Chapter 15
Fifteen
“What do you call it when the cage is velvet-lined and your shame feels like silk against your skin?” –Aria Boschett.
“Dove, that was a million times better than anything I could’ve ever imagined in my wildest dreams.” Cyan’s voice is a sensual purr.
His breath is warm against my skin as he trails soft, lazy kisses along my jaw, down my throat, as if claiming me inch by inch.
His half-hard cock still rests heavy in my hand, slick with his release.
Aftershocks of my pleasure still pulse through me. It’s undeniable.
I didn’t just want him… I wanted to be wanted by him, reality slams into me.
What have I done? My parents would be so disappointed.
It’s as if someone just plunged me into an ice-cold lake, shocking me back into my senses.
I fucked up. I need to get out of here, rip myself away from him, from those warm kisses, my body wired with too much sensation, with too much longing, with the scent of our lust. The worst part?
I don’t feel regret. I feel hunger. My pussy throbs, aching, and wanting more.
My fingers twitch with the insane temptation to reach for him again, to run over the hard planes of his body, down the length of him.
No. No. No. I force my mind elsewhere, on anything but him, on anything but the dangerous pull he has on me.
Nonna is sick and needs me. Cyan also threatened Tasha.
The thought is a lifeline, yanking me back from the edge of insanity.
His lips are moving back toward mine, but I react before I can fall again.
“No, don’t! Don’t you dare touch me…” I slam my palms against his chest, shoving him back with all the force I could muster.
Cyan stumbles caught off guard, his eyes widening.
His demeanor slips for just a second. I see the tension in his jaw, the way he flexes his hands as if he doesn’t know what to do with them since they’re no longer touching me.
The way his gaze drops to where I touched him, as if it burned.
We’re equivalent equations: whatever power I thought I had over him, he has it over me.
However, our values for the variables involved differ slightly.
Cyan’s power comes with armed men, money, and a dangerous criminal empire he climbed over blood-soaked bodies to lead.
My power is just over his body. But Cyan?
He can rearrange my entire life with a single phone call.
I’m standing in the cage, and he’s standing outside holding the key.
“Dove,” I look his way. He laughs, a rich, throaty chuckle, laced with undisguised amusement.
I should hate that laugh. He’s steady now, looking victorious rather than angry that I shoved him.
Instead, he seems amused. His smile is devastating, too bright, and too carefree for a man like him.
It transforms his entire face, making him look almost boyish, almost. It pisses me off that he’s gloating; I’m falling apart, and I can’t stand that he’s so unaffected.
“You think a shove undoes what we just did?” He steps closer, voice thick with amusement.
“You’re mine now. That’s not something you get to take back.
” He tilts his head, gaze dragging over me slowly, watching my chest rise and fall.
“You’re shaking,” he adds, voice dipping.
“Was it the orgasm… or the realization you’re in too deep? ”
My jaw clenches tightly, teeth grinding audibly as fury crawls up my throat.
How dare he, the fucker! I’ll show him nonchalance.
Making my voice light, detached, perfectly controlled as I take off my torn, unwearable panties and chuck them to the side.
“Well, that was fun. Just like in the movies, huh?” I look around for my glasses and don’t find them, the thing must have fallen between the railing and off the cliff—just like my mind momentarily did.
“I hope this doesn’t make things weird between us.
Like I said, being physical means nothing to me.
I had an itch. You helped me scratch it.
” I keep my expression neutral, keep my movements casual, adjusting my clothes.
Risking a quick glance at Cyan, expecting amusement.
But what I find isn’t laughter anymore; his expression is dark.
The laziness in his posture gone, replaced by a quiet intensity of a man who doesn’t take defiance lightly.
Goosebumps rise on my skin at the quick change in his demeanor.
“Say that again.” His tone is soft, and his accent is crystal clear, wrapping around the words in a slow, deadly drawl.
I swallow hard. I refuse to break eye contact, even as my heart hammers against my ribs, but I will not back down.
“Like I said, Cyan. It means nothing to me.”
