Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 419(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
And when the sun rises, I already know my part.
12
CHAPTER TWELVE – A CONFRONTATION
Kat
Iwake up like I’ve been dropped from the roof—no warning, no transition, just the raw shock of a hard landing. I’m sprawled in Talon’s bed, my legs bare and cold, my hair knotted and wild around my face. There’s a half-full glass of water on the side table, and a discarded condom wrapper on the floor. My mouth tastes like whiskey and tears and something bitter I don’t have a name for.
The house is silent, the kind of silence that comes after a storm, thick and airless. The only movement is a single drift of woodsmoke snaking up outside, disappearing into the sky. I try to swallow, but my throat is raw and swollen. My eyes feel like I’ve been slicing onions with sandpaper.
I’m not sure what time it is. There’s a thin, grungy light filtering in through the east windows—maybe eight, maybe nine—but it feels like the end of the world. I don’t remember falling asleep. The night is a blur of steamy kisses, desperate hands, and the thick, punishing fullness of Talon’s cock. His handsome face, above me in the dark as he pounded into my pussy. The low roar coming from his throat as he released deep in my fertile fields.
My body aches in all the right places, my pussy sore and my back slightly stiff. I shift, and I can feel the sticky slide of his cum between my thighs, drying on my skin in the cold air. There’s a twinge of something—a memory, a phantom pressure—reminding me of how he was inside me not twelve hours ago. I want to cry, or scream, or maybe just dig my nails into my own flesh until I can’t feel anything else. But I don’t. I just lie there, like a ragdoll, watching the dust motes float through the sunlight.
The sound of the shower cuts through the silence, distant and muffled behind the bedroom door. I imagine Talon in there, hot water sluicing over his skin, washing away every trace of last night. I wonder if he’s thinking about me, or if he’s already moved on to his next scene, next girl, next lie. Maybe he’s rehearsing what he’ll say to me, how he’ll spin the story so I’ll believe it was all for my own good.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the sound, but it only makes it worse. I can hear the slap of his feet on the tile, the low scrape of his razor against his jaw, the deep, ragged sigh he makes when he thinks nobody’s listening. My chest gets tight, a fist of salt and bone and pride. I want to run, but I also want to stay, to make him look at me and see what he’s done.
The shower cuts off, and for a moment, there’s nothing. Then the creak of the door, the heavy step of him moving down the hall. I can smell the cedarwood soap he uses, the one I teased him about buying in bulk from Amazon. The smell makes me want to puke, or maybe just bury my face in his chest and sob until I pass out.
I sit up, pushing blonde curls from my face. My hands are shaking, but I press them flat against the mattress until the tremor stops.
He appears at the edge of the room, still towel-wrapped, hair dark and dripping, a half-smile already forming on his lips. He shoots me a grin.
“Hey, Kitten,” he says, voice warm and low, like nothing in the world is wrong. “You’re up. Was hoping I’d wake up to you in bed this morning.”
The words hit me like a slap. I don’t reply. I just stare at him, feeling the shape of every ugly, beautiful thing I ever believed about us.
He pads over, the muscles in his legs flexing with every step. I can see the old scar on his left thigh, the one he said was from a bar fight in Prague. I remember tracing it with my tongue, thinking it was the most intimate thing I could do for him.
He kneels beside the mattress, one hand reaching to brush the hair from my face. His fingers are warm, gentle, and for a second I almost let him. Almost.
I jerk my head away, hard enough that my neck cracks.
His eyes go sharp, reading my face. “What’s wrong?” he says, and for the first time, there’s an edge to it. Not anger, just a readiness. The same way he sounds when he knows a twist is coming in a story, but wants to pretend he doesn’t.
I take a deep breath, and then reach under the pillow. I stole his manuscript from his office late last night, as well as the incriminating emails with his agent. I shove the papers at his chest, hard enough to knock the wind out of him. The emails scatter on the floor. His face goes blank.