Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 435(@200wpm)___ 348(@250wpm)___ 290(@300wpm)
Trevor is silent at first, then he starts to laugh too, the deep, ruined sound of someone who hasn’t done it in a long time.
He props himself up on one arm, looks at the wreckage, then at me.
“Well, that’s that. We broke your bed, so I guess you’re sleeping in my bed tonight,” he says, voice a low, amused growl.
I nod, and the laughter turns into something else—something soft, maybe even tender.
I lay there, held against his chest, the city lights flickering outside, and for the first time in my life, I feel absolutely, completely fucked.
And I wouldn’t change a thing.
22
HOLY SH*T, AM I CATCHING FEELINGS?
Trevor
When I wake, it’s still dark. Not the heavy, womb-darkness of a blackout-curtained hotel room, but the glimmering, half-lit blue that filters through forty stories of glass and floats above the city like a low fog. I keep my eyes closed for a second, cataloging the scene: cold air across my chest, the lingering tingle of last night’s violence in my hips and thighs, and the scent—undeniably, aggressively carnal—of a bed that is no longer just mine.
I open my eyes.
She’s there, curled toward me, hair a mess of gold across my pillow, the sheet rucked down around her waist. One breast—full, pale, perfect—has rolled out above the edge of the sheet, nipple mauve and peaked in the air. Her back is femininely arched just enough to show the soft slope from neck to shoulder blade to waist, and the fine silk of her skin is lit up by the glow from the Minneapolis skyline, still stitched in sodium orange and blue even at this hour.
Kayleigh.
There’s a faint pink flush across her cheek, and her lips are parted, still swollen from the way I used them last night. Her hands are tucked between her knees, the right wrist ringed in a faint red mark, the bruise of a handcuff left behind. She is deeply asleep, the kind of sleep that only comes after you’ve been completely, utterly wrung out.
I prop myself on one elbow and watch her for a while, cataloging every inch: the tiny mole on her hip, the pale line of her inner thigh, the way her hair turns almost white at the ends. This is the moment I should feel guilt, or at least some version of it, but what hits me instead is a kind of electric calm. Not relief, exactly, but the afterglow of a need finally answered.
Last night, I broke her. Not physically—she’s not that fragile—but I took something that she will never get back. There’s a kind of satisfaction in that, the old, primitive drive to conquer and own. But it’s more than that, and the fact that I can’t quite put a name to it is what wakes me up, heart running cold and steady in my chest.
I stare at her face, the soft, fine skin; the innocent angles of her features; the shadow of her lashes against her cheek. For a second, I think of Aleatha, and a hollow ache starts to climb up my ribcage, but I force it back down. This is not that. I’m not sixteen anymore, and this girl is not a victim. Kayleigh wanted this. She fucking dragged me out of bed to bail her out, and then bid on me in front of half the city’s gossips.
But this woman matters to me, and my heart contracts hard as I stare at the sleeping girl. What is it about Kayleigh, exactly? I don’t know, but a surge of emotion makes my chest tight. I shake my head. Shit, I have to get out of here before I totally lose my shit. I move slow, careful not to wake her, and swing my legs over the side of the bed. That’s when I see it: the thin red ring at the base of my cock, dried to a faint, copper-brown shadow in the dawn light. I pause. The physical evidence of what I did to her, the blood and the pain, and the fact that she took it all—no, wanted it all—makes my chest expand, a ringing sound in my ears.
It’s possession. The real thing. I stare at her lush curves once more, and for the first time in years, I feel like a man who’s not pretending.
The bathroom is cold and silent, the marble floor chilled even through the pads of my feet. I hit the shower and let the water run hot, steaming the mirrors, the old scars on my chest beading up with condensation. The blood comes off easy—just a thin wash down the drain, diluted, unremarkable. But I know what it means. I’m fully aware of the gift that she gave me.
I towel off, wrap my body in the old habits: dark trousers, crisp white shirt, bare feet. No tie today. The top button undone, a little bit of muscle and throat exposed to the morning. I like the effect: professional, but dangerous. The kind of man you don’t want to be alone with, unless you really, really do.