For a moment, just for a flicker of a second, his eyes flash with something I can’t decipher.
Then he moves fast, and I jump. He pulls out a handkerchief in one fluid motion and cleans himself up, redressing with sharp efficiency.
His movements are precise and controlled.
When he finishes, his gaze returns to me.
The full force of his claim is clear: this isn’t over.
Cyan chucks his handkerchief my way like I’m some used thing—soiled and in need of disposal.
“Clean yourself off.” His tone is ice-cold, detached.
Like I was a moment of weakness, he’s already regretting it.
I should feel grateful that the heat, the possessiveness, the dangerous hunger I saw in his eyes just moments ago is gone and replaced with indifference.
But I’m not grateful. I’m furious. I catch the fabric, my hands trembling a bit as I wipe him off my skin, as he walks to where I threw my underwear, picking it up and putting it in his pocket.
When he steps in front of me again, I fling the linen handkerchief at his face.
He catches it. “Let’s go. I’m taking you back to work.
” He doesn’t wait for a response, turns away, and starts moving, as if what just happened was nothing.
Good. It’s an itch scratched, a game played, a moment of lost control.
I say nothing to him. My shoulders are rigid as I fix my clothing, doing everything in my power to mask the shame clawing at my skin.
I might not have underwear, but thank goodness, some of my buttons on my top are still intact.
At least I can fix my makeup and somewhat patch myself together before I walk back into work, but nothing I do can hide what I look like.
During the drive, the car is silent. I pull a pack of wipes out of my purse and clean the evidence of his drying cum off my skirt and leg.
Cyan’s grip is white-knuckled on the wheel; the muscles in his neck are coiled, and his jaw is tight.
He looks furious. Good, let him be angry.
I shift and glance away at the passing scenery.
A flicker of satisfaction curls in my stomach, but it’s drowned out by something else.
Something dark. The part of me that wants a repeat of what we just did.
The feel of his fingers, and what they did to me.
I grip the hem of my already ruined blouse, grounding myself in the fabric and reality.
This is Cyan’s power and possession, and as the realization evolves in my mind, I glance his way.
Still, he doesn’t speak, and I don’t dare trust myself to speak first. The moment I see the J I breathe a sigh of relief.
The car jerks to a stop, and before he can say or do anything, I grab for the door handle.
I need out, need to get back to work, to my numbers, to pretend that today never happened.
“Wait. Don’t go.” I don’t turn, I don’t have any mental armor right now because if I look his way, I might forget. Forcing my mind to focus on who he really is. The man who threatened my family. That fuels my bite.
I exhale a sharp breath, my voice steady and laced with venom. “Thanks for the ride, boss. It’s nice to know I’m just another transaction in your empire.”
I listen as Cyan’s fingers drum against the steering wheel, slow, deliberate. “You’re not a transaction, Dove. You’re the whole damn investment.”
I swallow hard, my pulse hammering, but then something reckless and sharp rises in my chest. I’m going to reclaim my power before I leave this car.
“Oh, boss, so now I’m an investment. That’s rich.
I guess that makes all the blackmail and stalking just interest, right?
Or maybe a penalty fee.” My words are poison-tipped, and I know it.
But I need to remind him and myself of what’s really between us.
The tapping stops. His silence thickens and stretches taut between us, then, in a snap, before I can react, his hand fists in my hair, dragging me back by the bun I just fixed with a grip that’s all control and no hesitation.
“Watch your mouth,” he growls, spinning me to face him.
My hair tumbling down my back as the force of his movement pins me to him.
His face is inches from mine, eyes storm-dark, his anger rolling off him in waves I can feel in my bones.
“You don’t get to rewrite what the fuck we just did because you’re mad at yourself.
” His words hit deeper than they should because he’s right, and that’s what makes me furious.
I open my mouth to tell him off, to shove him away, to say anything that will break the pull between us.
His gaze flickers to my lips, and his mouth crashes into mine.
It’s not a kiss. It’s a clash of anger, want, and denial.
All burning through the space between us.