Chapter Eighteen Emmy
Chapter Eighteen
Emmy
The hallway feels narrower the moment I step out.
Khai moves beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat of him without a single point of contact.
The click of the door behind us sounds final, sealing me into the choice I’ve already made.
My heels echo softly against the concrete as we head for the stairwell, the slit in my dress brushing against my thigh with every step.
I’m painfully aware of how I look.
More painfully aware of how he sees me.
We descend the stairs in silence, his presence heavy and deliberate at my side. He doesn’t rush me. Doesn’t touch me. And somehow that makes everything worse. My body wants the contact, wants his hand at my waist, his fingers curling like they did in the club, grounding and possessive all at once.
Outside, the night air is cool, sharp against my flushed skin. His truck waits at the curb, dark and solid, an extension of him in metal and shadow. He steps ahead of me and opens the passenger door, holding it wide with a quiet, controlled courtesy that makes my pulse spike.
I climb in.
The seat is high, the cab enclosed, and suddenly there’s nowhere to look but at him as he leans in. The space collapses around us, his body close, his arm braced near my shoulder as he reaches for the seatbelt.
I freeze.
He buckles me in himself.
The click is soft, intimate. His knuckles brush my hip, just barely, and my breath catches despite my best effort to control it. His scent surrounds me, dark, clean, dangerous, filling the cab until it feels like I’m breathing him in with every inhale.
He lingers a second too long.
Not touching. Not pulling away.
I want him to kiss me. Want it so badly it aches, my lips parting before I can stop myself. My gaze drops to his mouth, then snaps back to his eyes when I realise what I’ve done.
He notices.
Of course he does.
Something dark and knowing flickers there, but he still doesn’t cross the line. Instead, he straightens slowly, deliberately, like restraint costs him something real.
“Comfortable?” he asks quietly.
I nod, throat tight, heart racing.
He closes the door and circles the truck, leaving me strapped into the seat, skin buzzing, pulse skidding wildly beneath my ribs. I grip the edge of my dress, grounding myself as he climbs in beside me, the cab filling again with his presence.
The engine turns over.
And as we pull away from the curb, one truth settles deep and undeniable inside me:
I didn’t just want his touch. I wanted everything from him.
Khai
The door closes with a solid thud.
She’s strapped into the passenger seat now, red fabric pooling around her thighs, the seatbelt cutting a deliberate line across her body. I force myself to straighten, to step back, to put space between us before I do something I won’t take back.
It takes effort.
I circle the front of the truck and climb in, the cab sealing around us, smaller than it should feel. Too contained. Too intimate. The engine turns over beneath my hands, a low growl vibrating through the frame as we pull away from the curb.
I keep my eyes on the road.
I don’t need to look to know exactly where her dress has shifted, how the slit has opened just enough with the angle of the seat. I see it anyway, burned into my peripheral vision, bare skin catching the dash lights, smooth and unguarded.
Mine.
The thought lands heavy and instinctive, and I tighten my grip on the wheel until my knuckles pale.
Control.
Streetlights pass in slow intervals, painting her in flashes of red and shadow. Every time we stop, every time the truck slows, my attention drifts back to her thigh. To the place where my knuckles brushed her when I buckled her in. To how her breath hitched, not fear, not resistance.
Want.
I could reach out. Just rest my hand there. Nothing more. It would take half a second. No one would see. No one would know.
She would.
That’s the problem.
I shift gears instead, jaw set, forcing my focus back to the road as the city zooms around us. The cab smells like leather and her, warm, faintly sweet, threaded with something sharper that pulls at the base of my spine.
She moves slightly beside me. Just enough.
The slit opens more.
I swallow hard, pulse steady on the outside, anything but on the inside. This is restraint. This is what it costs. I told myself I wouldn’t touch her unless she came to me.
And every instinct I have wants to break that rule.
“You comfortable?” I ask quietly, voice even, like I’m not one bad decision away from losing my grip.
“Yes,” she says, soft. Too soft.
The word sinks under my skin.
We stop at a light. Against my better judgment, I glance over. My eyes drop before I can stop them, just a second, just enough to confirm what I already know. Bare thigh. Heat. Invitation she doesn’t even realise she’s offering.
I look away immediately, the light turning green as if to save me from myself.
Patience, I remind myself.
She didn’t run. She chose to get in the truck. She’s here.
That’s enough. For now.
I guide the truck up toward the higher streets, the city stretching below us, and let the silence return, thick, deliberate, charged with everything I’m not allowing myself to do.
Not yet.
If she leans closer, if she bridges the space herself, I don’t know that I’ll stop her.
And that knowledge sits heavy and dangerous in my chest as the truck carries us higher, closer to my place, I’m pretending I’m not standing on the edge of my own sanity.