Chapter 18 #4
Everything feels too slow; the road, the sky, the rhythm of my pulse. I’m chewing on the inside of my cheek, jaw tight, willing the engine to give me more.
I said I’d stop holding myself back, that I’d take what I want, no restraint, no delay.
But it’s not in my nature to let go. Not fully. I feel like I’ll disappear without it.
Because if I do...if I unravel the leash even an inch too far...I don’t know what I’ll do to her. Or for her.
Finally back upstate and out of the city, it's just past two in the morning when I pull through the gates of the estate. It's dead quiet. Most of the staff are gone, and the lights are low. Cold air hits me when I step out of the car.
I head straight inside, with no detours, no calls, and no drinks.
She's not in our room.
That irritates me immediately.
The bed’s untouched, and her side still made. Her glass of water hasn’t moved since yesterday. I check the bathroom and find nothing.
I already know where she is before I finish turning around.
Back in the room where I put her when she first arrived. Technically hers, sure, but it hasn't really been hers in weeks. Not since she started sleeping in mine. In ours.
I walk down the hallway slowly. The west wing's colder. Quieter. The place still smells like varnish and linen, as if the staff has been trying to make it feel alive.
When I push the door open, she’s in bed, half-covered by the duvet, sprawled across the center like she didn’t care how she landed. The lamp on the far table is still on, low and warm.
She’s wearing nothing but one of my black t-shirts. Thin cotton that hits high on her thighs. No panties, no bra, with her legs tangled in the sheets. Skin bare, neck flushed like she fell asleep angry.
She’s so beautiful like this.
She stirs a little, feeling my eyes on her.
“You’re back.” Her voice is scratchy from sleep, or from holding back whatever she wanted to scream before she passed out.
“Yeah.”
She sits slowly and runs a hand through her sleep-tangled hair, letting out a small yawn. She shakes her head, eyes avoiding mine, and it feels like a punch in the gut. I want to smell her. She’s the best in the middle of the night, all full of sleep and her sweet floral smell.
"So you just fuck me, choke me until I pass out, and leave without saying goodbye."
God, this snobby woman.
“Something like that.”
Still not looking at me. That’s intentional. She’s pretending it doesn’t matter that I’m just now walking in.
But I know the space between her legs would tell me otherwise.
“Why this room?” I ask.
She exhales through her nose. “Didn’t want to sleep in yours tonight.”
“Why is that?”
“What's the point of sleeping in your bed if you never come home?”
Ah. There it is.
I walk to the side of the bed and look down at her. She doesn’t flinch. She just avoids my eyes. Tired. Distant. Still holding her ground.
“You’re upset with me,” I say.
“Obviously.”
“But you’re still in my shirt.”
She rolls her eyes and breathes out a frustrated laugh. "It's just a shirt, Hayden."
The attitude of this woman is such a fucking turn-on.
“I thought you were a good girl, Martine. Good girls don’t lie.”
She glares, but it’s weak. “I didn’t want to be cold.”
I raise a brow. “And none of your own clothes I’ve so graciously provided you would’ve done the job?”
She doesn’t answer; she only raises her chin in that spoiled way that sticks her nose straight up in the air.
I reach out and push the edge of the duvet down just a little further. She doesn’t stop me. Doesn’t shift.
She wants space, but she still wants to be mine. Even now. Especially now. I wouldn’t give her a choice anyway.
“You should be in our bed,” I say.
She gives a small laugh, flat, bitter. “Then maybe try being in it sometime.”
I say nothing. She’s not wrong.
“I had business in the city,” I say finally.
“Of course you did.”
I lean in and rest one hand on the edge of the mattress. “If it makes you feel better, I spent the entire night hearing things I didn’t want to hear, and wanting to be inside you instead.”
She rolls her eyes. “Is that supposed to be sweet?”
“No. It’s supposed to be true.”
She turns her head. Doesn’t say anything.
“You’re to sleep in our bed, and nowhere else.”
“Then come home more often,” She huffs.
I stay there for a second longer, watching my spoiled brat, deciding finally that I’m tired of not feeling her skin on mine.
She’s angry, but she’s still mine to use however I’d like.
I stare at her.
Two seconds pass.
Then I move.
She doesn’t even have time to react before I pull the duvet off her, one arm under her knees, the other around her back. She lets out a soft gasp, half-surprised, half-indignant, as I lift her off the mattress like she weighs nothing.
“Hayden—”
“Shut up.”
Her hands press against my chest, instinctively, not really resisting, more like a reflex. She’s glaring at me, but her legs are already curled in close, as if she doesn’t actually want to fight it.
“This isn’t very mature,” she snaps.
“No,” I say, carrying her down the hall. “But it’s what I want.”
She wriggles slightly. “Put me down.”
“Not a chance.”
“You’re being—”
“Exactly who I always am.”
She falls silent. Not because she’s lost, but because she knows I’m not bluffing.
We pass two guest rooms and turn down the hallway toward the primary. I push the door open with my shoulder and walk straight to the bed, ours.
I don’t drop her. I set her down like she’s breakable, even though we both know she isn’t. She stays propped up on her elbows, still in my shirt, her hair a mess, her mouth tight.
I stand over her for a second, looking down.
“You don’t go back to that room,” I say. “Not again.”
She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t argue either.
“I don’t care if you’re mad. I don’t care if I deserve it. But you sleep here.”
Her eyes flick up to meet mine. “Because this is about control, right?”
“No,” I say. “Because this is about you. And you belong in my bed.”
She exhales slowly. The tension in her shoulders shifts slightly. Not gone, but cracked.
I step back, peel off my shirt, and toss it to the side. Then sit on the edge of the bed, facing her. The shirt has ridden up, and I can see her glossy pink pussy lips, as her legs are slightly open. A brat and a tease.
“You want to be angry?” I say. “Be angry. But be angry here.”
She’s still watching me, her jaw set, her eyes locked, her hands clenched into fists against the sheets as if she’s holding something in.
Suddenly, she’s on me, arms around my neck, legs moving to straddle me, mouth crashing toward mine like she’s going to either kiss me or bite me.
I catch her mid-motion.
One hand at her hip, the other at her throat.
I push her back down into the bed, fast, rough. Reminding her who she’s dealing with.
Her back hits the mattress. I follow her down, hand still at her throat, thumb against her pulse. I hook it under the necklace of large emeralds resting there, pulling her up a bit by it and making her gasp.
She’s breathing hard, chest rising against the thin cotton of my shirt. Her lips are parted, but she’s not saying a word. Her eyes stay on mine, and I can feel the fire behind them.
She’s absolutely infuriating and even more breathtaking.
“You done?” I ask.
She swallows once. Doesn’t blink. Her voice sounds softer, filled with a sense of sadness. “You left.”
“I came back.”
“You still left me.”
“Missing me now, are you, darling?"
Her jaw tightens, but her body doesn’t move under me. My hand is still at her throat.
“You try to punish me by crawling into the wrong bed,” I say. “Try to take control when we both know you have very little of it. And you still want to crawl back to me like you’re owed something.”
“I am,” she snaps.
I lower my face an inch closer. “You’re owed exactly what I give you.”
Her breath catches. Not in fear. In recognition.
This is what she wanted.
Not softness. Not comfort.
Me. Unfiltered.
My hand moves from her throat to her jaw. I tilt her face up, brushing my thumb over her bottom lip.
“I don’t like you in another room,” I command harshly. “Don’t do it again.”
She doesn’t respond.
Instead, she leans into my hand like it’s instinct.
I let the silence stretch.
Then I say, low and final, “Now stay where you fucking belong.”