Chapter 13 - Kirsten
I should stop this.
The thought flickers through my mind as Menlow pushes me against the penthouse door, his mouth hot on mine as his hands cradle my face. I should push him away, go to my room, and pretend this never happened.
Instead, I pull him closer.
He groans against my lips and fumbles for the door handle behind me. We stumble inside together, still kissing, and he kicks the door shut. The sound echoes through the dark foyer.
He walks me backward toward the hallway. “Do you want me to stop?”
I should say yes. I should be smart about this. But I know exactly how good he is in bed, and my body remembers every single detail from that night at the bar.
“No.”
That single word unleashes something in him. He lifts me up, and I wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me down the hall. Not to my room. To his.
He lays me down on his bed with a gentleness that surprises me, then stands back to look at me. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs.
“You’re overdressed.”
He laughs, low and warm, and reaches for his tie. I watch him unknot it with agonizing slowness, then toss it aside. His jacket follows. Then his shirt, button by button, revealing the chest I’ve been trying not to stare at for weeks.
God, he’s gorgeous. All lean muscle and smooth skin, with a light dusting of hair that trails down his stomach and disappears beneath his waistband. I want to trace that trail with my tongue.
He joins me on the bed and hovers over me, bracing himself on his forearms. “Your turn.”
I sit up enough for him to find the zipper at the back of my dress. He drags it down inch by inch, pressing his lips to each new patch of skin he exposes. My shoulder. My spine. The small of my back. Each kiss sends a shiver racing through me.
By the time he slides the dress off my shoulders, I’m trembling.
“Cold?” he asks.
“No.”
He smiles against my collarbone. “Good.”
The dress pools at my waist, and he eases it down over my hips, taking his time, making me feel every whisper of fabric against my skin. I lift my hips to help him, and he tosses the dress somewhere behind him.
Now I’m lying beneath him in nothing but my bra and underwear. He takes a moment just to look, and the hunger in his eyes makes my stomach flip.
“I’ve been thinking about this,” he admits. “About you. Every night since the bar.”
“Just thinking?”
“Among other things.” He traces a finger along the edge of my bra, following the lace from one strap to the other. “I kept imagining what you’d look like in my bed. Whether you’d taste the same as I remembered.”
“And?”
He leans down and kisses the swell of my breast, just above the lace. “Better.”
I arch into him, and he takes the hint. He reaches behind me and unhooks my bra with one hand, then pulls it away and drops it over the side of the bed.
The way he looks at me—like I’m the most stunning thing he’s ever seen—does something to me. Something I refuse to examine. This is just sex. Just one more night.
He cups my breast in his hand and brushes his thumb over the peak. I gasp, and he does it again, watching my face, my reactions. Then he lowers his mouth and takes me between his lips.
“Oh, God.” I thread my fingers through his hair and hold him there.
He swirls his tongue around the sensitive bud, then grazes it with his teeth. The sensation shoots straight to my core, and I moan. He switches to the other breast and lavishes it with the same attention, sucking and licking until I’m writhing beneath him.
“Menlow.” I tug at his hair, trying to pull him up, but he resists.
“Not yet.” He kisses his way down my stomach, pausing to trace the curve of my waist with his tongue. “I want to taste every inch of you first.”
He wasn’t kidding. He spends what feels like hours mapping my body with his mouth. The dip of my navel. The jut of my hipbone. The sensitive skin just below my belly button. He nips at the crease where my thigh meets my hip, and I nearly come off the bed.
“Please.” The word escapes before I can stop it.
“Please what?” He looks up at me, his blue eyes dark with want, his lips curved in a knowing smile.
“You know what.”
He hooks his fingers in the waistband of my underwear and drags them down my legs with excruciating slowness. Once they’re gone, he tosses them aside and settles between my thighs, pressing my legs apart with his broad shoulders.
“I know,” he says, his breath hot against my center. “I just want to hear you say it.”
“Touch me.” The words come out desperate and breathless. “Please.”
He rewards me with a long, slow stroke of his tongue.
