Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Kaden
Learn the Art of Restraint
This should be filed under What the fuck was I thinking?
Valentina Holiday. In my house. Drinking water like it’s a damn performance.
I lean against the kitchen counter, watching her out of the corner of my eye as she tilts her head back and takes a sip. Her throat works as she swallows, her lips wrapping around the rim of the water bottle in a way that makes my cock twitch. Fuck, how is drinking water sexy?
I need to think about something else—anything else. Hockey drills, bad takeout, that godawful game we played. But none of it sticks. Because all I can think about is her.
Her legs, long and toned, stretched out on my sofa. Her ass pressed up against the edge of the counter as I slide my hands under that tight little shirt she’s wearing. Her lips—God, her lips—parting for me, gasping my name as I make her come so hard she forgets everything else.
Fuck.
Stop thinking about her and all the surface where you can fuck her. I grip the edge of the counter, trying to ground myself, but it’s no use. It’s impossible.
The images are relentless now, vivid and consuming. I want her on every surface of this house. Bent over the dining room table, her back arched as I thrust into her. Pinned against the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room, her legs wrapped around my waist as the city lights spill over her skin. On the goddamn kitchen counter, her nails digging into my shoulders as I bury my face between her thighs, tasting every inch of her.
She sets the bottle down and then she turns, her tongue darting out to catch a stray drop of water on her bottom lip, and I’m gone again.
“Thanks for the water,” she says, her voice casual, oblivious to my thoughts.
“Yeah, sure,” I manage, my voice rougher than it should be.
She leans against the counter, her hips cocked just enough to draw my eyes downward. I want to rip those leggings off her, push her up against the fridge, and lose myself in her.
Instead, I force myself to look away, my jaw clenching as I stare at the ridiculous backsplash I overpaid for.
“You okay?” she asks, her tone laced with suspicion.
“Fine,” I snap, too fast, too defensive. “Everything is peachy.”
She narrows her eyes at me, like she’s trying to read my mind, and I swear if she could see even half of what’s running through my head right now, she’d slap me. Or maybe she wouldn’t.
I drag a hand through my hair, trying to pull it together. This is a bad idea. A very bad idea. Having her here, in my space, surrounded by all the things I’d gladly knock over just to fuck her against—what the hell was I thinking?
She turns away, and I catch a glimpse of her ass as she moves toward the living room. My living room. The same one I’m now mentally redecorating with images of her on the rug, her body trembling beneath mine as I push her to the edge again and again.
I need a distraction. Something to break this spiral of thoughts before I do something stupid—like pin her against the wall and show her exactly how badly I want her.
But when she glances over her shoulder at me, her brows lifting in mild curiosity, all I can think is how much better she’d look with that smug little expression wiped away. Breathless. Shattered. Whispering my name like a prayer.
Fuck. This is going to be torture.
I push off the counter, needing to move before my brain short-circuits entirely. “Come on,” I mutter, jerking my head toward the stairs. “I’ll show you your room.”
She follows me. We reach the guest room, and I push open the door, flipping on the light. The space is immaculate, the kind of room that looks like it belongs in a high-end hotel—sleek furniture, neutral tones, and crisp linens. “Here,” I say, stepping aside so she can walk in.
She sets her purse on the bed and turns to me, her expression thoughtful. “Do you have another shirt I can borrow? Maybe a pair of boxers? I didn’t bring pajamas.”
I freeze.
The mental image hits me like a goddamn freight train. Her, in my shirt, the fabric soft and oversized, hanging just low enough to tease. Bare legs, bare feet. My boxers riding low on her hips, clinging to her curves in a way that’s undeniably mine.
She’ll be wearing my clothes. Mine.
Something primal stirs deep in my chest—a possessive heat I can’t shake. She doesn’t even realize what she’s asking for. Doesn’t realize the fucking claim it feels like she’s giving me, just by putting on something of mine.
“Yeah,” I manage, my voice rough as I force myself to move. “I’ll grab them.”
I head down the hall to my room, trying to think about anything but the fact that I’m hard as a fucking rock. The ache is maddening, the throbbing need impossible to ignore. Fuck, this woman is going to ruin me.
In the closet, I grab the softest shirt I can find—a worn black tee that clings to me but will drown her—and a pair of boxers. Holding the fabric in my hands, all I can think about is how it’ll look on her, how it’ll smell like me after she’s worn it. How much I’ll want to tear it off her just to feel her bare skin beneath my hands.
I adjust myself, trying to will my erection down as I head back to the guest room. When I step inside, she’s already kicked off her shoes and is pulling her hair into a loose bun, the curve of her neck on full display. Fucking hell.
“Here,” I say, tossing the shirt and boxers onto the bed before I do something stupid, like press her against the wall and tell her she doesn’t need anything else.
She picks up the shirt, running her fingers over the fabric. “Thanks,” she says with a small smile, completely unaware of the chaos she’s causing in my head.
