9. Raiden
Chapter 9
Raiden
I ’m in the guest room, wrestling with a fitted sheet that seems determined to fight me every step of the way. Just when I think I’ve got the last elastic corner in place, the other three curl up one right after the other. “Stupid bedding,” I swear under my breath. “I hope you die in a fire, you stupid fitted sheet.” It’s an inanimate object, but I hope its feelings are hurt.
The guest room is simple—a bed, a dresser, and a window that overlooks the quiet street below. The walls are a faded shade of beige that I’ve been meaning to repaint for years. I can’t remember the last time I had anyone stay over intentionally, let alone go to the trouble of making the place presentable. Most days, this room serves as little more than storage space for old magazines, forgotten hobbies, and the occasional guest bed for a drunk Destroyer who shouldn’t drive.
I toss a pillow onto the freshly made bed, smooth out one last wrinkle in the comforter, and step back to survey my handiwork. The bed looks almost hotel-neat now, though not quite perfect. It’ll have to do.
A sharp knock at the front door pulls me from my thoughts, making me jump slightly despite expecting it. I glance at the clock on the wall—Lucrezia’s punctual, I’ll give her that, right down to the minute we agreed on. Making my way downstairs, I catch a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror. Hair tousled like I’d just rolled out of bed, a day’s worth of stubble darkening my jaw, and a faded T-shirt thrown over well-worn jeans. Not exactly dressed to impress, but good enough. At least I remembered to change out of my beer-stained shirt from the bar.
I open the door to find Lucrezia standing there, a duffel bag slung over her shoulder and a smaller messenger bag clutched in her left hand. Her dark hair cascades over a well-worn leather jacket, the kind that’s seen its share of adventures, and her eyes meet mine with that familiar mix of confidence and challenge. There’s something about the way she carries herself, like she owns whatever space she’s in, that makes my dick hard.
“No coffee this time?” I quip, leaning casually against the doorframe, trying to play it cool despite the way my pulse quickens at her presence.
Lucrezia fixes me with a glare that could cut glass, her dark eyes narrowing dangerously. “If you want to get cute, I’ll wake you up at five a.m. tomorrow with coffee.”
I smirk, stepping aside to let her in, catching a whiff of leather and jasmine. “It was a joke. Relax. Though I wouldn’t say no to coffee if you’re offering. But perhaps after the sun rises.”
She brushes past me, her subtle scent lingering in the air between us, making my skin prickle with awareness. As she takes in the surroundings, I catch myself studying her. The way she moves, every step purposeful. There’s something almost predatory about her confidence, and I can’t help but admire it. And want to defile it.
“Nice place. If I, you know, didn’t tell you this morning or whatever,” Lucrezia remarks, her gaze drifting over the mix of furniture and personal touches—motorcycle gear piled in one corner, a couple of old concert posters tacked haphazardly on the walls. Her fingers trail along the back of my beaten-up leather couch as she walks, testing the texture.
“It’s not much,” I admit, closing the door behind her with a soft click. “But it’s home.” The lock catches, and I’m suddenly very aware that we’re alone.
I lead Lucrezia upstairs, the steps creaking softly underfoot. “Your room’s up here,” I tell her, gesturing ahead. “Mine’s across the hall. Bathroom’s there.” I point to a door on the right, its white paint slightly chipped around the edges. “There’s another one downstairs if you prefer more privacy.”
She glances over her shoulder at me, a sly smile playing on her lips. “I shared bathroom space with twenty nuns for five years. I think I can handle sharing with you.” There’s something in her tone that makes the casual statement feel less innocent than it should, and I find myself wondering exactly what kind of trouble she got up to in that convent.
The mental image catches me off guard—her and twenty nuns sharing close quarters, steam, and bare skin—and I feel a flush rise to my cheeks, the warmth spreading down my neck like wildfire. My imagination runs wild despite my best efforts to rein it in. Clearing my throat, I turn away with forced casualness, hoping she doesn’t notice the sudden tent being pitched in my jeans. The denim feels uncomfortably tight now. “Suit yourself,” I manage, my voice a touch rougher than intended, betraying the effect her playful comment had on me.
I step into my room under the pretense of grabbing an extra blanket, trying to shake off the sudden heat that’s settled under my skin like a fever. My fingers fumble with the closet door handle, but before I can gather my thoughts or regulate my breathing, I hear Lucrezia’s footsteps behind me, soft but deliberate against the wooden floor.
