Chapter 19 - Lila #4
"Don't you fucking dare," I breathe, my voice shaking with rage that's been building for nine years.
"Don't you dare think you can just waltz back into my life and pick up where we left off.
What do you think this is? A rom-com? What are you, Matthew fucking McConaughey?
You don't get to kiss me. I don’t belong to you anymore. "
I hit him again. This time, the back of my hand meeting his other cheek.
Kent's head snaps to the side from the force of my slap, the sharp crack echoing through the apartment like a warning shot. His cheek blooms red under my palm print, but he doesn't flinch away, doesn't raise a hand to defend himself.
Instead, he turns back to me slowly, his dark eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine—not fear, but something darker, hungrier. The corner of his mouth quirks up, not in a smile, but in recognition, like he's finally seeing the monster I became because of him.
"You think you can just take what you want after all this?
" I hiss, my voice low and venomous, laced with the rage I've buried under layers of professional calm.
My hands fist in his shirt, nails digging into the fabric hard enough to tear.
"You don't get to kiss me, Carver. You lost the privilege. "
His breath comes rough, but he doesn't pull away.
If anything, he leans into my grip, his body a wall of restrained power that could overpower me in a heartbeat if he chose. But he doesn't.
He lets me shove him, hard, forcing him back until his knees hit the edge of the couch. Another push, and he drops—Kent Shepherd, the Carver, the man who carved justice from my father's flesh—kneeling before me like a supplicant at an altar of wrath.
"On your knees," I command, my voice steady now, fueled by the power surging through me. "That's where you belong after what you did. Beg, Kent. Beg for what you threw away."
He looks up at me, his hands resting on his thighs, palms up in surrender.
But there's no weakness in his eyes—only devotion twisted with the same unhinged need that mirrors my own.
"Delilah," he rasps, his voice thick with regret and desire, "I was a fool.
I thought I was saving you, but I was just too scared to face what you made me feel.
You were everything—fierce, brilliant, unbroken.
I should have stayed. I should have claimed you then. "
His words stoke the fire in my chest, but I don't soften. I step closer, my fingers threading through his hair, yanking his head back so he has to look up at me, exposed, vulnerable. "Words are cheap. You walked away like I was nothing. Like we were nothing. Beg properly, or get the fuck out."
"Please," he groans, the word breaking from him like a confession extracted under duress.
His hands rise tentatively, brushing the backs of my thighs, not grabbing but caressing with a reverence that borders on obsession.
"Let me show you. Let me worship what I was too blind to see.
You're a goddess of vengeance now, Lila.
Let me kneel at your feet and prove I'm worthy. "
The plea sends heat pooling low in my belly, a dark thrill at having this man—this killer—reduced to begging.
I release his hair, but only to hook my fingers in my waistband, shoving my pants down with deliberate slowness.
His eyes darken, fixed on me with predatory focus, but he waits, breath ragged, until I step out of them.
"You haven't earned my kisses," I say, my voice a whip crack in the charged air. "But you can earn this." I spread my legs slightly, guiding his head forward with a firm grip. "Make me believe you regret it."
He doesn't hesitate.
His hands slide up my thighs, parting them wider as his mouth finds me, hot and insistent.
The first touch of his tongue is electric, a lash of pleasure that makes me gasp despite myself.
He's not gentle—there's nothing sweet about this.
It's fervent, desperate, his lips and tongue devouring me like a man starved, each stroke a plea for absolution.
“You taste the same,” he sighs into my skin.
"Shut the fuck up," I snap, my fingers tightening in his hair, pulling him closer, harder.
He groans against me, the vibration sending shocks through my core.
His hands grip my ass, holding me steady as he works me over with unyielding precision—lapping, sucking, teasing with the edge of his teeth in a way that's almost punishing.
It's crazed, unhinged, his worship laced with the same dark edge that defined us before.
He knows my body like a map he memorized years ago, finding every sensitive spot, every rhythm that makes my knees weaken. As if we had learned each other biblically every night for the last decade instead of just the once before he’d ruined it all.
I grind against his face, taking what I want, what he owes me. "That's it," I breathe, my voice breaking on a moan. "Beg with your mouth. Show me how sorry you are."
He redoubles his efforts, one hand sliding between my legs to join his tongue, fingers curling inside me with expert pressure. The combination is overwhelming, building me higher with ruthless efficiency.
His free hand digs into my hip, possessive, marking me as his even as he submits. The power play flips and twists between us—me commanding, him devouring—like the unhinged dance we were always meant to have.
The edge approaches fast, too fast, but I don't fight it. I chase it, riding his face with abandon, my breaths coming in sharp pants. "Don't stop," I order, and he doesn't, his tongue relentless until I shatter, crying out as waves crash over me, my thighs clamping around his head.
He doesn't pull away until I push him, collapsing back against the island, chest heaving.
Kent stays on his knees, lips glistening, eyes locked on mine with a feral satisfaction.
"Forgive me?" he asks, voice hoarse, but there's a challenge in it now, a spark of the predator peeking through the worship.
I laugh, breathless and dark, reaching down to trace his swollen lips. "Not yet. But it's a start."
The air between us crackles, the past and present tangled in this moment of raw, unfiltered need.