Anna
Her pulse was still tripping over itself from those two words.
Hello, criminal.
They echoed in the car's quiet, low and mocking, wrapping around her ribs like velvet chains.
She should've opened the door and bolted back into the storm. She should've apologized, laughed it off, begged another cab. But she didn't.
She couldn't.
He was watching her, one hand on the wheel, the other resting easy at his side, and it felt like the storm outside had bent to him. Like he was the eye of it.
"You're drenched," he said finally, voice smooth, unhurried. "You'll catch something if you sit there shaking like that."
Her throat bobbed. "I... I thought this was my cab."
The corner of his mouth curved, lazy, dangerous. "Lucky mistake."
She fumbled with the handle. "Uhm... I should probably get out. I'm really sorry—"
His gaze slid over her, slow, deliberate, before returning to the windshield. "You could. Or..." His voice dipped lower, silk tangled with command. "You could wait out the storm someplace drier. My place is close."
Her pulse hammered. Logic begged her to leave, but her body leaned toward him before her mind could catch up. She tried to summon a protest, something rational—but all that came out was a small, breathless:
"...Okay."
The smirk tugged deeper at his mouth. "Good girl."
The words shot through her veins like fire.
He reached into the console, pulling out a length of black fabric.
Her brows knit. "What's that for?"
"Blindfold," he said, casual, like he was suggesting a song for the drive. "I value my privacy. I don't know you, and you don't know me. It keeps us both safe." His gaze flicked toward her, sharp and knowing. "Unless you'd rather stand in the rain."
Anna hesitated, pulse stuttering. Absurd. But the way he said it—protective, reasonable, and underneath it all, dangerously enticing.
"I... guess that makes sense," she whispered.
"Of course it does." His mouth curved faintly. "Tilt your head back."
Her breath caught, but she obeyed. The fabric slid over her eyes, his fingers brushing her skin—warm, deliberate. The world went black, and the car lurched forward.
Every sense sharpened. The low growl of the engine. The storm hammering the roof. The scent of leather and his cologne filling her lungs. She couldn't see him, but she felt him everywhere.
Minutes stretched until the brakes whispered and the rain's roar softened into distance.
A hand touched hers. "We're here. Keep it on until I say."
She let him guide her inside. Steps. A lock clicking. Air shifting, warmer, charged.
When the blindfold came off, she blinked into a space that felt like him—minimal, dark, commanding.
He studied her, head tilted slightly. "Go dry off in the bathroom," he said, steady, unquestionable. "I'll get you something to wear."
Her lips parted. "Which... where's the bathroom?"
He didn't answer. Just smirked, leaning back like it amused him to watch her wander.
Flustered, Anna slipped upstairs, finding a bedroom stripped down and masculine. A second door revealed a walk-in bathroom—stone, glass, steam curling in the air.
She dried off, heart still unsteady, and when she returned, he was waiting. A crisp white shirt—his—hung from his hand.
"Put it on."
Her breath snagged, but she obeyed. The fabric swallowed her, brushing her thighs.
"Better," he murmured. Then, with that same lazy dominance: "Now come here."
Heat pooled low in her belly. She moved closer.
"You're staring," she whispered.
"Am I?" His smirk deepened. "You walk into my car, dripping, trembling, and still manage to look like trouble."
"Trouble?"
"The kind men lose sleep over." His knuckle brushed her chin.
"And what do you do with trouble?"
His grip tightened, pulling her face to his. "You break it."
The kiss that followed was brutal.
It devoured her until her knees buckled. His hand fisted in her hair, dragging her down.
"Open your mouth. Take me like a good girl."
Her lips stretched, throat burning as he used her mercilessly, tugging her hair when she faltered. By the time he pulled her up, her chin glistened, her throat raw.
"Bed. Now."
She scrambled back, but not fast enough. His palm cracked across her ass, heat flooding her skin. He wrenched her wrists behind her, pinning them as he shoved inside her hard. Each thrust slammed her into the mattress, her cries muffled against the sheets.
He flipped her onto her back, tearing the shirt open, buttons scattering. His belt hissed free, binding her wrists to the headboard.
"You stay right here." His mouth claimed her breasts, biting until she gasped. Then he pushed into her again—slower, deliberate, drawing ragged pleas from her lips before crushing them with his kiss.
When she thought it was over, he dragged her up, pressing her against the wall. One hand gripped her throat—not choking, just reminding her who was in control—as he lifted her onto him. The rough stone bit into her back as he took her harder, groaning against her ear:
"Do you feel what you do to me, Anna?"
Darkness wrapped around her again as he knotted the blindfold back over her eyes. She gasped, senses sharp. He sat against the headboard, dragging her onto his lap.
"Ride me. Show me how much you want it."
She obeyed, messy, desperate, until his hands gripped her hips, forcing her faster, rougher, until she shattered. Then he flipped her beneath him for the final brutal thrusts, pushing her over the edge again until her scream echoed through the room.
By the end, her body was wrecked—thighs trembling, wrists raw, skin burning with his marks. He lay beside her, steady, while she fought to breathe.
For a moment, the storm outside didn't exist. Only his hand brushing her hair back, his mouth grazing her temple.
"You did well," he murmured, voice approving. "Better than I thought."
The words warmed her even as her body shook.
He untied the blindfold, pressed one last kiss to her lips—slower, softer—and pulled the shirt back over her bare shoulders with surprising care.
"Don't move," he said, straightening. "I'll bring water. And food. You'll need it."
And then he was gone.
Anna sat up slowly, body aching, curiosity burning through the haze. Her fingers brushed a leather folder half-tucked on the nightstand.
She pulled it free.
Her face stared back.
A file. Her name. Her life. Notes written in his hand.
Her stomach dropped.
And then it clicked.
The door creaked open.
At that moment he walked in. With the file shaking in my hands, I looked up at him slowly and asked, my voice trembling—terrified, furious, a little broken:
"Who are you?"