Updated Apr 20, 2026 • ~9 min read
Chapter 6: Just Physical
Riot
Riot wakes up to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar windows and Nadia Volkov’s naked body draped across his chest like she’s been sleeping there her entire life, and his first coherent thought is: *We’re so fucked.*
Not in the good way—though they definitely did plenty of that last night, twice against the wall and once in bed before exhaustion finally pulled them both under—but in the “this is going to complicate everything and possibly get one or both of us killed” way that comes from crossing lines he swore he wouldn’t cross with a client.
Especially this client, who’s currently making soft sleeping sounds against his collarbone and whose hair smells like vanilla and gunpowder residue from yesterday’s attack, a combination that shouldn’t be appealing but absolutely is because apparently Riot’s developed a death wish along with feelings he has no business having for the woman he’s supposed to be protecting professionally.
He should move, should extract himself from the bed and Nadia’s warmth and put some distance between them before she wakes up and they have to have the inevitable conversation about how last night was a mistake and it can’t happen again and they need to maintain professional boundaries for the duration of the assignment.
But she’s warm and soft and sleeping peacefully for what Riot suspects is the first time since Viktor’s threat arrived, and he’s selfish enough to want five more minutes of this before reality intrudes and reminds them both why bodyguards sleeping with their clients is generally considered a spectacularly bad idea.
He gets maybe three minutes before Nadia stirs, her breathing shifting from sleep-deep to waking-shallow, and then she’s lifting her head to look at him with eyes that are still heavy-lidded and unfocused and so beautiful it makes his chest ache.
“Morning,” she says, her voice rough with sleep and overuse from all the screaming his name last night, and Riot’s body responds with enthusiastic interest despite the fact that he’s thirty-two years old and should have better control than a teenager.
“Morning,” he manages, fighting the urge to roll her under him and find out if she’s as responsive in daylight as she was at midnight. “How are you feeling?”
It’s meant to be an innocuous question—checking if she’s sore or having regrets or needs anything—but Nadia’s expression shutters immediately, her walls snapping back into place so fast Riot can practically hear them slamming closed.
“I’m fine,” she says, already pulling away and sitting up with the sheet clutched to her chest like she didn’t spend half the night with her legs wrapped around his waist while he mapped every inch of her skin with his mouth. “About last night—we should probably talk about it.”
And here it comes, Riot thinks with resignation, the part where she tells him it was a mistake and they need to pretend it never happened and go back to being professional despite the fact that he’s seen her come apart in his arms three separate times and knows exactly what sounds she makes when she’s close.
“Yeah,” he says, sitting up as well and immediately regretting it when the sheet falls to his waist and Nadia’s eyes track the movement with obvious hunger before she catches herself and looks away. “We probably should.”
“It was adrenaline,” Nadia says, and she’s using her CEO voice, the one that brooks no argument and suggests she’s already decided how this conversation is going to go. “The attack, the fear, we both needed an outlet and we’re attracted to each other, so it made sense in the moment. But we’re both adults and we can acknowledge it was a one-time thing and move forward professionally.”
Riot should agree with her, should be relieved she’s offering an easy out that lets them both pretend last night didn’t fundamentally shift something between them. But what comes out of his mouth instead is: “Was it?”
“Was it what?”
“A one-time thing. Adrenaline. Just needing an outlet.” He turns to face her fully, watches her eyes widen slightly as she realizes he’s not going to make this easy. “Because it didn’t feel like just adrenaline to me, Nadia. It felt like something I’ve been wanting since approximately the second time you told me to go to hell in your office.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s smart,” she says, but there’s uncertainty creeping into her voice, her walls not quite as solid as she’s pretending. “You’re my bodyguard. I’m your client. There are about a thousand reasons why sleeping together is a terrible idea, starting with the fact that it could compromise your ability to protect me.”
“My ability to protect you was compromised the moment I started caring whether you lived or died beyond professional obligation,” Riot says bluntly, because if they’re having this conversation, they might as well be honest. “So yeah, sleeping with you probably wasn’t the smartest tactical decision I’ve ever made. But I don’t regret it, and I’m not going to pretend I do just because it’s complicated.”
Nadia stares at him like he’s spoken in a foreign language, her expression cycling through surprise and confusion and something that might be hope before settling on defensive skepticism. “So what are you suggesting? We just keep sleeping together while you’re supposed to be protecting me from a Russian mobster who wants me dead?”
