16. Michael
Michael
I hear the water start running the second she disappears down the hall. The door clicks shut—not locked. Good girl.
I don’t follow. Not yet.
Instead, I walk the perimeter of her living space like I’m inspecting a perimeter, hands in my pockets, eyes scanning not for threats—but tells. Not as a man watching a woman. But as a man trying to understand her.
Kate is nothing if not layered.
The living room is pristine. Minimalist. Designer furniture, sleek lines, color palette so soft it feels like fog and cashmere. But underneath the polish? There are ghosts. Small ones. Clues.
That antique milk glass lamp. The pile of books and seashells. The quilt. The photographs. They don’t scream money. They whisper memory. The cello? A small music box on her mantle.
She seems like a woman who could afford to stage her space with pieces pulled from Paris or Milan, but instead, she’s surrounded herself with quiet anchors. Family. Roots. Sentiment. Nostalgia wrapped in polish. And I wonder just where she gets her money from.
Sure maybe she sold a few stocks and songs… it still wouldn’t cover this. There must be more… This condo is at least two million with waterfront views. Her handbags are all designer, not knock offs…
I glance toward the hallway, the sound of the shower still running like a low heartbeat through the walls.
My eyes shift to the door just past the kitchen. Her dog watches me warily.
Office.
It’s closed. Locked.
She didn’t say anything about it. Didn’t mention what she does now exactly. I know enough through the initial brief from PI—perhaps inherited money maybe a trust fund but nothing that connects all the dots.
I don’t like locked doors. But I don’t pick it. Not tonight.
Not because I can’t.
Because I want her to open it for me. When she’s ready. When she trusts me enough to hand me her secrets, not force me to take them.
Instead, I walk to the window and stare out.
Her view of the harbor is arguably better than mine. Which is ironic, considering my penthouse sits in the clouds on the other side of the bay. But hers? Hers is grounded. Closer to the world. The boats look sharper, the lights more golden. The sound of the water, real.
Kate lives in a world she’s built to feel safe. But she invited the wolf in anyway.
And that? That tells me she wants to be caught.
My knuckles flex. I want her. Want to peel every layer off her skin and her soul until there’s nothing left but the truth.
And if she thinks I’m just going to fall asleep on her couch?
She’s about to find out exactly what it means to leave the door unlocked.
She’s already under the stream when I step in. Hair wet, skin flushed, eyes closed like she’s bracing for something.
Round two. My usual. The way I’ve always been.
But tonight?
That’s not what she needs.
And if I’m honest, it’s not what I want either.
I move in behind her, close but not pressing, letting the heat roll over both of us. She’s quiet. Tense. Waiting.
So I reach out and brush her wet hair from her shoulder.
She doesn’t flinch — but she doesn’t lean into me either.
Not yet.
My lips find the bare skin just beneath her ear. A soft kiss. No rush. Just warmth. I feel her shiver, but still she doesn’t move. So I do it again, slower this time, down the line of her neck.
“I thought…” she starts, but stops.
I wait. “I want to touch you like this first.”
She finally turns her head. Our eyes meet. The water runs between us, but the tension shifts. She sees it now. The change.
I reach for the body wash, pour a little into my hands and start to work it into a lather. When I touch her, it’s with care. Reverence. I run my palms up her sides, glide over her belly, around her waist. She's warm and soft and real—and mine.
I take my time with her back, every curve memorized by feel. When I slide my hands over her chest, it’s not to tease. It’s to soothe. Her breath hitches anyway.
“Why are you being like this?” she whispers.
“Because I’ve never wanted someone the way I want you.”
Because I’m falling. And I don’t fall.
Because if I take you the way I want to, we’ll both lose ourselves.
Because I’m afraid if I’m rough with you now, you’ll mistake it for not feeling anything at all.
And that couldn’t be further from the truth.
But I don’t say any of that.
I just kiss the back of her shoulder again and let my hands speak for me.
When I slide one up and cup her face gently, tilting her toward me, she finally leans in.
And the kiss we share is soft. Slow. Soul deep.
The kind that makes time stop.
The kind that undoes every part of me I’ve worked so hard to control.
Her hands come to rest on my chest. She holds me there. Like I’m more than muscle and danger and threats whispered in dark corners.
Like I’m hers too.
And hell, maybe I am.