I nod, unable to speak, my throat tight with emotion.
He starts to move, a slow, deep rhythm that feels less like an act of conquest and more like a dance. Each thrust is a deliberate, sensual exploration, a question asked and answered in the silent language of our bodies. He is learning me, not as territory to be claimed, but as a landscape to be cherished.
My hands, which were on his shoulders, slide around to his back, my nails tracing idle patterns on his skin. I am no longer just a passive recipient of his desire, I am an active participant. My hips rise to meet his, a slow, sinuous counter-rhythm that pulls a low groan from his chest.
“Kinsley,” he murmurs, my name a prayer, a benediction. A raw, vulnerable sound I’ve never heard from him before.
He lowers his head, his lips finding mine in a slow, deep kiss that matches the rhythm of our bodies. It’s a kiss of sharing, of connection, a silent communication of the fragile, terrifying peace we’ve found. The storm is over, and this is the quiet aftermath, the gentle, rebuilding rain.
His hands move. One sliding up to tangle in my hair, the other gripping my hip, guiding me, possessing me in a way that feels less like a chain and more like an anchor. He shifts slightly, changing the angle, and the new pressure against my core sends a jolt of pure lightning through me.
My back arches, a soft cry escaping my lips. He breaks the kiss, pulling back just enough to watch me, to see the pleasure on my face. His own face is a mask of raw, unguarded need, the hard,predatory lines softened by a vulnerability that takes my breath away.
“West,” I whisper, his name a breathy, reverent sound.
“Yeah, baby, right there,” he groans, his hips snapping forward with a sudden, deep thrust that hits that spot again, making my toes curl. “That’s it. Take it.”
His words, once weapons of control are now a form of encouragement, a shared secret in the quiet morning light. I meet his gaze, my eyes wide, letting him see everything. The pleasure, the vulnerability, and the terrifying affection.
My hands slide down his back, my fingers digging into the hard muscle of his ass, pulling him deeper in a silent, desperate plea for more. I am no longer fighting the pull; I am embracing it, surrendering to it with a willing, open heart.
He responds with a low growl of satisfaction, his movements becoming more deliberate, more forceful. The slow, sensual dance is evolving into a more urgent rhythm, a desperate, driving need for release, for connection. His lips find my neck, sucking hard. A possessive bite that brands me as his own, a claim I now welcome.
My body coils tight, a string pulled to its breaking point. The pleasure is building, a tidal wave rising inside me, threatening to pull me under. My breath comes in short, sharp gasps, my fingernails scoring lines across his back. The world narrows to the sensation of him moving inside me, to the possessive fire in his eyes. To the overwhelming, all-consuming need for the release only he can give.
“West,” I gasp, his name a torn, ragged sob. “Please… don’t stop.”
“Never,” he groans, the word a raw, heartfelt promise. His hand slides between us, his thumb finding my clit. Moving in a slow, deliberate circle that shatters what little control I have left.The added stimulation is a final, brutal assault, pushing me over the edge.
The world dissolves into a blinding, shattering wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure. My back arches off the bed, my body convulsing in the grip of an orgasm so intense it borders on pain. A choked, strangled scream is torn from my throat, a raw, primal sound of total surrender. My inner walls clench around him in a frantic, rhythmic pulsing. A final, desperate attempt to hold on as I am shattered into a million pieces.
He follows me over the edge with a guttural groan, his hips driving into me one last, powerful time.
We lie in silence for a few more minutes before he finally releases me and gets out of bed. I watch him as he moves around the room, his powerful body a study in controlled grace. He pulls on a pair of sweatpants, his bare back a canvas of sculpted muscle. My gaze lingers, and I feel a flush of heat that has nothing to do with shame and everything to do with pure, simple desire.
“Breakfast?” he asks, turning to look at me.
I nod, pushing myself up. He watches me for a moment, his eyes dark and appreciative, before tossing me one of his t-shirts from his drawer. I pull it on, the familiar scent of him a strange comfort.
In the kitchen, the atmosphere is different. The tension is gone, replaced by a quiet, domestic rhythm. He makes coffee while I sit at the island, watching him. It feels unnervingly normal.
He places a mug in front of me then leans against the counter, his eyes searching mine. “Today is Monday,” he says. “The start of a new week.”
I nod, taking a sip of the coffee. “I have clinicals this afternoon.”
“I know,” he says. “I’ll drive you.”
I don’t argue, I just nod again. This is the new reality. He is not asking, he is stating a fact.
He picks up his phone from the counter, scrolling through it for a moment. “There’s something else,” he says, his tone casual but his eyes are sharp, watching my reaction. “Valentine’s Day is next week.”
My heart gives a little flutter. Valentine’s Day. The most public, performative romantic holiday of the year.
“Asher hosts an annual charity ball every Valentine’s Day,” he continues, his voice even. “It’s the biggest event of the season. Everyone will be there. And this year, I’m expected to bring a date.”
He lets the words hang in the air. He’s not asking me. He’s telling me. This is the next stage of the game. Our “fake” relationship, the one that exists for his uncle and his teammates, is about to go on full public display.
A year ago, the thought of attending a stuffy charity ball would have filled me with dread. The pressure to be the perfect, charming daughter of John and Eleanor Fischer. But now… the thought of walking into that ballroom on the arm of West Monroe, the most powerful and dangerous man I’ve ever known… it sends a dark, exhilarating thrill through me.
