Chapter 40
Forty
Kinsley
The triumphant smile that touches West’s lips is the most terrifying and beautiful thing I have ever seen.
It’s not a smile of happiness. It’s a smile of profound, absolute completion.
The final piece of a universe-sized puzzle is clicking into place.
He has won. And with my whispered words, “There’s nothing else,” I have just handed him the crown.
He leans in again, but the kiss that follows is different from the one that sealed his ownership.
It’s slower, deeper, a searching exploration of the territory he has just officially claimed.
It’s a kiss that says, Mine. When he finally pulls away, the vast, empty room feels charged, the air thick with everything that has just been decided between us.
He rests his forehead against mine, his breathing evening out. The manic, predatory energy has receded, replaced by a calm so deep it feels ancient. The hunter is done with the chase. Now, he can simply enjoy his prize.
“Good,” he whispers, the word a soft vibration against my lips. He straightens up, his hands sliding from my face down my arms, his touch leaving a trail of fire on my skin. He keeps my hands in his, his thumbs stroking the backs of my palms.
“This place has served its purpose,” he says, his gaze sweeping over the cold, minimalist space. “It’s clean. A blank slate where we could wipe the world away.” He looks back down at me, his eyes dark and possessive. “But it’s not home. I’m taking you home.”
I don’t protest, I don’t have the will or the desire to. I simply nod, a single, slight movement of surrender.
He leads me out of the apartment, his hand a firm, warm pressure on the small of my back.
We descend in the private elevator, the silence no longer awkward or tense but charged with a new, dangerous intimacy.
In the subterranean garage, David is waiting by the sedan, his face a perfect mask of professional indifference.
He doesn’t look at me, he doesn’t acknowledge the dead man or the chaos we just left. He simply opens the door.
The car ride back through the city is a dream.
I lean against West, my head finding the hollow of his shoulder as if it were made for me.
The city lights blur into streaks of gold and white through the tinted windows, a world apart.
I am sealed in this dark, leather-scented cocoon with him, and nothing else feels real.
He wraps an arm around me, pulling me closer until my ear is pressed against his chest. I close my eyes and listen to the steady, rhythmic drum of his heart.
It’s the only sound that matters, the only truth in a world that has become a lie. It is the new center of my universe.
The ascent in his private elevator is different this time. It’s not a journey to a meeting or a performance, it’s an arrival. The doors slide open directly into the familiar, magnificent living room of his penthouse, and I suck in a breath.
The doors slide open directly into the magnificent living room, the lights low, a fire already crackling in the hearth.
But West doesn’t stop. His hand is a firm, undeniable pressure on the small of my back, and he doesn’t guide me toward the couches or the warmth of the fire.
He steers me with singular purpose past it all, down the familiar hallway.
My heart begins to hammer in a frantic, wild rhythm against my ribs.
He knows what he wants. The time for games, for dancing, for talking is over.
He pushes open the door to his bedroom. The room is vast and dark, dominated by a bed that looks big enough to swallow the world, but he doesn’t lead me to it. He pulls me inexorably toward the far wall, the one made entirely of glass.
The floor-to-ceiling window is a breathtaking, terrifying spectacle.
A sheer wall of black glass that separates us from a billion pinpricks of light.
The entire city is laid out at our feet, a glittering, sprawling tapestry of power and life that feels a million miles away.
He brings me right to the edge, so close I can feel the faint, deep chill of the glass through the silk of my dress.
“I wanted you to see it from up here,” he says, his voice a low vibration behind me.
“See what?” I whisper, my eyes fixed on the dizzying view.
“My city,” he says. Then his voice turns cold, possessive. “The world I just burned down for you.”
He turns me to face him, my back now just inches from the cold glass. His eyes are glowing with the reflected city lights, like a predator’s in the dark.
“That locket…” he begins, his gaze dropping to the platinum square at my throat.
“That was for them. A brand, so they would all know.” He reaches behind my neck and undoes the clasp.
The chain slides free, and he holds the locket in his palm for a moment before setting it down on a nearby table with a soft, definitive click.
