Epilogue #2
My stomach dips as I stand rooted in place, my hesitation shrouded by worry, because that voice is nonnegotiable. Yet he disappears and then reappears, and all he has for me is “I know”?
“Riley.” His tone’s laced with warning.
I close my eyes in defeat.
“Please.”
Not once, in all the time we’ve spent together, has he ever used that word. I’m the pleaser. He’s the taker. And never is the dividing line crossed.
He doesn’t deserve my obedience, though I worry how he’ll react if I completely disobey, so I meet him halfway, shuffling by him to open the kitchen curtain. Moonbeams dance across my skin, though he remains obscured by shadows.
“How did you get inside?”
“Used my key.”
“What?” I gasp. “You have a key to my apartment?”
He counters my question with one of his own. “I’ve failed, haven’t I?”
“Failed?” I stare at him, incredulous.
“At corrupting you.”
A shiver races up my spine. That voice. That tone. He makes me forget my own name. “No,” I whisper.
“Let me see,” he orders. “Unfold your arms.”
My skin heats beneath a flush. What a picture I must have made, bare-chested and crawling around on the floor. His lips have crisscrossed every inch of my body, so why this crippling shyness?
“Show me what you’re hiding, baby.”
Baby. The word feels like a soft caress from this harsh, no-nonsense man. Did he feel my absence, as much as I missed him?
I drop my arms, and my D-cup-size breasts bounce free. On my small frame, breasts this size appear bigger. And he, freakishly, loves them. Is borderline obsessed with them.
“Come here.”
I step closer. My mema’s crystal cocktail glass on the table, alongside a nearly empty whiskey bottle I don’t recognize.
He had a few drinks the night we met, but I’ve never seen him drunk.
“What’s wrong?”
His midnight black hair’s mussed, like he’s been running fingers through it.
Scruff darkens his chin like he’s forgotten to shave.
I’ve memorized even the curve of his lips, the cupid’s bow of his upper lip softening the rigid set of his bottom lip.
I focus on the upper one, the antithesis of the steely force I’ve grown accustomed to.
How little I know about him, other than he thrives on control, domination, and filthy, dirty sex. He’s always well-groomed, hair smoothed back and face baby-bottom smooth.
But tonight … something’s upsetting him.
“Say something.”
“I’m here.”
“I didn’t notice,” I quip. Such a liar. Because I notice everything about him. The spicy lemon cologne he wears. The tension sizzling between us. His face, body, enormous dick. The way Italian bleeds into his words, especially when he’s bossy or extra dirty in bed.
“This is the last place I should be.” He drops my cell phone onto the table with a clatter. Why did he have it? Was he scrolling through it?
As his comment registers, my earlier irritation reignites. Am I some magical, big-breasted siren who’s lured him in? Does he actually believe, after weeks of relinquishing complete control, I have power over him?
“Then go,” I respond, and mean it. I might beg him to fuck me, but I won’t plead with him to stay.
The silence between us builds to a crescendo.
“You make my life impossible.”
It’s the only warning I get.
He lunges, knocking over his chair as he grabs me by the waist, hauling me off my feet, then rolling me back across the kitchen table. His arms wrap around me as he nuzzles his face between my breasts.
“I didn’t mean it.” I weave my fingers through his hair. Soothing him. Comforting him. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“Riley.” He growls my name against my skin.
In moments like this, he allows me inside.
Deepening our connection in a way words never could.
His vulnerability as tangible as my fragile heart.
I sensed the shift in him the week before his late-night visits stopped.
Relentlessly overpowering me every way he could was normal but wrapping me in his arms afterward and praising me until I fell asleep was new.
What changed to make him stop coming?
His lips find my nipple. I smirk—they always do. God, I missed his mouth on me. Teeth scrape flesh, followed by pain softened with pleasure. I arch into him, relinquishing myself completely.
“Cazzo,” he mutters then tenses. Just like that, everything shifts. “This shouldn’t be this fucking hard.”
His admission guts me. He doesn’t want to want me. “You’re breaking up with me.” Hurt catches on each forced word.
He steps back—an answer in itself—and I hop off the table.
Tipping my chin up, I dare look at him. And immediately wish I hadn’t.
His dark, brooding gaze locks on my face. Almost as if he was looking at a puzzle piece without a puzzle present to solve. Almost like we never stood a chance, but somehow we find ourselves in this moment.
“It’s complicated,” he grinds out.
“Explain it to me, then.”
He stares at me. One second. Two. Then, he scowls and a steel wall slams down so hard between us, my teeth rattle. Not today, Riley. Not ever.
He disappears into the connecting bathroom. The faucet runs, and I listen to him splashing water on his face. I stand frozen. One part wanting him to leave; one part desperate for him to stay.
He returns, as cool, calm, and collected as the man I invited home that first night.
Silence thickens the air, but it’s me who breaks it.
I pull my shoulders straight and draw on every ounce of pride remaining. “Am I just a fuck to you?”
“And if I say yes?”
His callous question is a punch in the stomach.
This isn’t within the rules of the games we play.
This isn’t me being a good girl or him pushing my boundaries.
I might willingly, even eagerly, relinquish power, but what I won’t do is be some doormat he can walk all over.
“Go on. Leave. I’ve survived worse than you. ”
He frowns.
With a shaky hand, I gesture toward the door. If there’s anything I know how to do, it’s endure.
Everything pauses.
“Goddamn you,” he growls, and before I can guess his intent, I’m swept into his arms and carried toward the bedroom.