A Sinful Gravity (Too Late to Keep Her #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Luna

"Luna..."

His voice hit my ear, and my fingers clenched tight without thinking.

Deep, a little raspy, like he'd held it back in his throat forever before letting it out. Every syllable grazed my earlobe, messing up my breathing for no damn reason.

Cassian's low, gravelly voice burned into my ear like hot embers.

Paired with his hands on me, it made me crave more.

"Fuck, baby, you're so tight inside... wraps me up like it's always the first time," he murmured, nipping my earlobe with his teeth, his voice dripping with raw possession. "Admit it, you love me fucking you like this, don't you? My little slut, spread those legs wider—let me go deeper."

My face burned red-hot, shame and pleasure exploding together. I wanted to call him a pig, but all that came out was a shattered moan. "Cassian... stop... talking..."

"Stop?" He chuckled low, voice even rougher, laced with wicked amusement. "Then why're you clenching harder down there? Huh? Mouth says no, but your body's honest." He thrust hard, burying himself to the hilt, jolting me forward until my chest pressed against his sweat-slicked one.

In bed, Cassian was nothing like his usual cold, unapproachable self. I loved seeing him like this.

The massive wave of pleasure had my nails digging into his back, pain and ecstasy bursting at once. I finally cried out. "Ah... too deep... Cassian... slower..."

"Can't slow down." He panted, gripping my waist like he wanted to fuse me into him. "It's our anniversary today. I'm fucking you till you can't get out of bed tomorrow. You're mine."

He picked up the pace, each slam heavy and brutal, the headboard thumping against the wall.

My mind went blank, just pure instinct taking over. I wrapped my legs tighter, toes curling.

He tore me apart piece by piece, then put me back together. The world shrank to his ragged breaths, the scorching heat of his palms, the ruthless way he hit deep every time.

"Say my name." He stopped suddenly, buried inside me, unmoving, just staring with those deep green eyes. "Louder."

I squirmed, desperate, trying to move, but he pinned me down.

"Cassian..." I finally gave in, voice shaking, tears welling up.

"Louder."

"Cassian!" I screamed it. Next second, he growled low in satisfaction and pounded into me like a madman.

Orgasm hit fast and fierce, swallowing me like a tidal wave.

I trembled all over, instincts taking hold. In the haze, I heard Cassian roar in my ear. "Fuck... coming inside you... all for you..."

Hot rush filled me, and I went limp in his arms, nothing left but our heavy breathing.

I snapped my eyes open.

The familiar beige ceiling stared back. The bedroom was dead quiet, except for my pounding heart.

I turned my head, reached out instinctively—cool, empty sheets. Not the warmth of someone just gone. Stone-cold, like that side of the bed had been vacant for hours, like no one had ever slept there. I ran my hand over the chill, then pulled it back, held it to my chest for a second.

Just a dream, Luna. He hadn't come home at all.

I squeezed my eyes shut. Something pressed lightly on my heart. Not painful, just empty.

Today was our third wedding anniversary.

I yanked the charger from my phone. Full battery, but zero messages—a stark contrast.

My pinned chat with Cassian stopped at 10 a.m yesterday.

"When are you coming home?"

"Emergency meeting at the office tonight. Don't wait up."

"Okay, take care."

I stared at the screen, zoning out. Cassian hadn't been home for two days straight.

The wedding photo on the wall pulled my thoughts to him, far away. I should get his busyness. He was a notorious workaholic. He had reasons for not coming home: a whole building waiting on his signatures, endless meetings, mergers that wouldn't quit.

But on our anniversary, he couldn't even spare a text? Disappointment hit hard, eyes stinging. I wondered if something was off between us.

I glanced at the ring on my finger and smirked bitterly. Yeah, notorious workaholic. How could he remember a third anniversary?

Outside, Washington's morning sky hung gray-blue, thin clouds drifting. Cars passed below, muffled through the glass. I sat on the bed's edge, fully awake now, then got up and headed to the kitchen.

