Chapter 12 #2
The response of a man who knew he should walk away but couldn't quite force himself to say no outright.
My hand drifted down almost without permission, wrapping around my cock.
I was hard. Had been since the café. Since before that, probably. Since the moment she'd looked at me in the clinic waiting room and I'd felt that jolt of recognition. Of want so immediate and primal it bypassed rational thought entirely.
I stroked once. Slow. Testing.
The friction felt good. Too good.
I did it again, letting my eyes close, letting the heat of the water and the steam blur the edges of reality until all that existed was sensation and memory.
I imagined her.
The way she'd look beneath me. Hair spread across white sheets like a halo. Eyes wide and dark and focused entirely on me. Lips parted. That careful composure finally, completely undone.
You.
The sounds she'd make when I touched her. Soft at first, tentative, then louder as I found the places that made her forget to be careful. Desperate. My name gasped out like a prayer.
You.
The way her body would arch when I pushed inside her for the first time. The way she'd grip my shoulders, nails digging in, holding on like I was the only solid thing in her world—
No.
I let go abruptly, bracing both hands against the tile wall, water pounding against my shoulders like accusation.
I couldn't do this.
Couldn't taint her like that. Couldn't reduce what she'd offered—her honesty, her vulnerability, her trust freely given to a stranger—into a quick fantasy in my shower while I got myself off thinking about her.
It felt wrong. Disrespectful.
Like I was taking something that didn't belong to me.
It was obvious, even after one conversation, that what Ella said and what she actually was were two very different things.
She talked bold. Acted confident. Looked me in the eye and said you like she did it every day. Like she was the kind of woman who made a habit of propositioning dangerous men in Parisian cafés.
But underneath?
She was softer than she wanted to admit. More innocent than she realized. The kind of woman who'd probably spent her whole life being careful. Making safe choices. Dating men who opened doors and remembered anniversaries and never once made her pulse race or her hands shake.
Men who were good for her.
And now grief had cracked her open, made her reckless, made her think she wanted something dangerous. Made her think she wanted the adrenaline rush of a man who looked like he might break things.
Made her think she wanted me.
But she didn't.
Not really.
She just wanted to feel something other than loss. Something sharp and immediate and alive enough to cut through the numbness.
And I—
I wasn't that. Couldn't be that. Wouldn't be that.
Not for her.
I finished washing mechanically, scrubbing away grime and sweat and the faint scent of Paris streets clinging to my skin, then stepped out and dried off with more force than necessary.
No.
Decision made.
I couldn't call her.
Sure, she was in Paris to find out about her sister. That was legitimate. Important. Worthy. But the woman was in mourning. Raw. Vulnerable in ways she probably didn't even recognize yet because grief had a way of making you feel invincible and fragile at the same time.
And Kane Black, despite his many flaws, was not the kind of man who took advantage of a woman in mourning.
Fuck no.
That was a line even I wouldn't cross.
Some things were sacred. Some vulnerabilities couldn't be exploited, even when they were offered up willingly.
I pulled on clean clothes—jeans, T-shirt, nothing special—and stared at the pile of dirty laundry by the door like it held answers.
Maybe I could help her. There was clearly some mystery surrounding her sister's death. A man’s involvement. Questions she needed answered. I could provide that. Keep it professional. Keep it clean. Give her information without asking for anything in return.
Or maybe she wouldn't want my help.
Maybe she'd figure it out on her own and disappear back to New York without ever calling. Without ever needing to see me again. Without ever discovering that I'd spent an entire morning thinking about her in ways that would probably terrify her if she knew.
That would be easier.
Cleaner.
Safer for both of us.
Get a hold of yourself, Kane.
Hours ago, I'd been trying to cave another man's skull in for entertainment. For the rush. For the temporary relief it gave me from the constant pressure in my head.
What made me think I could play Romeo to her Juliet?
What made me think I deserved to even try?
Stupid.
Just fucking stupid.
I wasn't built for this. Wasn't built for soft things. For vulnerable women with sad eyes who looked at me like I could save them from something.
I destroyed things. That's what I did. That's what I was good at. That's what St. Paul's had made me and what I'd become afterward.
Violence. Control. Precision. Destruction.
Not tenderness. Not care. Not the kind of gentle handling someone like Ella needed.
And Ella—
Ella deserved to stay whole.
Deserved to find her answers and go home and rebuild her life with someone who wouldn't drag her into darkness.
Stay in your lane, Mr. Black.
Stay in your fucking lane.