Chapter 22
East
I wake up to the familiar, welcome feeling of silence. No alarms, no shouting from the clubhouse, just the soft morning light filtering through the blinds of my bedroom. This is my sanctuary. The one place in this world that is quiet, ordered, and mine.
The memory of last night crashes over me—the grim meeting, the weight of the secrets I shared with Darla, the raw, desperate kiss that tasted of grief and hope.
My body tightens, my cock already hard and heavy under the sheets.
I see her face—the terror in her eyes, the way she met my kiss with a desperate hunger of her own.
A low groan rumbles in my chest. I wrap my hand around my shaft, my fingers sliding over the slick, pre-cum-dampened head.
Just one stroke, slow and agonizing, as I picture her in my kitchen, her eyes challenging me.
Fuck. This is more than just a morning-after fantasy.
This is a seven-year-old itch that’s finally, dangerously, been scratched.
The war is on, but first, coffee.
I pad into the kitchen, my bare feet silent on the cool wood floor. Everything is exactly as I left it: clean, orderly, a testament to the quiet control I crave in my life. I grab my favorite mug, scoop the coffee grounds, then reach for the sugar jar.
The first sip is an assault. A bitter, salty wave that makes me choke, sputtering coffee across the sink. What the hell? I stare at the sugar jar, then dip a suspicious finger in. Salt. The entire jar is filled with salt.
My eyes narrow. I spin around, my gaze sweeping the kitchen. Everything looks normal. But now I’m looking closer. The spice rack above the stove… my spices are in alphabetical order. Always. Except now, the cayenne is where the cinnamon should be.
A low growl builds in my chest. I stalk into the living room. The records are all in their sleeves, the books are all flush on the shelves. But I know my system. Neil Young does not come after Nirvana. I pull out the record. It’s in the wrong sleeve. Rage, hot and immediate, prickles under my skin.
Then I stop.
A slow grin spreads across my face. The little menace.
It isn’t an attack, but a message. This is Darla after a night of being treated like a fragile doll, reminding me she is anything but.
In my house, she feels safe enough to declare her own silent, chaotic war.
And the thought, instead of pissing me off, sends a wave of something warm and dangerously close to pride through my chest.
I find her in the guest room, just waking up, blinking against the morning light.
Swallowed by one of my old T-shirts, her blonde hair forms a messy halo on the pillow.
She looks innocent as hell, but isn’t. My eyes fix on the shirt.
She went shopping with the girls yesterday and came back with bags of her own clothes.
And she’s still wearing mine. A fierce, possessive satisfaction settles low in my gut. Good.
I lean against the doorframe, crossing my arms, holding the full salt shaker. “Morning,” I say. My voice is deceptively casual.
She stretches, a slow, feline movement that makes my gut clench. “Morning,” she says, her voice thick with sleep.
“Sleep okay?”
“Yeah, actually,” she says, sitting up. “It was… quiet.”
“Good. Glad one of us did.” I hold up the salt shaker. “My coffee this morning was an… experience.”
Her eyes widen with perfect, practiced innocence. “Oh no. What happened?”
“You happened,” I say, taking a step into the room. “My bed has also been moved two inches to the left. My spices have been fraternizing. And Neil Young is currently having an identity crisis.”
She presses her lips together, but I see the laughter dancing in her eyes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Right.” I close the distance, stopping at the foot of her bed. “I guess it was the glitter demons Ruby was talking about. They must be really into interior design.”
That does it. A real laugh escapes her, bright and clear, and the sound hits me straight in the chest. It’s the sound I’ve been craving.
“Maybe you should label things,” she says, her voice full of smug satisfaction. “I hear you like that.”
My grin turns predatory. “Oh, I’m going to label some things, all right.” I turn and walk out, leaving her laughing in the bed. Game on.
Later, I find her in the kitchen, making a sandwich. The playful energy from the morning is still humming between us. She’s wearing the same oversized shirt and a pair of shorts that are criminally short, showing off the long, pale line of her thighs.
“Looking for the sugar?” I ask, leaning against the counter, blocking her exit.
“Found it,” she says without looking at me, her voice breezy. “It was in the salt shaker. Weird.”
“Hilarious.” I don’t move. I just watch her, the way she moves around my kitchen like she belongs here. “You think this is a game? You have no idea the trouble you just started, princess.”
She finally looks up, a challenge glittering in her eyes. “Is that a threat, East?”
“It’s a promise.”
I push off the counter and close the space between us in two steps.
She backs up until the edge of the counter presses into her lower back.
Trapped. I place my hands on the granite on either side of her, caging her in.
The playful energy of the morning shatters, replaced instantly by something raw and electric.
The air crackles, thick with the memory of last night’s kiss.
“My revenge,” I murmur, leaning in close, my voice dropping so low it’s a vibration against her skin, “is going to be meticulous. I’m going to find everything you think you’ve hidden.