Even if Cassian wasn't coming home, I worried about his nonstop grind wearing him down. So I decided to bring him some soup tonight—selfishly, just to see that cold bastard's face.

Maybe in his office, we could pick up where that dream left off.

As I prepped ingredients, my mind replayed last night's dream. So real, so intense. I could still feel his grip on my waist, the rough drag of his fingers on my skin.

Thinking about it made my cheeks heat up. Sure, our marriage started as an arrangement, but I'd long seen him as my only love. I loved his calm focus at work, and the way he shed that control in bed, claiming me wildly.

I grabbed the pot from the cabinet, ingredients from the fridge, and got to work. The kitchen filled with familiar sounds: water running, knife chopping, the soft pop of the burner igniting. Aromas soon wafted up.

I learned to make soup in our first year of marriage.

More like, I taught myself. No one asked. His mom was gone, and the housekeeper handled most chores. I could've done nothing, just played the perfect trophy wife: dress up, show up where needed, keep a polite distance otherwise.

But I didn't.

I wrecked a cookbook over two weekends, scorched two pots, mixed up salt and sugar once—soup came out like soda. I told no one, dumped it, and tried again the next day.

Then one night, Cassian came home late. I set a bowl of broth in front of him. He took a sip, paused, then said, "Not bad."

Just that.

"Not bad."

I stood in the kitchen doorway, grinning like an idiot for ten minutes.

Cassian King, the guy known in business for being stingy with words, called my soup "not bad."

Looking back, I don't know if I was just dumb, or if I'd gone so long without approval that I clutched at any scrap of warmth and held it close.

I turned down the heat, let the soup simmer, and went back to the bedroom to change.

Grabbing clothes from the closet, a gold-embossed envelope slipped from the top shelf.

It had been tucked under an old leotard I never wore. I picked it up—the small logo in the corner: Royal Ballet. My fingertip lingered on the elegant gold emblem for two seconds.

I started training professionally at twelve, won my first international award at sixteen, and got offers from three top companies at twenty. Back then, I figured my path was set: studio, stage, principal dancer, bigger stages. I thought I knew where I was headed.

But Mom's company crisis hit out of nowhere, forcing me to consider marriage alliances.

Lucky for me, it was Cassian, the man who hooked me from the first glance.

So when the Royal Ballet offer came, I just smiled and stashed it deep in the closet.

I chuckled softly, slid it into a drawer, like closing a door I'd never open again.

The smile wasn't self-mocking or some enlightened acceptance. Just a quiet nod, like greeting an old friend and politely saying, not now.

I shut the drawer.

Picked a deep blue knit dress—Cassian's favorite color. He never said it outright, but I'd catch his gaze lingering an extra second when I wore it. I noticed a lot he thought I didn't. It was a skill I'd honed in this marriage.

I checked the mirror: makeup flawless, golden hair pinned low, body a bit fuller than my dancing days but just right, more womanly.

Dinner time hit six-thirty. I wanted to surprise Cassian, so I stood outside the King Group building with the thermos in hand.

New girl at reception today. She blinked at me, then lit up. "Mrs. King, hi."

"Evening, Julie. Is Mr. King in his office?"

"Yes, bringing him a love dinner again? Want me to buzz him?"

"No need, I'll head up. Thanks." I winked, feeling good.

Her voice hesitated a bit, but I brushed it off, too excited to see Cassian.

The marble lobby amplified my heels—sharp clicks echoing in the wide space.

In the elevator mirror, I fixed my skirt, a sudden nerves twist hitting me. Luna, what are you doing? Playing the doting wife for a surprise? Ha, if he knew about that steamy dream last night, he'd laugh and call me a horny cat scratching the couch.

I glanced again—deep blue dress, bright eyes, thermos in right hand, left fiddling with my bag strap. Looked normal. This wasn't a big deal. Just delivering dinner to my husband.

Doors closed, elevator rose.

Numbers climbed. I couldn't shake the dream—his "good girl" echoing, hands pressing my waist. Snap out of it, Luna.

Doors opened on the top floor.

The hallway was pitch black, like a haunted house party missing jack-o'-lanterns. My heart raced, palms sweaty.