I cry out and grab fistfuls of the sheets. He does it again, and again, lapping at me with a focus that makes my toes curl. He finds my clit and circles it, teasing, never giving me quite enough pressure.
“More,” I beg. “God, Menlow, more.”
He obliges. He seals his mouth over that sensitive bundle of nerves and sucks, and I scream. My hips buck against his face, but he pins them down with one strong arm and keeps going. He slides one finger inside me, then two, curling them just right while his mouth continues.
The pleasure builds and builds, coiling tighter with every stroke, every lick, every thrust of his fingers. He adds a third finger, stretching me, filling me, and I’m panting his name like a prayer.
“That’s it,” he mumbles against me, the vibration making me whimper. “Let me hear you.”
I’m right on the edge, so close I can taste it. He curls his fingers again, hitting that spot inside me that makes stars explode behind my eyes, and flicks his tongue over my clit at the same time.
“Come for me, Kirsten. Let go.”
I shatter.
The orgasm crashes through me in waves, and I cry out. He works me through it, gentling his touch as the aftershocks fade, pressing soft kisses to my inner thighs. I’m still trembling when he finally lifts his head. His chin is wet, and his eyes are blazing with triumph.
“Good?” he asks.
“You know it was.”
“I like hearing it anyway.” He crawls back up my body and kisses me. I taste myself on his lips, and somehow that only makes me want him more.
I reach for his belt. He lets me unbuckle it with fumbling fingers. I unbutton his pants and push them down his hips along with his boxers, freeing him. He kicks them off, and now we’re both naked, skin against skin, nothing between us.
He’s hard and thick and ready, and when I wrap my hand around him, he groans and drops his forehead to my shoulder.
I stroke him slowly, learning the weight and shape of him, running my thumb over the tip where moisture has gathered. He shudders, and I do it again, watching his face as his control starts to slip. His jaw goes slack. His eyes flutter closed. He’s beautiful like this. Vulnerable. Human.
He positions himself at my entrance and pauses as the head of his cock presses against me, but without pushing in.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He pushes inside me with one smooth thrust, and we both groan at the sensation. He fills me completely, stretching me in a way that borders on too much but lands squarely on perfect. He gives me a moment to adjust, holding perfectly still even though I can feel him trembling with the effort.
He pulls back almost all the way, then slides home again, setting a rhythm that’s slow and deep. I feel every inch of him, every drag and push, every pulse of heat where our bodies connect. I wrap my legs around his waist and pull him deeper.
“God, you feel incredible.” He kisses my neck, my jaw, and the corner of my mouth. “So tight. So wet. I’ve been dreaming about this. About you.”
“Less talking.” I dig my nails into his back, raking them down his spine. “More fucking.”
He laughs breathlessly and picks up the pace. Faster now. Harder. The bed frame knocks against the wall with every thrust, and I don’t care. All I care about is the way he fills me, the way his body moves against mine, the way his hands grip my hips like he never wants to let go.
“Look at me.” He frames my face with his hands, forcing me to meet his gaze. “I want to see you when you come.”
I stare into those blue eyes, and I feel something dangerous building alongside the pleasure. Something I don’t want to name. Something that scares me more than anything else tonight.
Then he reaches between us and finds my clit with his thumb, and I stop thinking altogether.
The pleasure builds again, faster this time, sharper. He matches the rhythm of his thumb to the rhythm of his thrusts, rubbing tight circles over that swollen bud while he drives into me again and again. I’m climbing, climbing, right back to that edge I just tumbled over.
“Come with me,” he breathes as his thrusts grow erratic. “Now.”
I fall apart in his arms, and he follows a moment later with a grunt that sounds like my name. We ride it out together, clinging to each other, and when it’s over, he collapses beside me and pulls me against his chest.
For a long moment, neither of us speaks. I listen to his heartbeat slow, feel the rise and fall of his breathing, and try not to think about how good this feels. How right.
“Stay,” he murmurs against my hair. “Stay with me tonight.”
I should go. Should retreat to my own room and rebuild my walls before he tears them down completely.
“Okay,” I whisper instead.
He pulls the covers over us, and I fall asleep in his arms.
Morning comes too soon.
