Chapter 7 #2
He lifted my legs, changing the angle, deepening the connection, but never losing pace. His eyes dropped, following the way my body opened around him, how it welcomed, held, responded.
I gasped as the tension built, my muscles fluttering around him, breath broken, fingers digging into his sides. Still, he watched. Still, he waited.
“Creed,” I whispered, his name the only word I could form.
His growl was low, close to a shudder, but he didn’t break.
He withdrew only long enough to turn me, hands careful, grip certain. My chest hit the rug, and before I could blink, he was behind me, guiding me back, filling me again.
I moaned sharply as he slid deep. The angle. The stretch. The unbearable closeness.
His hands gripped my hips, firm but not tight, his thumbs brushing the curve of my ass where the earlier discipline had left a memory.
“Still sore?” he asked, his voice just above a breath.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Good.”
His tempo picked up, not rough, but purposeful. Each thrust fed the fire he’d been building in me, stoking it, watching it grow. I could hear him behind me, his breath steady, his restraint still in place.
Even when I cried out, even when my body began to shake, he didn’t lose control.
He stayed with me.
He followed every sign.
Matched every tremble.
Adjusted every angle until I was choking on sensation, on praise, on the power I had chosen to give him.
“Let go,” he said, and the command dropped straight into my spine.
The release wasn’t explosive.
It was inevitable.
Not from pain.
Not from chaos.
From trust.
And when he followed, hips stuttering, grip tightening, voice low and grounded, he didn’t collapse. He caught me.
And we didn’t speak. We didn’t need to.
The collar around my throat said everything.
And as his forehead rested against mine, I knew.
This wasn’t obedience.
This was by choice.
And restraint breaking doesn’t always sound like thunder.
Sometimes... it sounds like breath finally being let go.
* * *
GRAY LIGHT PRESSED through the curtains, dull and unyielding, as if the night had refused to release me.
Sleep had been shallow—interrupted, fractured—my mind looping through impressions instead of memories.
Creed’s hand at my back. His mouth at my ear.
The way restraint had finally bent... without breaking.
Creed’s voice lingered in my thoughts.
Don’t mistake this evening for forgiveness.
It hadn’t been forgiveness. But it had been something.
That distinction mattered.
I pushed back the covers, my bare feet finding the cold floor as reality seeped in like a slow poison.
I shivered, retreating into the en-suite, hoping the hot water would wash away the ache clinging to my skin.
But when I emerged, hair damp, body wrapped in the silk robe the wardrobe team had left behind, nothing had changed.
My body still hummed with the echo of him, the weight of his absence pressing down on me.
I hadn’t expected to wake up alone.
The silence felt deliberate. Not empty—held. Like the house itself was waiting.
I didn’t expect him in my bed.
But I hadn’t expected this either.
The gown from last night lay draped over the chair. Last night’s armor.
I brushed my fingers over the beadwork, registering the faint scent of his cologne that still clung to it, sharp and familiar. It didn’t make my chest ache.
It made me think.
Creed didn’t leave traces accidentally.
The house was eerily quiet as I made my way downstairs, the grand staircase stretching before me like a path I wasn’t sure I had the strength to walk. The air felt heavier somehow, as if something had shifted in the night, leaving an emptiness in its wake.
Then, a sound, subtle, distant. The soft hum of movement. The kitchen.
I followed it, desperate for anything to break the silence. The scent of coffee curled around me, mingling with something warm and savory, drawing me forward like a lifeline.
And then I saw him.
Not Creed.
Ennis.
He was setting the table with the same precision he applied to everything. Breakfast plated. Silver aligned. No excess. No indulgence.
A message, whether intended or not.
He looked up as I entered, his expression unreadable, composed as always.
“Good morning, Ms. Peyton.” His voice was steady, polite. But there was something in his gaze—something careful. Measured.
I swallowed, forcing a small nod. “Good morning, Ennis.” My voice was quieter than usual, but I didn’t bother disguising the exhaustion beneath it.
“I trust you slept well.”
“I slept,” I replied, which was true enough.
He gestured toward the table. “Mr. Kirkland left instructions for breakfast to be prepared before your departure. A car will be available at your convenience.”
There it was.
Not dismissal.
Coordination.
“When did he leave?” I asked.
“Early,” Ennis said. “He returned to the city. Business required his attention.”
Business always did. Or was I still a complication he didn’t know how to handle?
I sat, wrapping my hands around the coffee when he set it down. The warmth grounded me. The silence didn’t feel cruel—it felt intentional.
“He didn’t leave a message?” I asked.
Ennis barely hesitated as he placed a plate of toast in front of me. “No, ma’am,” he said evenly. “But he did ensure that your comfort was addressed before his departure.”
Comfort.
That was the answer.
Creed Kirkland didn’t explain himself unless he intended to.
I let the thought settle. Let it sharpen instead of wound.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll be ready shortly.”
Ennis inclined his head and withdrew.
The coffee’s rich aroma curled around me, familiar and grounding, but even that felt muted. I stared at the perfectly plated breakfast. I didn’t touch the food.
Instead, I sat with the facts.
Creed hadn’t asked me to stay.
But he hadn’t cut me loose either.
No goodbye. No closure. No reassurances wrapped in courtesy.
Just space.
And Creed didn’t give space unless he was recalculating.
Or running from something.
I set the cup down with a quiet clink, my fingers curling into a fist on my lap.
“I’ll be ready to leave soon.”
Ennis gave a short nod, professional as ever. “Very well, ma’am. I’ll have the driver brought around when you’re ready.”
Upstairs, I gathered my things without hurry. The bed held the imprint of what had passed between us, sheets disturbed. A reminder, not a regret.
And still, he had left.
I changed into my clothes from Friday, gathered my purse, and straightened my spine.
When I stepped into the foyer, Ennis was already waiting at the doorway, holding my coat.
“Your car is ready, Ms. Peyton,” he said as he helped me into the winter garment. “If there is anything else you require, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
I met his gaze, searching for reassurance.
But Ennis was as unreadable as ever.
I forced a small, tight smile. “Thank you, Ennis. You’ve been kind.”
He inclined his head in a respectful nod, and I followed him out the door.
As I slid into the back seat of the waiting car, I didn’t look back at the house out of longing.
I looked at it like a board still in play.
As the gates closed behind us, I made myself a promise not to chase, not to retreat.
I’m done with all of that.
Creed had made his move.
Now it was my turn to decide how to answer it.