“That’s the bathroom,” I mutter, pointing toward the door to her left as I’m already backing toward the door.
“Got it.”
As I step out and shut the door behind me, I let out a slow breath, leaning against the wall. She’s in my house, in my fucking clothes, and all I can think about is how much I want her in my bed.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, willing myself to get it together. But the truth is, it doesn’t matter how many rooms there are in this house, how much space I put between us—having Valentina here feels like she’s invading every inch of me.
And the worst part? I don’t hate it.
I stalk down the hall to my room, each step heavier than the last. My skin feels too tight, my pulse pounding in my ears. Fuck, I need to get a grip.
The door clicks shut behind me, and I lean against it for a moment, exhaling a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. The air in here feels cooler, but it does nothing to calm the heat surging through me.
I strip off my shirt, tossing it onto the chair in the corner. My jeans follow, hitting the floor with a dull thud, and I kick them aside. Standing there in just my boxers, I glance toward the bed—my bed—and for a split second, my mind betrays me. I picture Valentina stretched out across it, her dark hair spilling over the pillows, wearing nothing but the shirt I just gave her.
My cock twitches, and I let out a low groan, palming myself through the fabric. “Fuck,” I mutter, pushing away from the door and heading for the bathroom.
The marble tiles are cool under my feet as I step inside and turn on the shower, the sound of water filling the room. Steam rises quickly, fogging the glass, and I strip off the last of my clothes, stepping under the spray before I can second-guess myself.
The hot water hits my skin, and I tilt my head back, letting it cascade over me. It feels good—cleansing, almost—but it doesn’t do a damn thing to erase the images flashing through my mind.
Her lips, parted and inviting. Her soft moan when I kissed her earlier, like she couldn’t help herself. The way she looked at me when she asked for my clothes, so innocent and unknowing, while my brain was already conjuring every filthy scenario imaginable.
I press my palms against the tiled wall, letting the water beat down on my shoulders. My breath comes harder, the tension coiling low in my stomach, tight and insistent. It’s maddening, this need for her—this ache that refuses to let up no matter how much I try to shake it.
I close my eyes, but that only makes it worse. I see her, feel her. The soft curve of her body under my hands, the sound of her breath hitching as I trail my mouth down her neck, over her collarbone, lower. Her legs trembling as I spread her thighs and taste her, slow and deliberate, drawing out every sound, every shiver.
A curse slips from my lips, rough and broken. My hand drags through my wet hair, and I push away from the wall, letting the water wash over me.
This is going to be hell. Having her here, so close but just out of reach—it’s torture.
But as much as I want her, as much as my body screams for her, I know I can’t cross that line. Not yet. Not unless she tells me she wants it too.
And fuck, I hope she does.
The water streams down my back, scalding and relentless, but it’s nothing compared to the heat rolling through me. I press my palms harder into the tiles, as if grounding myself will make the ache go away. But it doesn’t. It just builds.
My head drops forward, and a ragged breath escapes me. My cock is hard, throbbing, and there’s no way I can ignore it any longer. I glance down, the water pooling over my abs and dripping onto the tiled floor.
“Fuck,” I mutter, my voice low and rough.
My hand moves almost on its own, wrapping around myself, firm and slow. The relief is immediate, but it’s not enough. Not when my brain is replaying every single thing about Valentina.
Her lips, plush and pink, parting as she leaned up to kiss me in front of the paparazzi. The soft gasp she made when I pulled her closer. Her hands gripping my shoulders like she didn’t want to let go.
I stroke myself, my grip tightening as the image sharpens. She’s in my shirt, the fabric barely covering her ass, her legs bare and inviting. I picture her walking toward me, her hips swaying just enough to drive me insane. The look in her eyes—uncertain but curious—like she’s daring herself to come closer.
A groan tears from my throat, raw and guttural. My hand moves faster now, my breath coming in harsh, uneven bursts.
I imagine her kneeling in front of me, her soft hands replacing mine. Her mouth, warm and wet, taking me in inch by inch. I can almost hear her moan around me, see the way her lashes would flutter as she looks up, her gaze locking with mine.
“Valentina,” I growl, my head tipping back as the pleasure builds, white-hot and consuming.
I picture her spread out on my bed, her back arching as I pin her wrists above her head, kissing her until she can’t think straight. The way her body would respond to mine, the way she’d gasp my name when I slide into her—fuck, I’d bury myself so deep she’d forget anyone else ever existed.
The pressure coils tight, so tight it’s almost unbearable. My hand moves faster, my strokes rough and desperate.
She’s mine. In that moment, in my head, she’s fucking mine.
My release hits hard, my entire body tensing as I groan her name again, low and hoarse. The water washes everything away, but the tension in my chest remains.
I lean my forehead against the cool tile, catching my breath. The water beats down on me, but my mind is still full of her—her laugh, her smile, her fucking scent that’s already taken over my house.
I know I shouldn’t want her like this. But I do.
And that scares the shit out of me.