But her open, unguarded expression of awe tells a different story. And I can’t help but wonder if part of the reason for gifting Aurora this floor was to provoke exactly this sort of joy.
As she strolls through patches of sunlight, dust motes swirl around her like tiny stars. She seems to have forgotten me entirely.
I hover off to one side, content to watch her explore. The woman from the coffee shop is back. No masks, no calculations, no fear. Just Aurora, bright and real and alive with a kind of passion I want to steal for myself.
Cold, possessive clarity sinks in. I don’t merely want her body in my bed.
I crave the real Aurora. I want to be the person who elicits those sunny smiles and causes her eyes to gleam.
I shift my feet. This new revelation is unwelcome and dangerous.
A vulnerability I can’t afford. I’m the monster who dragged her from her life and holds her sister’s safety as collateral. I don’t deserve the bright, genuine smiles or unguarded joy.
I push the thought away, lock it down, and bury it beneath layers of control and calculation.
But the notion—as impossible to ignore as a splinter beneath skin—remains.
“You’re doing all this for me.” She crosses over to me, close enough that I can detect my soap on her skin. “What can I do for you?”
“Let me fuck you.” The gruff request strips away the moment we shared and replaces it with the transactional framework I understand.
Her expression falters. Heat flares in her eyes even as she shakes her head. “No sex, sir. We have an agreement. Remember?”
Before I can protest, she rises on her toes and presses her lips to mine.
Instead of hungry or desperate, this kiss is gentle. A touch that tunnels deep inside me, reaching a place that’s remained sealed for so long I’d forgotten it existed.
My hands hang at my sides while my muscles contract. This isn’t part of our arrangement. Our rules don’t cover this.
This exchange isn’t related to sex, or passion, or a battle for dominance, but rather…giving.
Giving freely, without expectation of return.
Panic accompanies the warmth that floods my body. I possess no defenses against this. No counter strategy or experience on how to navigate these waters.
I splay my hands around her hips and press my thumbs into the bones, anchoring myself as much as her. When the kiss threatens to drag me under, I retreat just enough to examine her face.
Reassuring myself that she seems unafraid, I slowly sink to my knees in front of her. Her eyes widen, confusion replacing the warmth.
Good. This is more familiar territory.
If she refuses to offer sex, I’ll take the next best thing.
I slide my hand down to the waistband and hook my fingers beneath the elastic. I pause, giving her the chance to stop me.
Her breathing accelerates, pupils dilating as she observes me. “What are you doing?”
“Nothaving sex.” I echo her earlier distinction. “Just taking what’s mine.”
Color creeps up her neck and into her cheeks, rendering them the delightful shade of pink I’ve come to love.
I ease the fabric down her hips, far enough to expose the soft skin of her lower belly. My lips press against the curve where her hip meets her abdomen. She gasps and grips my shoulder, not to push me away but to seek balance as her knees tremble.
My confidence returns, banishing my previous discomfort. This is power. Control. A dynamic that makes sense.
I savor the way her body responds to each kiss as I forge a path down her hips, enjoying her whimper when the sweatpants hit the floor. I guide her legs apart, anchoring one over my shoulder. Her fingers tangle in my hair, not directing but holding on. I relish the tremors running over her thighs and the way she fights to remain upright as I dismantle her composure.
When my mouth finally finds its target, lingering on her clit, her moan reverberates in the vast, empty space. I alternate between licking and sucking, learning what causes her breath to catch, what draws those small, helpless sounds from her throat. A different kind of interrogation, but one with the same purpose.
