He stands a few feet away, his hands in his pockets, watching the city. He doesn't try to touch me. He just exists, a silent, powerful force beside me.
“It’s beautiful,” I admit, the words torn from me.
“It is,” he agrees, his voice soft. “This city… It’s a living thing. A storm in itself.” He turns to me, his eyes reflecting the city lights. “You belong here, Kinsley. You belong in a place that matches your intensity.”
His words are insidious, weaving themselves into the fabric of my own desires. I’ve always felt out of place, too much, too intense for the polished, high-achieving world I grew up in. This city, with its relentless energy, its endless possibilities has always called to me. And he knows it.
He knows me. He sees me., and that is the most terrifying thing of all.
The sun begins to set, painting the sky in fiery hues of orange and purple. The city lights begin to glitter, coming alive beneath us.
“Dinner will be in an hour,” he says, his voice breaking the silence. “Then we can watch a movie, if you like. Or you can continue to study.”
He’s giving me choices, but they’re all within the confines of his cage. I turn from the railing, my eyes meeting his. The fight is still there, burning low, but something else flickers beneath it. A terrifying, unwanted curiosity. A desperate, lonely pull.
“Fine,” I say, the word a reluctant surrender. “A movie.”
He smiles, a slow, triumphant smile that reaches his eyes. He knows he’s winning. And the worst part is, I’m starting to wonder if I want him to.
Thirty Two
Kinsley
The movie choice is, predictably, his. A complex, psychological thriller that demands attention, full of twists and turns that keep my mind engaged, if not entirely distracted from the man beside me. We’re in a sprawling media room, the lights dimmed, the sound system enveloping us. The couch is deep and plush, and he’s settled into one end, leaving a chasm between us. It’s a deliberate space, a silent challenge.
I try to focus on the screen, but my senses are hyper-aware of him. The subtle scent of his cologne, the shifting of his weight, the low hum of his breathing. My body, still aching from last night, feels a traitorous pull towards his warmth.
Midway through the film, a particularly intense scene unfolds. My heart pounds, and I flinch, a small, involuntary gasp escaping my lips. Without a word, he reaches across the divide. His hand settles on my knee, a warm, heavy weight that sends a jolt through me. It’s not just a claim; it’s a spark. A terrifying, unwanted warmth spreads through my veins. I tell myself it’s anger but a deeper, more unsettling sensation stirs beneath.
I tense, my muscles coiling, but I don’t pull away. I can’t. The touch is both terrifying and, to my shame, strangely comforting. He doesn’t move his hand. It stays there, a constant, possessive presence until the scene passes. Then, just as silently as it appeared, his hand retreats. The absence leaves a cold spot on my skin, and a strange, hollow ache in its wake.
The movie ends. The credits roll, and the lights slowly brighten. I feel raw, exposed. Not just from the film, but from the unspoken tension between us.
“Good choice,” I say, my voice a little breathless.
“I thought you’d appreciate the complexity,” he replies, his eyes dark and knowing. He stands, stretching, his robust frame silhouetted against the returning light. “Bedtime, Kinsley.”
My stomach clenches. Bedtime. The word hangs in the air, heavy with implication. I follow him, my steps hesitant, my mind racing. The bedroom is still dark, lit only by the city lights. He walks to the far side of the king-sized bed, pulling back the covers. He expects me to join him.
I stop at the foot of the bed, my arms wrapped around myself. “I… I can sleep on the couch.”
He turns, his expression unreadable. “Don’t be ridiculous. This is my bed. You’re in my home. You’ll sleep here.” His voiceis calm, but there’s an edge of steel beneath it. “Unless you’re afraid?”
“I’m not afraid,” I lie, my voice barely a whisper. But the truth is, I’m afraid of myself. Scared of what my body might do.
“Good,” he says, his eyes holding mine. “Then come to bed.”
I walk towards the bed, each step a further surrender. I climb in on the opposite side, pulling the covers up to my chin. The bed is vast, but it feels impossibly small with him in it. His scent, his presence, is overwhelming. My body, despite my mind’s fierce protests feels a strange, magnetic pull towards him.
He lies on his back, his arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. I lie rigid, every nerve ending screaming, waiting for his next move.
Then, he turns. He faces me, his eyes gleaming in the dim light. He reaches out, his hand gently cupping my cheek. His thumb brushes over my lower lip, a soft, feather-light touch that makes my breath hitch.
“You’re still beautiful, Kinsley,” he whispers, his voice a low, intimate murmur. “Even when you’re fighting me.”
He leans in, his lips brushing mine in a soft, teasing kiss that promises more. I close my eyes, my body betraying me with a shiver of anticipation. He deepens the kiss, his mouth warm and demanding and I find myself responding, my lips parting, my hands reaching out to grip his shoulders. My mind screams stop, but my body is a traitor. Arching into his touch, craving the heat, the pressure, the forbidden pleasure. The kiss is long, slow, and consuming. It’s a kiss of ownership, yes, but it’s also a kiss that ignites a terrifying, unwanted spark deep within me.
When he finally pulls away I’m breathless, my body humming with a desperate, unwanted need that I hate myself for feeling.