“I’m suggesting we stop lying to ourselves about what this is,” Riot says, reaching for her hand before she can pull further away. “We’re attracted to each other. We’re stuck in a safe house together for the foreseeable future with nothing to do except wait for Viktor to make his next move. And pretending last night didn’t happen isn’t going to make the attraction go away—it’s just going to make us both miserable.”
“So what—friends with benefits? Fuck buddies while we wait for me to die?” She says it like a challenge, like she’s testing to see if he’ll flinch.
“Partners who happen to be sleeping together while I keep you alive,” Riot corrects, squeezing her hand. “No expectations beyond the physical, no promises about what happens when the threat’s neutralized. Just us, being honest about the fact that we want each other and acting on it like adults instead of pretending we can ignore chemistry this intense.”
He can see her considering it, weighing pros and cons with the same analytical precision she probably uses to run her company, and Riot holds his breath while he waits for her verdict because he knows if she says no, if she insists on professional distance, he’ll respect it even if it kills him.
“Just physical,” Nadia says finally, and Riot’s not sure if the disappointment he feels is relief or something more complicated. “No feelings, no expectations, no pretending this is anything more than proximity and chemistry. And when Viktor’s dead or captured and I go back to my real life, this ends. Clean break.”
It’s exactly what he suggested, exactly the arrangement that makes sense given their circumstances and the temporary nature of the assignment, but something about hearing her say it so clinically makes Riot’s chest tighten with an emotion he’s not ready to examine too closely.
“Agreed,” he says anyway, because the alternative is nothing, and he’ll take whatever she’s willing to give even if it’s not nearly enough. “Just physical. No complications.”
“Good,” Nadia says, and there’s relief in her voice like she’s genuinely glad they’ve established boundaries and rules and all the things that make this manageable. “So we’re on the same page.”
“Same page,” Riot confirms, and then because he’s apparently incapable of making smart decisions where Nadia’s concerned, he adds: “Which means I can do this without it being weird, right?”
He kisses her before she can answer, slow and deep and thorough enough that her grip on the sheet loosens and her fingers find his shoulders instead, nails digging in just hard enough to sting.
She makes a sound against his mouth that’s half-laugh and half-moan, and when Riot pulls back just far enough to see her expression, her eyes are dark with want and her carefully constructed walls are showing definite cracks.
“That was supposed to be a one-time thing,” she says, but she’s already shifting closer, already straddling his lap like her body hasn’t gotten the memo about professional boundaries and clean breaks.
“We lasted almost ten whole minutes,” Riot points out, his hands finding her waist and then sliding up to cup her breasts because touching her is apparently an addiction he developed overnight. “That’s got to be some kind of record for self-control.”
“Terrible record,” Nadia breathes, rolling her hips in a way that makes Riot’s vision go briefly white. “We’re terrible at this.”
“Absolutely the worst,” he agrees, and then he stops talking entirely because she’s kissing him like she’s starving and he’s oxygen, and rational thought becomes impossible when she’s moving against him with clear intent and making those sounds that drive him out of his mind.
They don’t make it out of bed for the rest of the morning, and when they finally do emerge—starving and sticky and thoroughly satisfied—it’s past noon and Riot’s fairly certain they’ve violated at least half the professional boundaries he’s supposed to maintain with clients.
But Nadia’s smiling, actually genuinely smiling in a way that makes her look younger and less hunted, and Riot decides that if keeping her happy and alive means breaking a few rules, he can live with that.
As long as he doesn’t think too hard about the fact that “just physical” is already starting to feel like the biggest lie he’s ever told himself.
Because somewhere between the third time they had sex and the moment she fell asleep in his arms while they were supposed to be making lunch, Riot realized something terrifying: this isn’t just physical for him, and it probably never was.
But Nadia doesn’t need to know that.
Not yet.
Not until he figures out how to make her understand that what they have is worth keeping even after Viktor’s dead and the threat’s neutralized and she goes back to her real life.
For now, he’ll take what she’s offering—her body, her trust, these stolen hours of proximity-induced domesticity—and he’ll protect her with everything he has.
And if he’s already half in love with her despite knowing better?
Well, that’s his problem to deal with, not hers.
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