Chapter 10 Kyra
Chapter ten
Kyra
The unfamiliar room takes a moment to register—Victor's cabin. His guest room. The events of last night slam into me.
God, what did I do?
The sheets carry traces of my arousal, evidence of my shameful behavior. I touched myself thinking of my ex's father. Moaned his name. And he heard every breathless sound, no doubt.
I cover my face with both hands. The memories refuse to blur—they sharpen instead.
Victor filling my doorway, those broad shoulders claiming the entire frame.
Gray sweatpants that did nothing to hide his reaction to finding me flushed and panting.
The tattoo coiling up his forearm, so unexpected on a man I'd only seen in thousand-dollar suits.
A glimpse of something dangerous beneath all that polish.
His thumb tracing my lip.
My body doesn't care about propriety.
"Stop," I whisper to the empty room. "He's your mentor. Aaron's father. Twenty-six years older."
None of those facts matter to the ache between my thighs, to the way my skin still burns where he touched me.
We should talk tomorrow. When you've rested. There are things I think we both need to acknowledge.
Facing him after what he witnessed makes my stomach flip between dread and anticipation. What will he say? What does he think of me now?
Seven-thirty-eight AM. I can't hide forever, tempting as it sounds.
The bathroom mirror shows disaster—tangled hair, heavy-lidded eyes, cheeks stained pink with embarrassment. I take the longest shower possible, as if scalding water could wash away inappropriate desire. It doesn't work. Neither does the pep talk I give my reflection as I dress.
"Professional. Composed. Adult." The words echo hollowly in the small space. "It was just a dream. People have dreams. It doesn't mean anything."
Coffee scent draws me toward the kitchen, along with something that smells incredible. Victor stands at the stove, his back to me. Dark jeans that fit perfectly. Gray sweater with sleeves pushed up, revealing more of those intriguing tattoos.
I freeze in the doorway, forgetting how to breathe normally.
"Good morning, Kyra." He doesn't turn around, somehow sensing my presence. "Sleep well?"
Something in his tone makes flames lick up my neck. He knows exactly how I slept. Knows what I did in that bed.
"Fine." My voice comes out breathy. I clear my throat. "The guest room is very comfortable."
"I'm glad." He turns then, spatula in hand, and his full attention hits me like a physical force. Silver threads through his dark hair. Stubble shadows his jaw, making him look even more devastatingly masculine. "Coffee?"
"Please."
I claim a seat at the kitchen island, studying the granite. Victor places a steaming mug before me.
"Thank you." I wrap both hands around the cup to hide their trembling.
"I'm making omelets," he says, returning to the stove. "I remember you mentioned enjoying them."
"That sounds wonderful."
Silence settles as he finishes cooking. I watch the controlled grace of his movements, the confident strength in his hands as he flips the omelet with practiced ease. Everything about him speaks of mastery—analyzing data, making breakfast, getting what he wants.
"Here we are." He slides a plate before me. Restaurant-quality presentation, perfect melted cheese, diced vegetables arranged just so. "Eat while it's hot."
"It looks incredible. Where did you learn to cook like this?"
He sits across from me with his own plate. "I've never been one to settle for less than excellence."
The statement hangs between us, weighted with meaning I'm not ready to examine.
We eat quietly. The omelet tastes amazing, but I barely notice, too busy staring at Victor. The precise way he cuts his food. The movement of his throat when he swallows. Occasional glances that feel like assessments.
"About last night." The words drop like stones into still water.
I nearly choke on my bite.
"Victor, I—"
"Let me speak first." His voice carries gentle command.
I nod, pulse hammering against my ribs.
"I want to apologize if I made you uncomfortable. Coming into your room was presumptuous. I thought I heard you call out, and I was concerned."
The lie sits between us. We both know what he heard. What I said. My cheeks burn.
"It's fine. I should apologize for being inappropriate."
"Kyra." My name sounds different in his voice, intimate and warm. "Look at me."
Meeting his gaze takes every ounce of courage I possess. The intensity there steals my breath.
"There's nothing inappropriate about acknowledging what exists between us. I've been careful to maintain boundaries because I respect you. But we both know there's more happening here than mentorship."
My heart pounds faster. Is he really acknowledging this? The tension that's been building since I arrived? The electricity that crackles every time we're alone?
"I don't know what you mean." The lie tastes bitter.
His lips curve in a smile that makes my stomach flip. "I think you do." He leans forward slightly. "Dreams have a way of revealing what we hide from ourselves during waking hours."
Oh God. He's really doing this. I should shut it down, change the subject, remind him why I came here—for his expertise, not to explore this dangerous pull between us.
"What exactly are you saying?"
"I'm saying I find you extraordinarily compelling, Kyra.
Not just your brilliant mind, though that caught my attention first." His eyes hold mine steadily.
"I'm saying that if you want to explore this attraction between us, I'm open to that possibility.
