Page 40 of The Accident

I rise, stand over her, and make her look at me.

“We’re not done,” I say, voice soft but unyielding. “Not by a long shot, sweetheart.”

And in the glass behind her, I catch my reflection—shirt open, hair wild, eyes black with need.

Predator, plain and simple.

And she’s my prey.

Maybe the city below is oblivious to our naughty actions. But up here, the game has just begun.

14

THE MORNING AFTER

Kayleigh

Iwake to a sheet of warm daylight and the aroma of rich espresso hitting my nostrils. I smell pancakes too, and even the faint, earthy ghost of Trevor’s cologne. But I’m not in his bed. Instead, after tonguing my anal cherry, Trevor pulled me into a massive shower and gently washed me. Of course, he touched me everywhere and I came about three times, crying out while clinging to his massive chest. But the man never claimed me with his cock. It was there of course, huge, hot, heavy and dripping, and he let me squeeze him a bit, groaning as my slim fingers closed over the veiny rod. But he never let me make him come, and he never put it into me either. I was so confused, and even more confused when he dried me off and led me to the guest bedroom to sleep on my own before closing the door. Why? Why would Trevor let himself touch and stroke me all over, worshipping my breasts, belly, pussy, and more with his lips and tongue, but not take the final step? After all, I was more than willing, panting and moaning against him while crying out his name.

But I guess I’ll find out this morning. I throw the fluffy white duvet off, and when I look down, I realize I’m wearing one of his t-shirts and a pair of boxers, both so massive on me that I could fit two Kayleighs inside. My blonde hair is wild, a halo of knots and static; there’s a tiny little bit of mascara on the edge of one eye, but otherwise, I look more or less okay.

In the hallway, the floor is so polished I can see my own feet reflected in the surface. I walk on my toes, so that I resemble a thief tiptoeing about this lovely apartment. But Trevor’s already awake—already standing at the stove with his back to me, one hand steady on a skillet, the other braced on the marble counter. Even from across the room, the geometry of his broad shoulders and the raw, tan sweep of his back hit me like a cannonball: beautiful and muscular, one hundred percent male.

There are two mugs on the counter, both sweating steam, both white and heavy. The kitchen is nothing but straight lines: butcher-block counters, the slab of the island, the six-burner cooktop that looks like something you could use to cauterize wounds. Outside the wall of windows, the city is bright as it just wakes up. Every building is cut glass, every avenue a gash in the grid. Trevor’s penthouse floats above it all, a sealed aquarium for only the rarest, most dangerous men.

I hover for a minute, clutching the hem of my shirt, then slide onto a stool at the island. I pull my knees up and tuck my feet under me so I don’t have to touch the cold. The mug is warm and smells bitter, almost burned. I wrap both hands around it and watch the condensation bead on the marble.

“Eggs?” Trevor says, his voice neutral.

I nod, then realize he isn’t looking at me. “Sure,” I say, as if we’re still playing house, as if he isn’t the reason I feel like every muscle in my body has been wrung out and left to dry.

He plates the eggs without a word, then turns to face me. The way he does it—like a man who expects the world to rotate with him—makes the room tilt. He’s shirtless, pajama pants low on his hips, and his hair is a tangle from sleep, tousled yet ridiculously attractive. There’s a scar just below his left pec, pale and a little jagged, as if he lost a fight with a cat. His eyes are bloodshot, but still that mesmerizing ice-blue, the color of lakes in postcards.

I stare at the eggs. They’re perfect, which almost makes it worse.

We eat in silence. The only sounds are forks on porcelain and the faint, ever-present hum of the city below.

At some point, I realize I’m not breathing.

Finally, I set down my fork, hear it tinkle against the plate, and say, “So…should I say it first?”

He looks at me sideways.

“Say what?”

“Good morning,” I reply with a bright smile. “Or are we not allowed to say that around here.”

He sighs and stares at his plate.

“Good morning, Kayleigh.”

“Good morning, Trevor,” I repeat. “Thank you for making breakfast. These eggs are delicious. I wish I could make eggs as well as you. I also wish we could keep going with the small talk, but I can tell you’re upset about something⁠—”

“I’m not upset,” he says in a dark tone.

“Okaaaay,” I say, dragging the syllable. “Then what it is?”

He’s silent.