I wake up alone in Menlow’s bed, surrounded by sheets that smell like him. For a moment, I just lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to summon some regret.
It doesn’t come.
Last night was… I don’t even have words for what last night was. Earth-shattering. Mind-blowing. The kind of sex that ruins you for anyone else.
But it was still just sex. That’s all it can be.
I remind myself of this as I gather my clothes from the floor.
He forced me into this marriage. He manipulated my signature on a contract.
He’s Bratva, for God’s sake—part of a criminal organization that deals in weapons and god knows what else.
It doesn’t matter that his branch is legitimate.
It doesn’t matter that he’s been nothing but protective since this whole mess started. He’s still the villain in this story.
I can’t have feelings for him. I won’t.
The pep talk feels hollow, but I cling to it anyway as I slip back to my room to shower and dress for work.
Something changes between us after that night. We don’t talk about it. Don’t acknowledge what happened. But there’s an ease now, a rhythm to our interactions that wasn’t there before.
In the office, we work together seamlessly.
He anticipates what I need before I ask.
I catch references he makes without requiring explanation.
When he hands me a file, our fingers brush, and neither of us flinches.
When I bring him coffee, he thanks me with a smile that makes my stomach do things it shouldn’t.
It’s comfortable. Too comfortable.
So I compensate by avoiding him at home. I retreat to my room as soon as we get back from work, claiming exhaustion or a headache or just the need for alone time. He doesn’t push, doesn’t demand anything, but I catch him watching me sometimes.
I tell myself this is for the best. Clear boundaries. Separate spaces. No more blurred lines.
Then one Thursday, he doesn’t come home.
I notice around eight o’clock, when I venture out of my room for a glass of water and find the penthouse dark and silent. His briefcase isn’t by the door. His jacket isn’t on the hook. The kitchen is empty, with no signs that anyone has been here since we left for work this morning.
He didn’t mention any late meetings or dinners. Any Bratva business that might keep him out.
I check my phone. No messages.
By nine, I’m pacing the length of the living room, wearing a path in the expensive carpet. This is ridiculous. He’s a grown man. He doesn’t owe me an explanation for his whereabouts. We’re not really married—not in any way that counts.
But what if something happened? What if the Volkovs retaliated? What if he’s lying in an alley somewhere, bleeding out, and I’m just sitting here like an idiot waiting for him to walk through the door?
I try calling. Straight to voicemail.
I text: Is everything okay?
No response.
The minutes crawl by. I make tea I don’t drink. I flip through channels I don’t watch. I tell myself I’ll go to bed at eleven. Then midnight. Then one.
At some point, exhaustion wins, and I drift off on the couch with my phone clutched in my hand and my tea gone cold on the coffee table.
I wake to the sensation of being lifted.
“What—” I blink, disoriented, and find Menlow’s face inches from mine. He’s carrying me down the hallway toward my bedroom. “What time is it?”
“Late. Go back to sleep.”
“Where were you? I tried calling—”
“I said go back to sleep.”
I look at him more closely. Really look. His jaw is set like granite, his eyes are hard, and there’s something simmering beneath his surface that I’ve never seen before. Something dark and dangerous.
“What happened?” I ask, more awake now. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine. You look—”
“Don’t ask questions tonight, Kirsten.” He shoulders open my bedroom door, and the movement jostles me against his chest. “I’m not in the mood.”
The coldness in his tone catches me off guard. After everything—after the dinner, after the night we shared, after the easy rhythm we’d fallen into at work—he’s shutting me out like I’m nothing. Like I’m just some stranger he tolerates.
Fine. If that’s how he wants to play it.
“Put me down.” I push against his chest, hard. “I can walk.”
He sets me on my feet without argument, and I step back to put distance between us. He looks exhausted, I realize now. There are dark circles under his eyes and a tightness around his mouth, like he’s been clenching his teeth for hours.
Part of me wants to ask again, to push until he tells me what’s wrong.
But the bigger part of me—the part that remembers he’s still the man who trapped me, who took away my choices, who upended my entire life—refuses to beg.
“Goodnight, Menlow.”
I close the door in his face before he can respond.