I press a kiss to the hollow of her throat, breathing her in, memorizing the way she shivers when my mouth grazes her skin.
“Good night, Bella,” I murmur, forcing my hands to let her go.
She slips away, silent on bare feet, dress hitched around her hips, eyes glassy with afterglow and something like confusion. She looks back once, hair falling wild over her shoulder, a question in her eyes that neither of us is ready to answer.
I stand alone in the half-dark, blood thrumming, her taste still thick on my tongue. The flavor of her—salty and sharp, her musk thick and real, the heat of her clit still tingling on my lips—makes it impossible to think about anything else. I can smell heron my beard, on my fingers, the scent clinging to my skin like a warning.
I pour myself a glass of vodka, but it does nothing. The memory of her is too strong. The softness of her breasts pressing into my hands, the way her nipples tightened against my tongue. The look in her eyes when she came, wide and helpless and trusting, even when she didn’t want to be.
I remember the way her thighs trembled as I held her open, the quiet whimpers she tried to bite back, the way she moaned my name. How wet she was, how she opened for me, how her whole body responded to the slightest flick of my tongue.
I tell myself I should sleep. That I need to be focused. But sleep doesn’t come.
I sit at the window, watching the city blur beneath the rain, and all I can think about is her—her scent on my skin, the flush of her cheeks, the taste of her pussy on my lips, the need in her eyes that matches the hunger in mine.
She’s under my skin, in my head, in my blood.
The hours crawl by.
I sit in the dark with the city sprawling beneath me, the glass cool under my palms, every sense tuned to the space just beyond the bedroom door. I can hear the faintest sound—her movement, the rustle of sheets, a sigh that drifts out and curls around me like smoke.
I close my eyes and see her body everywhere. The curve of her hips as she arched up for me, the scatter of freckles on her shoulder, the way her lips parted when I slid my tongue over herclit. The taste of her, rich and slick and real, still lingers on my mouth. I lick my lips, hungry all over again.
Her scent fills this suite—on my hands, on my beard, in the air. Even the table still smells like her skin and sweat, her perfume sweet and powdery, edged with that animal undertone that drives me wild. It’s a scent I know I’ll never forget. I breathe it in, slow, letting it settle in my lungs.
My cock is still half-hard, my body refusing to let go of the tension she winds through me so easily. I know I could go to her room, wake her, take her again, and she’d let me—she’d open for me, just like before. The image claws at my self-control, the memory of her thighs trembling, the sound of her gasping my name. I could lose myself in her and forget the world outside these walls, just for one more night.
But I don’t move.
I watch the city instead, glass towers blurred by the rain. I replay every moment of tonight, every time she moaned, every flush of color in her cheeks, the way her nipples hardened under my tongue, the way she clung to my hair and pressed her hips into my mouth, begging without words.
She’s a problem I can’t solve, a need I can’t put away. The more I taste her, the more I want.
She’s become the center of every thought, every plan, every risk I’m willing to take. I know it’s reckless, but there’s no going back. I want her, not just for tonight, not just until the danger passes, but for as long as I can keep her.
That’s the truth I can’t sleep away, no matter how long the night is.
Eventually I hear her settle into a deeper sleep. Her breathing slows. The suite grows quieter. Still I don’t move. I just watch, and listen, and wait for morning—aching for her all over again, knowing that this hunger isn’t going anywhere.
I’m up before dawn, as always. The city is quiet, rain washed away by early sun. I’ve showered, shaved, poured a cup of coffee that goes cold in my hands while I go over messages and contingencies on my phone.
Bella is still asleep when I hear soft footsteps padding across the hallway carpet. The suite is filled with that hush particular to luxury hotels—thick walls, thick rugs, a sense that trouble is always just beyond the glass. But the sound is gentle, small.
I look up and see Lily in the doorway, still in her pajamas, one hand rubbing at her eyes, hair wild. She’s wary at first, uncertain—her gaze flickers from the empty living room to me at the table, then down at her socked feet.
“Morning,” I say quietly, careful not to startle her. I’m not used to talking to children. I can stare down a roomful of grown men without blinking, but this tiny girl with Bella’s eyes makes my chest ache in a way that feels too exposed.
She studies me for a beat, then shuffles over, stopping a safe distance away. She’s watching me, cautious but not afraid. Just weighing me, the way her mother does.
She looks at me with wide, sleepy eyes and then glances around for her mother.
“Hi, Lily,” I say softly, careful, almost formal. “Did you sleep well?”
She nods, still clutching her blanket, then points to the table. “Juice?” Her words are small, soft.
I pour her some juice, sliding the cup carefully across. She climbs awkwardly into the chair, legs swinging. “Mama?” she asks, looking up at me.
“She’s sleeping,” I tell her. “We’ll let her rest.”