I held the door, froze for a second. Unease surged strongly.

Cassian said the whole company was pulling an all-nighter—emergency meeting. It was almost seven; even if some left early, it shouldn't be this dark—no lights, silence so thick the AC hum stood out, like the building ran on autopilot.

I stepped in, feet light by instinct, like self-preservation kicking in.

The corridor stretched long. Daytime with lights on, it felt fine. Now, total black on both sides, just that sliver of light at the end—like a distant target pulling me closer with each step.

Only his office door leaked light from the crack.

I slowed even more, creeping toward the end. Cassian's office. God, why did it feel so far?

"Oh God... Cassian..."

As I got closer, moans drifted from inside. No way.

I wobbled, like a punch to the gut. I steadied against the wall. Couldn't be what I thought. Maybe a team thing, unwinding, you know?

Door ajar, booze stench pouring out. The woman's moans grew louder.

"Yes... right there... come on..."

I clamped my mouth, fighting tears, praying it wasn't the worst. I forced a smile, hand shaking as I pushed the door open.

"Evening, darling, I'm here to—"

Sloane Reed, that damn secretary.

Blood froze in my veins, chill racing from heels to neck. Eyes burned, vision blurring. I opened my mouth, but no sound came.

Her suit jacket lay tossed on the floor. She was half-naked, just black lace lingerie.

Straps slipped off her shoulders, exposing pale skin like a perfume ad. Dark hair cascaded over her chest. One hand on Cassian's shoulder, body pressed against him—my husband's outline—in a way that screamed familiarity, like it was routine.

Cassian faced away, oblivious I was there.

"Sorry, don't you knock?"

Sloane spotted me first. No panic, no scream. She lifted her head and flashed a taunting smile.

She stood, adjusting her skimpy clothes. "Oh, it's you, Luna. Look, this isn't what it seems..."

I watched her red lips move, but heard nothing. Cassian, my husband, still turned away.

"What the hell are you doing!"

Rage erupted like lava from my toes, scorching up to my head, heating my whole body. I shook uncontrollably, fists clenched, nails biting palms. The quick pain sharpened my mind.

Air reeked of perfume and booze, turning my stomach.

Chest squeezed like a vise, breaths short. Our wedding vows flashed. "Love only you forever." What a joke now, like the thermos in my hand.

Fury made me tremble. I hurled the thermos at the floor. It shattered with a crack, echoing like fireworks, shards flying like tiny knives under the lights, mirroring my crumbling marriage.

"You disgusting bastards!" I screamed, voice raw and piercing. Sloane's smile froze, she ducked behind her boss—my husband—like a pitiful victim, making me gag. Cassian finally turned, stunned, like he'd just woken up.

"Luna?" He slurred, eyes foggy with booze. No guilt, just annoyance. "What're you doing here? And making this mess?"

"Don't say my name, you cheating asshole!" Rage shook me.

"What the fuck's wrong with you?!" He growled, rubbing his temples in pain. Sloane paled in his arms, but her eyes gleamed with triumph, making me want to claw her face off.

How pathetic. My husband shielded another woman, while I looked like a total lunatic.

Was this what you wanted, Luna Crawford?

I stood frozen in the doorway, staring at them glued together, feeling like a century had passed.

Enough. I was done.

I turned, heels muffled on carpet, like my heart suffocating in cotton. Rage fueled my steps. Behind me, silence.

Elevator doors closed. I leaned on the wall, sucked in a breath. Don't cry, Luna, you're not some sniveling mess.

But that image burned like a brand: Sloane's smirk, her chest practically in his face, his hands... Fuck, I shook my head, trying to shake it loose, but it stuck like gum. Anger had me biting my lip till I tasted blood. Why me? Why pour everything into this marriage for betrayal?

The elevator hit the lobby. I bolted out, ignoring the receptionist's call. Now I got her weird look earlier. Everyone knew I was the punchline.

Night wind sliced my face like ice blades. My heart sank deeper.

All I wanted now was to get the hell out of this nauseating place.