She’s so goddamn perfect.
“Hayden, what the fuuuuuuuuck,” she moans out, looking at her hand, but grinding back on my dick.
“That’s right, darling, adjust to the size of it all,” I pant in her ear, increasing my pace, causing her steady breathing to hitch. “If you ever take them off, I’ll end your life. No warnings, no second chances. I’d rather bury you in them than see you without them.”
Her breath catches. She reaches up, fingers brushing the emeralds at her throat, then the ring, slow, intentional.
“You’d kill me?” she says, voice low, laced with something softer than fear. Her lips curve into the faintest smile as she moans out and comes on my cock.“That’s fine…I’d die for you.”
Martine Lilian Herron
I wake up to stillness.
Not silence, there’s the faint rustle of leaves outside the window, the distant hum of the grounds below, but thatotherkind of quiet. The kind that lets me know I’m alone.
The sheets are soft, warm against my skin, and tangled all around my tanned legs. But the space beside me is cold.
He’s gone.
Even before I look, I know it. There’s no pressure in the mattress where he should be, no breath but mine echoing in the vastness of this room.
I sit up slowly, the silk sheets slipping from my chest. The room yawns around me, impossibly large, old, beautiful, a little cruel. Hayden's bedroom is the one room in the house I’ve never explored, and it feels...arranged.
My eyes fall to the nightstand.
A white porcelain dish. A cup of coffee, still steaming. A perfect fruit bowl, featuring papaya, strawberries, and blackberries, so ripe they look artificial. And a note, heavy cream paper, folded once. I reach for it with fingers that feel oddly heavy.
His handwriting is crisp and surprisingly elegant.
On assignment, urgent. I’ll return soon. The pill isn’t optional.
-H.
I stare at the words.I reread it, this time at a slower pace.The pill isn’t optional.
But we both know everything is a choice.
My eyes flick to the pill. Perfectly placed in the center of the dish like a prize, the same muscle relaxer as last time.
I don’t touch it.
Instead, I breathe.
Coffee first. I lift the cup, still warm—a quiet luxury, decently hot in my hands.
The porcelain kisses my lip and—
That’s when I see it.
The ring.
On my finger.
I freeze, the cup halfway to my mouth. My breath catches. I just stare at the massive emerald, deep green in the early light, set in a cage of diamonds. The kind of piece that feels less like jewelry and more like a declaration. It doesn’t belong to me. It couldn’t.
But it’s there, fat and shiny, onme.
Hayden must’ve slipped it on in the dark last night. I can’t remember. Everything after the fireplace, the wine, and the intensity of our dining table declaration is a blur. The middle of the night is a mix of skin, shadow, his breath on my neck, and then nothing clear until now.
