Don’t Look, Little Fox.
1076 Words
ISLA’S POV ~
Seventeen unread messages from my friends lit up my phone the moment the plane touched down. I didn’t open them. What could I possibly say?
Hey, Tyler f****d someone else on my graduation night, then Dad shipped me off to his best friend’s house in Moscow because apparently I’m still a problem that needs containing. Yeah. No.
Tyler’s single text made it easier to hit block and delete forever.
“My d**k did the talking. It chose Daisy, but I choose you. Don’t overreact about this.”
It’s always the ugly ones. Love really does make idiots of us all.
Caspian’s driver was waiting outside arrivals. Polite, silent, and disappointing.
I’d pictured Caspian himself leaning against a sleek black car, arms crossed, that dangerous half-smirk waiting for me.
Instead, a stranger drove me through streets that grew more luxurious the farther we went from the airport. Moscow’s winter bite pressed against the windows, but inside the heated leather, my thoughts kept circling back to Tyler’s parting shot.
You could never pleasure me like she does.
Was I really that bad? Had I been faking confidence in bed the same way I faked being unbothered by my father’s absence?
The car slowed near an elderly woman struggling with overflowing shopping bags. Something in me snapped, the same stubborn streak that had made me reject every Prescott handout.
I asked the driver to stop, hopped out into the cold, and helped her carry everything to her daughter’s flower shop just ahead. She pressed a fortune cookie into my palm with wrinkled, grateful hands.
“Your better days are finally here.”
I cracked it open on the spot. The slip of paper felt warm against my freezing fingers. I wasn’t the type to believe in silly superstitions, but right then, soaked in betrayal and rain, I tucked that little strip into my bra like a secret shield. I needed it to be true. I was exhausted from never being enough. For Tyler, for my father, for anyone.
The driver dropped me at the entrance of a sprawling modern mansion tucked behind high gates, glass, steel, and old-world elegance fused together like Caspian himself. No one greeted me in the soaring foyer. My voice echoed off marble and the high ceilings.
“Caspian? It’s Isla.”
Silence answered, broken only by the distant rush of running water.
I wandered deeper, heels from last night long abandoned, bare feet quiet on the cool floors. The sound of the shower grew louder. I pushed open a heavy door and stepped inside what looked like the main living area just as the water cut off.
Then he appeared.
Caspian Volkov stepped out of the hallway in nothing but a black towel slung dangerously low on his hips. Water droplets traced lazy paths down the hard planes of his chest, over the dark ink curling across one powerful shoulder, and lower, following the sharp V that disappeared beneath damp fabric.
Forty-two years old and built like a man who could break the world without breaking a sweat. Wet dark hair pushed back from his face, exposing those razor-sharp cheekbones and the storm-gray eyes that locked onto me instantly.
The air thickened, heavy and electric, as if the house itself suddenly remembered I was no longer the awkward teenager who used to trail after him.
“Isla.” His voice came out low, rough, the same timbre that used to make my pulse stutter when he called me “trouble.” His gaze dragged over me once…damp silk dress clinging to every curve, messy hair, bare legs. Something dark and hungry flickered across his expression before he slammed it shut. His knuckles whitened around the towel. “You’re early.”
A reckless spark ignited in my chest. I stepped closer, chin lifting. “Miss me, Caspian?”
His smirk appeared, slow and dangerous, the kind that promised trouble I wasn’t sure I could handle. “We’re on first-name basis now?”
I closed another inch of distance, batting my lashes in what I meant as teasing innocence. “Would you rather I still call you Uncle Caspian?”
His grin deepened, but his abs tightened visibly. My rain soaked silk dress had turned semi-transparent, the thin fabric molding perfectly to my breasts, n*****s tightening from the chill and something far more dangerous.
He reached out, fingers brushing a wet strand of hair from my cheek. “You look like s**t, Isla.”
Heat flushed my face, but I refused to back down. “Thanks. You look… exactly as hot as I remember. Maybe even hotter.”
My eyes dipped deliberately to the towel and the powerful lines of his thighs before snapping back up.
His jaw flexed. “Careful, little fox. There are some things you’re not allowed to say.”
The phone on the nearby table vibrated—my father’s name flashing on the screen.
“Don’t answer it,” I said quickly, snatching the device before he could.
Caspian’s brow arched. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t want to talk to him.” The words tasted bitter. One year of near silence, monthly allowances instead of presence, and then shipping me off like inconvenient baggage the moment I graduated. “He’s never been a real dad. Just a bank account with a pulse.”
The phone rang again. Caspian reached for it. I yanked it back. We tugged in opposite directions, my smaller hands pressed against his much larger ones as he lifted the phone high. The motion pulled the towel loose.
It slipped.
Fabric pooled at his feet with a soft thud, leaving him completely bare.
We both froze.
His c**k hung heavy and thick between us, already half-hard. Flushed dark. Easily twice what Tyler ever had. The sheer size and proximity sent a rush of wet heat straight between my thighs.
“Volkov.” My father’s voice sliced through the speaker. One of us had accidentally accepted the call during the struggle.
Caspian’s eyes widened for a split second. Then, with ruthless efficiency, he spun me around and backed me hard against the wide leather couch, caging me in so his body shielded any view. The thick head of his c**k brushed dangerously close to the thin silk covering my core barely an inch separating us, bouncing lightly with every tense breath he took.
“Don’t look, Little Fox,” he growled low, voice strained.
- Writer