Every weak spot.” My eyes drop to her mouth, to the lips I already know taste like a promise.
“And I’m going to exploit it until you’re begging me to stop. ”
Her breath hitches, a tiny, sharp sound. Her eyes are dark and wide, her pupils blown. She knows I’m not talking about pranks anymore.
Instead of moving my hand, I dip my head, my lips brushing the sensitive skin just below her ear.
She shivers, a full-body tremor that rocks her.
Good. I trail a line of slow, open-mouthed kisses along her jaw, tasting the salt and sun on her skin.
She smells of citrus and woman. My woman.
My gaze catches on a faint, purple mark on the side of her neck, a ghost of Trent’s touch.
A low growl rumbles in my chest, a possessive, animal sound.
“He marked you,” I rasp against her skin, my voice thick with a rage I can’t contain. “Let’s fix that.”
Covering the bruise with my mouth, I suck gently at first, my tongue laving the tender skin.
Then I suck harder, a possessive act of erasure and claiming all at once.
I’m not just kissing her; I’m branding her, replacing his filth with my mark.
A soft, broken sound escapes her throat, and her hands fly up, fisting in the front of my shirt, holding on for dear life.
“Yeah, baby,” I breathe against her hot skin, my lips moving to her throat, finding the frantic pulse there. “Hold on tight.”
My hand leaves the counter, my fingers splayed, trailing a slow, hot path up the outside of her bare thigh.
Her skin is like silk, and my fingers burn with the contact.
She gasps when my fingers brush the hem of her shorts.
I don’t stop. I slide my hand underneath the denim, my fingers brushing the bare, soft skin of her ass. My gut clenches. No panties.
My hand doesn’t stop there. It glides around, under the denim, moving from her ass to the front, my palm pressing against the new territory of her hip.
I feel her breath hitch, her entire body go rigid with anticipation.
My fingers find the soft curls at the apex of her thighs. And she’s already so fucking wet.
“See?” I whisper, my thumb finding the hard, pebbled bud of her clit. “Already found a weak spot.”
I press down, rubbing a slow, deliberate circle directly against her slick, sensitive skin. Her head falls back against the cabinets with a soft thud, her eyes fluttering shut. A broken sound, a low moan, escapes her lips. My name.
“That’s it, baby,” I growl, my other hand coming up to grip her hip, holding her in place, anchoring her to me. “Don’t hide from me. Let me feel you.”
Darla arches against my hand, a desperate, silent plea. I give her what she’s begging for and slide one finger into her pussy. She’s soaking wet. Her inner walls clench around me instantly, like a hot, tight welcome. She gasps, her whole body jerking.
“So tight,” I murmur, my voice a thick rasp. “So wet for me, princess.”
Another finger slides in, scissoring them, her pussy gripping, slick and hot.
My fingers move in and out in a slow, steady rhythm, a thumb never leaving that perfect, hard nub.
She comes completely undone. Her hips move, at first a hesitant rock, then a frantic, bucking rhythm against my hand, chasing the pleasure.
It’s the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen.
Her breath comes in ragged sobs, her body trembling. “East—please—”
“Please what?” I rasp, my mouth at her ear, needing to hear it. “Tell me what you want. You want me to stop?”
“Don’t stop, don’t stop,” she chokes out, the words a surrender.
That’s all I need. I’m a playboy, a fuck-up, a man who knows his way around a woman’s body. I know every way to make a woman scream. But this? This is different. This is her. I curl my fingers, pressing them deep inside her, hitting that spot that makes her whole body lock up.
A sharp, ragged cry tears from her throat as she shatters against my hand. “East! Oh god, East!”
Holding her through it, my thumb never ceases its relentless circles, grinding her clit until she’s shaking apart, every nerve on fire.
Every pulse of her pussy clenches around my fingers, a hot, violent flood.
The storm continues as I hold her, until the last aftershock has faded and she’s panting, boneless against the counter, her eyes glazed and unfocused.
I drag my hand away, her slickness coating my fingers, dripping onto the floor.
She watches with parted lips as I lift my fingers to my mouth and slowly, deliberately, lick the taste of her from my skin.
She tastes like citrus, honey, and a musky sweetness that is pure Darla.
My cock is granite-hard in my jeans, straining painfully, screaming for more.
I want to rip my jeans open, lift her onto this counter, and bury myself so deep inside her she forgets her own name.
But I stop.
She’s not just some easy fuck to distract myself with. She’s Darla. And after last night, after that kiss, she deserves more than a quick, desperate release against a kitchen counter. She deserves all of me.
I lean in, my mouth brushing her ear, my voice a low, rough promise. “This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.”
I step back, giving her space to breathe, then walk out of the kitchen, leaving her trembling and breathless against the counter.
My revenge is just getting started.