I am lost. Lost in his kiss, lost in his control, lost in the terrifying, forbidden pull that binds me to him. The chaotic storm in my head finally quiets, replaced by the single, overwhelming reality of him.
My trembling hands find his chest, curling into the fabric of his shirt. I am clinging to the source of my terror, I am kissing the monster I’ve been trying to escape.
My mind is a battleground.Run. Fight. This is a mistake. He's dangerous.But my body, my treacherous body, is winning. My fingers tighten on his shirt, pulling him closer. My lips part, granting him deeper access, a silent surrender to the overwhelming force of him.
He pulls back, his forehead resting against mine, our breaths mingling in the charged air. His hands are still on me, one on the nape of my neck, the other on the small of my back. A steady, possessive weight.
“Tell me you want this, Kinsley,” he whispers, his voice a raw, desperate, demanding plea. “Tell me.”
And in that moment, I see it. A flicker of something in his eyes, something that looks terrifyingly like vulnerability. A crack in the armor, a need that mirrors my own.
I am terrified, I am exhilarated. I am a moth to a flame, and the flame is asking me to fly closer.
He pulls back, his forehead resting against mine, our breaths mingling in the charged air. His hands are still on me, one on the nape of my neck, the other on the small of my back in a steady, possessive weight.
My eyes flutter open, meeting his. His pupils are blown wide, dark pools reflecting the room's dim light, but his gaze is unnervingly clear. He sees everything; he sees the panic, the confusion, the traitorous desire swirling within me.
He doesn't kiss me again, he doesn't push me onto the bed. Instead, his thumb, warm and rough, begins to stroke the sensitive skin at the nape of my neck, just beneath my hairline. The sensation sends another shiver through me, a purely involuntary response that makes me hate myself even more.
“You feel it too,” he whispers, his voice a low, gravelly murmur that vibrates through my bones. It's not a question, it's a statement. A declaration. “This... between us. You can't deny it, Kinsley.”
My voice is a desperate, broken thing. “Why are you doing this?”
He pulls back completely then, but his eyes never leave mine. His hands drop from my body, leaving me feeling suddenly cold, exposed. He takes a step back, then another, creating a space between us that feels vast and echoing.
He walks over to his dresser, opens a drawer and pulls out a small, sealed packet. He turns, holding it out to me. It's a single, fresh clonazepam.
My breath hitches. My eyes widen in disbelief, then in a fresh wave of terror. He knew the pill was ruined, he knew what I needed. He was prepared.
“You look like you could use this,” he says, his voice devoid of emotion yet laced with an undeniable, chilling intimacy. “It's a prescription from my own doctor. Perfectly legal. Take it.”
He doesn't move closer. He just stands there, holding out the pill, a silent, powerful demand. He's offering me a lifeline, but it feels like a leash. He's demonstrating his control, his foresight, his terrifying understanding of my most vulnerable needs.
My mind is screaming.Don't take it, don't let him win. Don't let him see how much you need it.But my body is shaking, my head is pounding, and the chaos in my mind is threatening to consume me. My lifeline was ruined. He is offering me another.
I walk towards him, each step a reluctant surrender. My hand trembles as I reach for the pill, our fingers brushing for a fleeting, electric second. I take it, a silent acknowledgment of his power, of his terrifying care.
He watches me, his expression unreadable as I dry-swallow the pill.
“Good girl,” he says, the words a soft, possessive caress. He steps closer, his gaze dropping to the jersey. His fingers, warm and firm, trace the number on the back of the jersey, right over my shoulder blade. The fabric is thin beneath his touch, and I feel the heat of his skin through the material. “My colors suit you. They always will.”
He doesn't touch me again. He just turns, walks to the door of his room and opens it, letting the muffled sounds of the party flood back in.
“I'll call you a ride share,” he says, his voice back to its detached, formal tone. “Get some rest, Kinsley. You've had a long night.”
He steps out of the room, leaving me standing there wearing his jersey with the taste of his kiss still on my lips, the bitter aftertaste of the pill on my tongue, and the horrifying realization that he has just demonstrated a level of control and intimacy that transcends any physical act. He knows me, he sees me, and he is everywhere.
I am still trembling, but now it's not just out of fear. It's from the terrifying, undeniable truth that he holds the key to my calm, and he knows it. And a part of me, a dark, treacherous part feels a perverse sense of belonging wrapped in his jersey, branded by his touch.
Twenty One
Kinsley
The ride share is a blur of motion, carrying me away from the glittering penthouse, from the pulsating bass, fromhim. I’m still wearing his jersey, the heavy fabric a suffocating weight smelling faintly of his cologne, of sweat, of power. The clonazepam is working, a slow, creeping calm that dulls the sharp edges of my panic, but can’t erase the intimacy of what just happened.
My lips still tingle from his kiss, and my skin still prickles where his fingers traced the number on my back. The words echo in my head, a relentless, possessive mantra:“Good girl. My colors suit you. They always will.”
I press my forehead against the cold glass of the window, watching the city lights streak by. My mind is a chaotic storm, battling the encroaching calm of the pill. Fear, shame, fury and that insidious, traitorous pull. They all swirl together, in a toxic cocktail.
