Page 21 of Silken Chains
And the craziest part?
It makes me horny as hell.
It turns out he is Russian.
Victor sweeps through the doors of Hotel V. The doorman’s swift greeting, “Mr. Morozov,” barely registers as I’m carried like a sack of rebellious potatoes into the hotel.
Yep, he’s definitely a VIP.
The hotel’s interior hits me like a swanky, velvet-lined hammer. Plush red carpets that probably cost more than my apartment, walls that seem to have been kissed by King Midas himself, and golden sconces casting a light so sultry it feels like it’s undressing me.
He skips the front desk like it’s not even there, heading straight for the elevator. I’m in his arms, light as a rag doll, while he strides through his turf. The staff’s quick, wary glances tell me everything—this is his show.
He punches the penthouse button like it’s an old habit. Do they just give penthouse access to anyone who’s tall, dark, and scary?
Or is this like, his standard Friday night routine? Elevator rides to the penthouse with the flavor of the week?
Something else stirs in my gut—jealousy? No way, he’s practically a stranger.
Questions bubble up, but they’re on ice for now. I’m stuck to him, the heat of his body making all the looming doubts take a backseat.
But, oh God, what am I even thinking?
This isn’t just crossing the line; this is catapulting over it. And still, his warmth, his scent, it’s like a drug, and I’m embarrassingly tempted to take another hit. My body is betraying every rational thought with its traitorous longing.
“Victor,” I say again, trying to infuse some kind of reprimand into my voice, but it comes out more like a whisper, a plea. It’s ridiculous, I know. I should be fighting, arguing, demanding to be put down. Instead, I’m melting, and I hate myself a little for it.
The elevator dings, snapping me back to the present.
We’re here, wherever “here” is.
And despite every screaming neuron in my brain, I can’t deny the thrill that courses through me.
Chapter 9
Laura
I HEAR his breathing.
A deep inhale and exhale.
The sound of a man in control. So close to me that I can feel his breath on my neck.
“Victor,” I challenge, my voice a mix of defiance and an involuntary quiver, “where have you taken me?”
“To my penthouse,” he replies, his voice a smooth, dark timbre that somehow makes the penthouse’s opulence seem pale.
I pull in a breath, matching his control, trying to assert my own. The penthouse is all shadows and whispers of luxury, the kind that’s spoken about in hushed, envious tones. The dim light plays tricks on the eyes, and every surface it touches seems to hum with silent promises.
I’m breathless, but not from fear. There’s an energy here, crackling like the prelude to a storm, and it’s infectious.
“This is your place?” I manage to ask, my voice coming out steadier than I expect.
A ghost of a smile plays on his lips. “One of them,” he says, and the casual arrogance in his tone irks me, intrigues me.
His penthouse?
Who the hell is this man? Hotel V belongs to him?