I turn to find her leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest, a knowing smile ghosting her lips. The pose accentuates her curves in a way that makes my mouth go dry. “Need something?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral. My fingers still grip the closet handle like an anchor, as if it might somehow ground me against the magnetic pull she seems to exert from across the room.
She shrugs one elegant shoulder, the gesture deliberately casual. “Just curious.” Her dark eyes never leave mine, watching, assessing.
I raise an eyebrow, trying to match her nonchalance. “Curiosity killed the cat.”
“Good thing I’m not a cat,” she retorts, her smile widening into something predatory. The way she shifts her weight makes the floorboards creak softly beneath her feet.
“Lucrezia, this is my room. Get out.” My voice comes out hard, like concrete poured and set, leaving no room for argument or interpretation.
“No.” The single word carries all the weight of an immovable object, firm and unyielding. She plants her feet wider as if physically staking her claim to the floorboards beneath them.
My patience starts to fray, threads of self-control unraveling with each passing second. The tension coils in my shoulders, winding tighter and tighter like a spring ready to snap. “I said, get out.” My knuckles whiten against the door handle as I fight to keep my composure, the metal cool and biting against my palm.
Lucrezia takes a deliberate step inside, eyes never leaving mine, her gaze burning with defiance. Without warning, she strips off her jacket and grips the hem of her shirt, pulling it over her head in one fluid motion and revealing a simple black lacy bra that hugs her curves like a second skin. The dim light from my bedside lamp catches on the delicate pattern, casting intricate shadows across her collarbone. She tosses the discarded shirt onto my bed with calculated carelessness, letting it land in a crumpled heap against my pillows. The cotton fabric slides across my dark sheets like a surrender flag I’m not ready to accept.
“What’s wrong, Drake?” she challenges, her voice low and honeyed with mock innocence. Her lips curl into a knowing smirk, “Does thinking about me and a dozen nuns—all naked and wet, showering together—get you hot and bothered?” Each word drips with provocative intent, designed to crack my resolve. She takes another deliberate step toward me, her confidence radiating like heat. The air between us grows thick with tension as she watches my reaction through half-lidded eyes, waiting to see if her calculated taunt will draw the response she’s fishing for.
A jolt of electricity shoots through me from head to toe, and I clench my jaw so hard my teeth might crack, fighting to maintain what little control I have left. Tension crackles between us like the moment before lightning strikes, my pulse thundering in my ears, drowning out everything but the sound of her breathing.
“You’re playing with fire,” I warn, the words scraping past my throat like gravel.
Lucrezia steps closer, a mere breath away now. “Good,” she whispers, her eyes flashing like embers stirring to life. “I was born to burn.”
Something deep inside me snaps like a frayed rope finally giving way. Before I can second-guess it, before reason can reassert itself, I close the distance between us, my hands moving to cup her face, fingers threading through her hair as I capture her lips with mine. The kiss is fierce and desperate, a clash of wills and desires that’s been simmering beneath the surface since the moment we met. Her mouth meets mine with equal fervor, and I taste the sweet victory of surrender on her lips.
Her hands slide up my chest, fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt as she presses against me, her touch leaving trails of electricity in its wake. The world narrows to the heat of her mouth, the taste of mint and something wild and intoxicating that makes my head spin. Every nerve ending ignites, a wildfire racing through my veins, consuming every rational thought in its path.
Time seems to halt, and the only sound is the ragged mingling of our breaths. I pull back just enough to meet her gaze, her eyes dark and searching, pupils blown wide with desire and something deeper that makes my chest ache.
“This is a bad idea,” I murmur, even as my thumb traces the line of her jaw, memorizing the softness of her skin against my calloused fingertips.
Lucrezia’s lips curve into a faint smile, as dangerous and tempting as a siren’s call. “Probably,” she breathes, the word a velvet whisper against my mouth, making every warning bell in my mind ring louder even as I lean closer.
I should step away and put an end to this before it goes any further; before we cross a line we can’t uncross. But with her standing here, looking at me like that, her body fitted perfectly against mine; self-control feels like a distant memory, as insubstantial as smoke.
“Lucrezia...” I begin, but the words die on my tongue as she leans in again, her lips brushing lightly against mine, a feather-soft caress that threatens to unravel me completely.
“Stop talking,” she demands
And for once, I do.