“But we don’t need it anymore. Not tonight. ”
He steps back, giving me a foot of space.
His eyes never leave mine as he shrugs his broad shoulders, and his bespoke tuxedo jacket slides off, landing in a heap on the floor.
He’s done with the performance. He reaches up, unties his bowtie with a single, sharp tug, and lets it drop to join the jacket.
The formal, civilized man from the gala is gone. Only the predator remains.
He steps behind me, his presence an oppressive heat at my back. I watch his dark reflection appear in the glass behind my own pale, ghostly silhouette.
His hands don’t go to my zipper. Instead, they slide down my sides, his fingers hooking under the hem of the emerald silk.
With a single rough motion, he hikes the dress up, gathering the expensive fabric in his fists until it’s bunched around my waist. The cool air of the room hits my bare skin, and I am exposed from the waist down, my legs and the black lace beneath them reflected in the glittering city lights.
My breath catches in my throat. I am still trapped in the top of the dress, but utterly bare to his gaze, and to the imagined gaze of the entire world below.
Then, his right hand lifts. The air crackles with anticipation.
CRACK.
The sound is sharp, shocking, echoing in the silent room.
A stinging, electric heat explodes across my left cheek, so intense that it makes me cry out, my hands flying up to brace myself against the cold glass.
The sound, the sting, the sheer, unadulterated claim of the act sends a bolt of lightning straight down my spine.
West doesn’t say a word. He simply places his hand over the place he just struck, his palm hot and heavy, branding me. He leans his body against mine, trapping me between his heat and the cold of the window.
“Everyone is down there, Kinsley,” he whispers, his voice a rough, guttural sound right beside my ear.
“Panicking. Talking. Wondering what comes next.” He leans his head against mine, his lips brushing my temple.
“I want them to look up. I want them to look up at this tower, the crown jewel of an empire I just threw away, and I want them to know that the queen of my new world is right here.”
Vertigo spins through me, a terrifying, exhilarating mix of fear and desire. He is not hiding me away, he is putting me on display.
He leans down, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below my ear. His erection is a hard, demanding pressure against the small of my back.
“Look down, Kinsley,” he commands, his voice a raw growl. “Look at them all.”
I obey, my gaze dropping to the endless sea of lights below.
“They can look,” he whispers, his free hand sliding down my stomach, his fingers hooking into the waistband of the thin lace barrier. “But you are mine.”
The fabric of my panties gives with a sharp tearing sound. He tosses the ruined lace aside, a discarded scrap of the old world. Now I am truly bare to him, naked against the glass, my reflection a pale, trembling ghost caught between the city lights and the hard, solid reality of him behind me.
His right arm bands around my waist, pulling me back against him.
The position is awkward, precarious. He reaches up with his other hand, not for my throat but for the fabric of my dress still bunched above my breasts.
With a single, powerful rip he tears the silk down the back.
The dress splits, the ruined fabric falling away to pool around my feet, leaving me wearing nothing but my heels.
The cold glass is a shock against my bare, hardened nipples.
“You were made for this,” he groans, the sound torn from his chest. “Made for me.”
He grips my hips, tilting them back. I feel the blunt head of him press against my entrance, a slick, hot promise of what’s to come. My breath hitches. My body, my traitorous, brilliant body, doesn’t tense. It welcomes him. It’s been waiting for this.
With a slow, unrelenting push, he sinks into me.
The stretch is exquisite, a deep, claiming fullness that makes my head fall back against his shoulder as a low, guttural moan escapes my lips.
He is inside me, deep and absolute, a connection that goes beyond the physical.
It is a sealing of the contract, a binding of our fates in the most intimate way possible.
He doesn’t move for a long moment, just lets us both feel the rightness of it. He is a sheath, and I am the blade. Together we are a single, perfect weapon.
And then, he begins to move.
His other arm slides up my body, a slow, deliberate journey that makes my skin prickle with anticipation.
His fingers trail over my collarbone, up the column of my throat.
They simply rest there, a light, possessive touch that is more terrifying than a grip.
My pulse hammers against his fingertips, a frantic, trapped bird.