I hated myself for it. Hated how weak I was, how utterly destroyed he'd left me. My knees buckled, my body folding forward, and I braced for the floor?—
His arms caught me. Steady. Certain. Like he'd been waiting for it.
"I've got you," he murmured, his voice rough but quiet. Almost… tender.
I wanted to shove him away. Wanted to scream at him, to claw at his face, to do something other than collapse against his chest like a rag doll. But my body wouldn't obey. My limbs were liquid, my breath still stuttering, my vision blurred with tears I refused to acknowledge.
He lifted me effortlessly, his hands firm beneath my thighs, and carried me the few steps to the dining chair. The cool wood pressed against my bare skin as he set me down, my legs still trembling, my hands gripping the armrests just to stay upright.
His fingers brushed my cheek.
I flinched, but he didn't pull away. His thumb traced the path of a tear I hadn't realized had fallen, his touch impossibly gentle. Then his lips followed—soft, careful, pressing against the damp trail on my skin. Kissing away my tears like they were something precious.
I squeezed my eyes shut, my chest tightening. Don't. Don't do this. Don't make it?—
"Stay here," he murmured against my temple, his breath warm. "I'll get you something to eat."
I wanted to defy him. Wanted to tell him to go to hell. Wanted to stand up and walk out of this house and never look back.
But I couldn't.
My body was still trembling, my legs too weak to hold me. My cunt ached—sore, sensitive, used—but beneath the exhaustion, beneath the shame, there was something else. Something I couldn't name. Something that felt disturbingly, terrifyingly close to satisfaction.
I'd felt good.
And I hated it. Hated that he'd made me come harder than I ever had in my life. Hated that my body had responded to him like it was made for his touch. Hated that even now, sitting in this chair with tears drying on my face, part of me wanted him to come back and do it again.
The thought made bile rise in my throat.
I pressed my palms against my eyes, my breath shuddering. This isn't me. This can't be me.
But it was.
And Gideon knew it.
Chapter 16
Gideon
I stood there.
Just… stood there.
Watching her.
Belle leaned back against the chair, flushed and trembling, her chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. Her eyes were half-lidded, glazed with exhaustion and something else—something raw and vulnerable that made my chest tighten in a way I didn't like.
She was gorgeous.
Wrecked.
Mine.
The possessiveness that surged through me was familiar. Expected. I'd wanted this—wanted to break through her defenses, wanted to prove she couldn't resist me, wanted to hear her beg.
I'd gotten all of it.
So why did I feel like I'd lost something?