And if you don't, we can continue professionally without awkwardness. "
The offer hangs there, deceptively simple. As if nothing's complicated about wanting my ex-boyfriend's father. As if crossing that line wouldn't shatter everything.
"I don't know what I want." The admission whispers out.
"I think you do." That unnerving confidence again, the certainty of a man who's always gotten what he wants. "But I understand your hesitation. There are complications. My son. Our age difference. The mentorship I've offered."
His clinical assessment of our obstacles somehow makes this more thrilling rather than less. The way he lists reasons we shouldn't be doing this while clearly intending to do it anyway.
"Take the day to think about it. No pressure. No expectations. I have work to attend to until early afternoon. Perhaps you'd like to review the research materials I provided some more?"
I nod, grateful for the reprieve, the chance to think clearly.
"Excellent." He rinses and loads the dishes, every motion purposeful. "We can reconvene for dinner. I'll prepare something special here tonight."
"Just us?" The question escapes before I can stop it.
His eyes meet mine, amusement flickering in their gray depths. "That depends entirely on the conclusion you reach during your deliberations, doesn't it? I have no intention of sharing you with the outside world just yet."
He crosses to where I sit. When he reaches me, he leans down, his lips close to my ear. "For what it's worth, Kyra, you have nothing to be embarrassed about. Desire is nothing to be ashamed of, especially when it's mutual."
My breath catches as his hand brushes my shoulder—a touch so light it could be accidental if not for the heat in his eyes when he straightens.
"I'll be in my study if you need anything."
Then he's gone, leaving me alone with my racing heart and chaotic thoughts.
Mutual. The word echoes in my mind. He wants me too. Not just as a promising researcher, not just as an interesting mind to cultivate. He wants me the way I want him—physically, completely.
I try to summon rational arguments. He's Aaron's father. My mentor, offering to open doors in my career that would otherwise stay closed.
And I'm utterly isolated here with him. Miles from the nearest neighbor, no car, no cell service. The rational part of my brain recognizes the vulnerability of my position. I should be afraid.
I'm not.
Against those logical protests, my body remembers the electricity of his touch. My mind recalls how he looks at me like he sees all of me—not just the ambitious scientist, but the woman underneath. How he remembers tiny details about my coffee, my food preferences.
No one has ever seen me so completely.
***
By mid-afternoon, I've abandoned all pretense of working.
Instead, I explore the cabin, noting details I missed yesterday.
Bookshelves mixing medical texts with classic literature and biographies of powerful men.
Subtle but exquisite art—all originals, I suspect.
Photographs showing Victor receiving awards, shaking hands with notable scientists and politicians.
Nothing of his son. Nothing personal at all. Just evidence of achievement, influence, power.
I find myself outside his study door, drawn there like metal to magnet. I raise my hand to knock, then hesitate. What am I doing? What will I say?
The door opens before I can decide, and Victor stands there, unsurprised to find me hovering.
"Kyra. I was just coming to find you."
He steps back, gesturing me inside. I enter, acutely aware of crossing a threshold that feels symbolic.
The study matches him perfectly—dark wood, leather furniture, walls of books. A large desk dominates the space, multiple monitors displaying our research data.
"Have you reached a decision?" He closes the door with a soft click.
I turn to face him, suddenly certain. All the morning's confusion crystallizes into clarity as I stand here, alone with him in his domain, deep in the woods where no one could hear me even if I screamed.
"Yes." My voice comes out steadier than expected. "I want to explore this... whatever this is between us."
His expression doesn't change, but satisfaction, hunger, triumph, everything flares in his eyes. He steps closer, and I can tell he's done waiting.
"Are you certain?" He stops close enough that I feel heat radiating from his body.
I should be intimidated by the intensity in his gaze. Instead, power flows through me, knowing I affect this controlled man as strongly as he affects me. For the first time in my life, I'm choosing what I want over what I should want.
"I'm certain. I'm tired of pretending I don't feel this."
His hand cups my cheek, touch gentle despite the barely restrained strength I sense in him. "Such a brilliant mind. Such honesty. Do you have any idea how rare that combination is? How valuable?"
Before I can respond, his thumb traces my lower lip, echoing last night's touch. But this time there's no pretense of comfort, no facade of mentorship. Pure seduction, and we both know it.
"I'm going to kiss you now," he says, voice dropping to that register that makes my knees weak. "Unless you tell me to stop."
Command lurks beneath the apparent choice. This is Victor's true nature—dominant, controlling, accustomed to getting what he wants. The forbidden thrill races through me. He's my ex's father, old enough to be my father, and I've never wanted anyone more.
I don't tell him to stop. Couldn't if I wanted to, voice trapped somewhere in my chest as he leans down.
"Last chance to change your mind, beautiful girl."
In answer, I close the distance between us, pressing my lips to his. His arms come around me immediately—one hand sliding into my hair to angle my head exactly how he wants it, the other pulling me against the hard plane of his chest as the kiss deepens.
Everything changes.