Matt’s hands were gentle as they roamed over my body, tracing the lines and curves of my flesh as if memorizing them. His lips found mine in a tender, lingering kiss that spoke of more than just physical desire. It was a kiss that reached into the depths of my soul, laying bare all the walls and defenses I’d built up over the years.
We moved together in a rhythm, our bodies in perfect sync as we sought to reaffirm the connection that bound us together. There was no rush, no urgency this time. Just the two of us, lost in the moment, our lovemaking a slow, sensual dance that promised to go on and on. It was a beautiful, bittersweet agony, and as we gave ourselves over to the pleasure of the moment, I realized that I was lost to this man in ways that I had never imagined possible. I was his, in every way that mattered. Matt Caine had done more than just claim my body. He’d claimed my heart as well.
My mind was a foggy wasteland, the details of how I ended up back in the penthouse lost to the haze of lust and exhaustion. I couldn’t recall the journey from Matt’s office to here; it seemed likely I’d been swept up in his arms, too dazed to notice the world spinning by.
Now, as the water cascaded over us, I stood still, trying to regain my bearings. Matt’s hands moved over my body with a tenderness that was at odds with the fierce intensity of our earlier coupling. He washed me with the kind of care one might reserve for something precious, something cherished. His touch was light, almost reverent, as he traced the lines of my muscles, the curve of my spine, the dip of my waist. And then there were his kisses, soft presses of his lips against my skin that left a trailof warmth in their wake. The back of my neck, my shoulders, my back, my chest, my nipples—each kiss felt like a silent promise, a vow.
I felt his breath on my ear, and shivers danced down my back despite the warm water cascading over us. “Andy,” he murmured, and something in his voice clawed at me, desperate to respond.
When we stepped out of the shower, he patted me dry with a tenderness that felt like a betrayal to my resolve. He insisted on helping me dress, his hands deftly buttoning my shirt, tucking it into my jeans. All the while, I avoided his gaze; looking at him was like staring into the sun—blinding and too intense.
My heart pounding in my chest as the reality of my feelings for him settled over me like a shroud. I was in love with Matt Caine. The realization was as terrifying as it was exhilarating. I had never been in love before, had never given any man that kind of power over me. And yet here I was, utterly and irrevocably lost to him. Matt Caine owned every part of me—body and soul—and it was too much to bear.
Dressed and utterly spent, I collapsed onto the sofa, a regal sprawl of limbs that felt boneless with fatigue. He took his time getting dressed, moving with a grace and confidence that only served to underscore his power and status. When he was done, he came over to me, pressing a gentle kiss to my cheek.
“Behave, pet,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that made my heart flutter despite my resolve. “I’ll see you tonight at dinner.”
I said nothing, my eyes fixed on a point somewhere over his shoulder. I couldn’t bring myself to meet his gaze, couldn’t bear to see the possessive glint in those stormy steel-gray eyes. Matt didn’t press for a response. With one last, lingering look, he turned and left the room.
Alone, I buried my face in the plush cushion of the sofa, my heart pounding in my chest like a drum. I had never known love before this whirlwind named Matt Caine had swept into my life. And now? Now it terrified me more than anything else. To give away pieces of myself to someone else—to him—was like standing on the edge of a cliff with only his hands keeping me from falling.
The thought of seeing him again at dinner made my stomach churn with a mixture of anticipation and dread. I needed time, needed space to sort through my feelings, to shore up the defenses that Matt had so effortlessly torn down. I couldn’t stay here, not while my emotions were in such turmoil. I needed to leave, needed to put some distance between us. Maybe then I could regain some semblance of control, could convince myself that I wasn’t hopelessly in love with the man who had stolen my body and, try as I might to deny it, had laid claim to my heart as well.
I heaved a sigh that could’ve filled a dozen balloons, my gaze flicking to the sleek phone resting innocently on the coffee table. With a resigned grunt, I snatched it up, thumbing through contacts until Fin’s name flashed on the screen. The line buzzed once, twice—no answer. He was probably elbow-deep in some cleaning disaster. His infectious laughter and lighthearted jests would have been a balm to my jumbled nerves.
