This house is a busy place. There are people coming and going at all hours, not that you’d know unless you were spending an unhealthy amount of time hanging around the main staircase. Which obviously I am doing.
The Bratva men are brash and efficient, rough and loud. Apart from when they pass me, see me, or have to talk to me. Then they are intimidating, but mind their own business. They don’t meet my eyes, they walk past or deliver food with quiet voices. It’s like there is a force field around me that turns them from panthers into black house cats.
All except one. The man Artem spoke to when we first arrived. He has this sly look when he sees me that I’m not keen on. It makes me uncomfortable, but thankfully the rest are nice.
I could be working on my book, but instead I’m constantly waiting for a glimpse of sir. I’ve swapped my cafe shifts for peeking around doorways and over bannisters in his house.
I told Artem I didn’t want to see him, but it was a pathetic little lie. I miss our morning chats. I want to ask about his mafia business, and what he’s doing to find the man who was after us. Him.
And he always sees me. Every time.
It’s like my eyes are lasers. If I’m looking at him, he feels it, and it might take three seconds or ten minutes, but eventually he’ll turn, and our gazes will meet.
Then heat sears through me. I’m set aflame by this man’s stare. By his grey eyes and the rumble of his accented voice. His attention sends liquid to my core and makes my tummy bounce.
Then, with the same inevitability as my nipples perking up—girls calm down, he’s a very bad man—I remember that Stockholm syndrome is a thing, and however gorgeous he is and kind he seems, I shouldn’t allow myself to get attached.
That beautiful bastard holds my gaze for a dozen heartbeats, a constant until I tear myself away.
The bouncing stops and my body feels heavy again when I’ve withdrawn. It’s the most ridiculous feeling of rejection. For a year we’ve chatted every day. I miss our mornings together like I’ve chopped off a limb. I guess I thought he would ignore my request, but he seems intent on taking me at my word.
And I can’t find the words to back down.
What’s a girl to do but try retail therapy? I’ve never been able to afford to before, but he kidnapped me and gave me his card. I think it’s fair that I use it.
The first day I bought a notebook and pen on Artem’s card, and some clean knickers. White cotton. Plus a T-shirt and a pair of jeans. Just the minimum, right? I’m not greedy. Then some little devil on my shoulder goaded me and said, why not? And I ordered a skimpy nightie. White silk. It’s aimed at brides I think, but I couldn’t resist.
I kind of assumed he’d say something about my purchase. But nothing. They arrived in a neat brown cardboard package, brought to me by one of his men and left by my door with a knock.
Day two, I was braver. I bought pretty knickers. White lacy ones that cut over my bum in a way that makes me want to wiggle. I think of Artem peeling them off, and have to press my thighs together. Umph.
Into the shopping cart also went a new spicy fantasy romance I’ve been wanting to read—in hardback with gold foil page edges and an embossed dust jacket. And I purchased three full outfits, including a dress so cute it should be illegal.
The third day I got a laptop. A really expensive one, because honestly, when is he going to stop me? I bought a dozen of my favourite books in paperback, and an ereader. And I ordered the biggest, poshest coffee machine that I could find. Like, commercial quality, and lavish coffee beans.
Because two days without decent coffee? I was broken by the time it arrived, and yeah, Galina hid her indignation well, but even she admitted the coffee I made was delicious.
Honestly, a bit better than the Lazy Bean’s.
I have polite staff who bring me whatever meals and snacks I ask for, a whole house to wander through as I please, a seemingly endless budget, and all the time to write I could want.
But I’m blocked. Cannot write. Every time I sit down to put words onto paper, I think of the reader comments about my tepid sex scenes, then of Artem and longing so powerful overtakes me that my chest might burst.
I need to see him.
I knew I looked forward to seeing him, but this is like my oxygen supply has been cut off. It was an invisible, life-sustaining thing that I had never really appreciated. Except my life-sustaining thing is six-foot-four with grey eyes.
Today, I decided to fix this. And perhaps goad my absent captor a little.
I’ve bought a vibrator.
If I can’t have a real man, or an MA in creative writing, maybe a great orgasm will get my book unstuck.
The package arrives as I’m downstairs for once, reading the spicy fantasy romance in the garden. I smile my thanks to Galina.
“You need anything?” she asks.
“No.” I’m already on my feet. I need to come. Immediately. “This is just some toiletries. I’m going to take them upstairs.”
She nods and I force myself not to race up with my new treasure. But at the top of the stairs, I find myself turning in the wrong direction and I’m in front of what Galina told me was Artem’s bedroom door.
