Chapter 8
Steam filled the bathroom, turning the mirrors into opaque walls of fog.
Kiley stood under the spray, the hot water pounding against her skin, but she couldn't wash away the trembling. She scrubbed her skin until it was pink, trying to scrub away the memory of Javon, the feeling of being unwanted, the fear of being used.
She turned off the water. The silence rushed back in.
She dried herself off and reached for the robe Alfred had left. It was silk, ice blue, and felt like water against her heated skin. She tied the sash tight, double-knotting it.
She took three deep breaths. One. Two. Three.
She pushed the door open.
The bedroom was dimmer now. The blinds had been partially drawn, filtering the harsh sunlight into a soft, amber glow.
Carmine was sitting on the edge of the bed. He had changed into gray sweatpants and a black t-shirt that clung to his chest. He was reading a book, glasses perched on his nose.
He looked up as she entered. He took off the glasses and set the book down. His gaze traveled from her damp hair, down her neck, to where the robe cinched at her waist.
Kiley walked to the bed, her legs feeling like lead.
"I'm... clean," she said. It sounded stupid.
Carmine patted the space beside him. "Come here."
Kiley sat down. She kept her back straight, her muscles coiled tight, ready to bolt.
Carmine reached out. His knuckles grazed her cheek.
Kiley flinched. She pulled back instinctively, her eyes squeezing shut.
Carmine's hand froze in mid-air.
"Are you afraid of me?" he asked. His voice was low, devoid of the mockery from earlier.
Kiley opened her eyes. He wasn't angry. He looked... hurt.
"No," she whispered. "It's just... Javon used to..."
The air in the room dropped ten degrees.
Carmine's eyes went flat. The hurt vanished, replaced by a cold, terrifying possessiveness.
He reached out and gripped her chin, tilting her face up. His grip was firm, inescapable.
"In this room," he said, his voice a growl, "you do not speak another man's name."
Kiley's breath hitched. She nodded, tears pricking her eyes at his tone.
Carmine saw the tears. His expression fractured. The anger bled out, leaving only intensity.
He leaned in and kissed the tear tracking down her cheek. His lips were soft, impossibly gentle.
Kiley froze. This wasn't what she expected. She expected roughness. She expected haste.
He moved his lips to the corner of her mouth. He kissed her there, lingering, tasting.
"Kiley," he breathed against her skin.
Her defenses began to crumble. His hand moved from her chin to the back of her neck, his thumb massaging the tension there.
He kissed her properly then. It wasn't demanding; it was asking. It was a question she found herself answering.
Her hands moved up, hesitantly at first, then clutching his shoulders.
Carmine made a low noise in his throat. He pushed her back gently until she was lying against the pillows. He hovered over her, his weight supported on his elbows, careful not to crush her.
He pulled the sash of her robe. It fell open.
Skin met skin.
Kiley gasped. The friction was electric.
"Look at me," Carmine commanded.
Kiley opened her eyes. His face was above hers, raw with need. There was no calculation there. No business deal. Just hunger.
"I'm not him," he said.
"I know," she whispered.
He kissed her again, deeper, consuming her sigh.
He was slow. Torturously slow. He worshipped her body like it was a temple he hadn't been allowed to enter for years. Every touch was deliberate. Every kiss was a claim.
When they finally joined, Kiley cried out, arching her back. It wasn't pain. It was a release of years of being undervalued, of being second best.
Carmine held her through it all, anchoring her to the bed, to him, to this new reality.
Later, as the city lights twinkled into existence outside, Kiley lay curled against his chest. His arm was draped over her, heavy and protective.
She listened to his heartbeat. It was steady. Strong.
She closed her eyes and fell asleep, and for the first time in forever, she didn't dream of running.
You may also like