“Figures,” I muttered to myself, feeling a twitch of annoyance. My thumb hovered, then jabbed at Ethan’s name next. But just like his brother, he was off the grid, likely dealing cards to high rollers with more money than sense.
“Great,” I grumbled, tossing the phone back onto the couch.
A sigh escaped me, frustration coiling in my gut like a spring wound too tight. My plan to crash with them was crumbling like a poorly shuffled deck. Without their warm welcome or even just a couch to crash on, I was adrift.
I sat back down for a moment, rubbing a hand over my face. My old apartment—the one I’d clung to out of sheer stubbornness—was my only sanctuary now. It was still mine until month’s end, a small grace in the midst of chaos.
With a newfound sense of purpose, I scrambled to my feet, my muscles protesting the sudden movement. I hunted down my backpack—a relic from a less complicated past—and shoved in the essentials: wallet, laptop, and some old clothes that didn’t reek of Matt Caine’s wealth. I needed to remind myself of who I was before him.
Glancing at the clock on the wall, I bided my time until three p.m.—the changing of the guard when Bruno and Tyrone would take their breaks and the penthouse became less Fort Knox and more sneaky getaway window. They probably thought I was still languishing in post-coital exhaustion in Matt’s penthouse suite.
As the minute hand ticked freedom, I slipped out of the room. The corridor was as deserted as my stomach was hollow. I made a beeline for the elevator, my pulse racing with every step. The doors slid open with a soft ding, and I stepped inside, my breath hitching as I descended to the lobby. I half expected to see Bruno or Tyrone striding toward me, their faces set in stern disapproval, but the coast was clear. I had made it.
Once outside, my feet carried me swiftly away from Matt’s world of luxury and suffocating affection. A taxi rolled up like a chariot offering escape; I jumped in without hesitation.
The familiar streets passed by in a blur and relief flooded through me when the taxi pulled up to my old apartment building. I paid the fare, trudged up the stairs with heavy limbs but a lighter heart, and pushed open the door to my spartan sanctuary. Home at last, I collapsed onto the sofa. Sleep claimed me instantly—a deep slumber born of emotional exhaustion—and there I lay sprawled across the cushions that smelled faintly of dust and simpler times.
I didn’t know how long I had been out. It felt like I’d been hit by a truck, physically and emotionally. The kind of sleep that swallows you whole, dragging you into an abyss where even dreams can’t find you. But then the banging started—loud, relentless, and annoying as hell. I jolted awake, my mind a foggy mess as I tried to piece together where I was. Right, my apartment. The one I ran back to like a coward running from a storm.
And then it hit me—Mia. Shit! What was I thinking? Running off without telling her, when she had come all the way from Mystic Spring just to see me? If there were an award for being a heartless jerk, I’d have a shelf full of them.
The insistent banging continued. My mind raced—could Matt have discovered my great escape? But no, something was off. Matt wouldn’t just bang on the door continuously like some crazed lunatic. He’d be calling my name, his voice like thunder, demanding my presence.
I shuffled over to the window and peeked through the blinds, heart thudding against my ribs. Peering out, I saw shadows cast by figures that didn’t carry themselves with Matt’s men’s calculated calm. They were rugged, hardened, with an air of menace that sent a chill down my spine. They were Carlos’ men—I’d recognize them anywhere. Panic surged through me like a bolt of lightning. I needed to get out and fast. Time to make a quick exit—stage rear.
Snatching up my phone, I darted to the bathroom at the back of the apartment and flung open the window. The sound of splintering wood echoed as my door gave way just as I swung myself out into the night air. The drop was nothing—a mere hiccup for someone with my history of hasty retreats.
Feet pounding on pavement, I sprinted through the labyrinth of backstreets. The men’s shouts grew louder behind me; their pursuit was relentless, but I refused to let fear paralyze me.I’d been knocked down more times than I could count, but I’d always found a way to get back up again. Tonight would be no different.
They wanted something from me—revenge for that botched drug deal? But that was Matt and William’s mess—I was just Andy Donovan, resident nobody.
I could hear them gaining on me as I weaved through backstreets and over fences like some kind of urban fox. I skidded to a halt as I rounded a corner, finding myself face-to-face with a group of Carlos’ men.