Not talking with him has made me lose my mind. That’s the only explanation for why I try the handle of the deadly kingpin’s bedroom.
It turns.
The door swings open and I dart inside, closing it silently behind me. Fingers still on the handle and gripping my book and package to my chest, I wait, head down, for a klaxon or something.
But nothing. Warily, I look around and make an involuntary whimper. It smells like him, that rich spicy scent. Sandalwood and coffee and a unique musk. I drag in a long, deep breath.
Artem’s bedroom is the dark reflection of mine. The detailing is a charcoal grey instead of white, and the pale blue is a rich dark blue with a hint of green. The floor is shiny wood. It’s austere. There’s almost no furniture, only an enormous bed with plain grey sheets that have a soft sheen.
Heart pounding, I toe off my shoes and creep to the bed. Now I’m here, I recognise that what I want is to come while I’m surrounded by him.
I sit gingerly, and run my hands over the smooth fabric. Closing my eyes, I can almost imagine him here, watching me. What if he was in bed? Does he sleep naked? My body flushes at the thought. I’ve never seen a man without clothes in real life and imagination only takes me so far, but it’s enough. Lying back, I turn my head and breathe in the scent of him. I shuffle backwards until my heels hook onto the bed and my skirt falls over my thighs, a whisper of silk.
Allowing my knees to fall open, I think about the way Artem used to smile at me and my pussy clenches on nothing.
Empty, so empty.
Ugh. I’m turned on and needy for the man who kidnapped and imprisoned me.
Probably it was just from the scene in the book I was reading. Okay, yes it did have a hero with dark hair and silver eyes, but that’s a coincidence. Because the hero is a powerful fae king with magic powers. He saves the human heroine from the neighbouring elf bad guys who have a war with his kingdom, and it takes some time for her to trust him, a bit of a slow burn. But when they eventually have sex, it’s burning hot.
Totally different.
I snatch up the package and rip it, revealing a small silicone toy that looks like a red rose, and as I brush my fingers over the top, is as soft as petals. A button makes it vibrate, and I smile. Here we go. I don’t need a creative writing course, or sir. I have a book and a toy.
Leaning back, I open the book and flick through the pages until I get to my favourite scene. The one where the hero tells the heroine that she’s his mate, and he’s loved her from the moment he saw her, and they first have sex.
Within seconds I’m imagining the scene. And yes, in my mind the hero looks a lot like Artem.
But pointy ears make him not Artem.
I touch the toy onto my now-damp knickers and ohhhh. Yes.
I pull the lace aside, and spread my legs further, touching the little rose to my clit. My back arches, and it’s amazing, but not quite it. I’m empty, throbbing, and my nipples are begging to be touched.
Giving in, I put the book down and slide down one shoulder of my dress to expose my breasts. The pages fall into the middle, and I huff with annoyance.
Bringing my fingers to my breast, I pinch my nipple, sending a spike of pleasure down to where the toy is doing its work. My pussy clenches again.
Maybe a finger? I’ve done that sometimes, slide just a fingertip into my warm wet passage and think how it would feel if it were bigger. More.
The knickers make it awkward, but I’m too on edge to stop and remove them as I reach down and awkwardly try to get my hand into the right position around the lace. A bit of rearranging and my forefinger sinks into my own wet heat.
Oh god I’m soaked. And I’m aware of exactly why. It’s being in my sir’s house. In his bedroom, surrounded by the feeling of him.
But he’s not here.
We haven’t talked in days. I know I started it, but he can’t like me much if he’s willing to leave me alone. That’s cool water that washes away the heat of excitement.
I need it back. The toy, my fingers, they’re all nothing when my head is up to the brim with rejection.
Maybe if I could just read the passage where the hero of that fantasy romance thrusts into the heroine and tells her he loves her over and over again, that would tip me into orgasm. I wriggle my elbow to the side, trying to keep the book open, while dipping my forefinger into my pussy and keeping the rose in exactly the right place. It’s like that exercise circling your tummy and patting your head. I’m entirely focused on all the things I’m holding so I ignore a sound from outside.
The toy slips off my clit and I keen with frustration. My fingers aren’t enough, the vibrator won’t do its job. My body desperately needs to be filled to tip me over the edge. Why didn’t I buy a dildo? I fumble while trying to keep my finger sliding into my passage.
“You need help with that?”
My eyes fly open to find Artem leaning against the closed door.
