Chapter 19 #2
When I speak again, my tone is lighter, but my chest is still tight. “Well. Glad I could be here to help with your deep emotional crisis.”
“Don’t get cocky,” he says, mouth curving. “The night’s young.”
“Still holding out hope you’ll win me over?” I ask, tilting my head, trying for lightness.
“I already did.”
My chopsticks are still midair. “You really believe that?”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “You’re here, eating my food, drinking my wine. You could’ve fought harder. You didn’t. That tells me everything I need to know.”
The way he says it isn’t smug—it’s intimate, he’s not gloating but claiming. As if my being here isn’t just circumstance, but inevitability. Like he knew all along I’d end up in this seat, next to him.
My pulse betrays me, thrumming under my skin, and I look down just to break the pull of his stare.
“You’re different,” I say, studying him over the rim of my glass. “I remember a night when you couldn’t stop talking.”
He lifts his wine, doesn’t drink. “You’re not wrong.”
“You teased, you asked questions, you—”
“And you were softer,” he cuts in, eyes steady on mine. “Less shielded. Less bite.”
The words graze sharper than I expect, but I force a shrug. “Life happens.”
“It does.” His agreement is quiet, too quiet, like he’s letting me sit with the weight of it.
The silence stretches. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t fidget, just studies me like he’s stripping layers with his eyes, daring me to stay still under the scrutiny.
“You’ve got this…thing now,” I say finally, swirling my wine as if it can shield me. “This stillness. The control. That’s new.”
“It’s earned,” he answers, and there’s no apology in it. Only conviction.
I laugh—short, sharp, betraying more than I want. “And here I thought you were just born insufferable.”
He moves then. My chair shifts under his hand as he turns me to face him fully. He doesn’t crowd me, but his presence is overwhelming, filling the air between us.
His fingers slide into my hair, curling at the nape as his palm frames my cheek. I can’t stop the shiver that follows.
“Does it feel different when I touch you?” he asks, eyes dark.
I don’t answer. My pulse stutters and gives me away.
He leans closer—not enough to touch, but enough to remind me of every inch I once knew for a night. The stillness I accused him of is gone. What coils between us now isn’t calm at all. It’s heat, restrained only by the thinnest thread of control.
And suddenly, I’m back in that hotel room—back on the edge of something that gutted me and branded me all at once.
“You’ve been running that mouth all night,” he accuses. He places his palm on my thigh. Barely any weight, but the heat of it spreads like fire under my skin. “Hoping I’ll draw the line so you can push harder.”
My breath stumbles. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
His thumb drags over my cheekbone, and his gaze doesn’t move from mine. “You’re right, we’ve both changed. Harder edges, sharper teeth. But there’s a constant between us. You feel it.”
Before I can blink, his hands shift, gripping my hips. Strong arms steady as he sets me on the counter. The marble is cool against my thighs, but he fills the space between them, and suddenly, I can’t remember why I thought I had control.
“You can’t deny you want this,” he says, voice gone dark, dangerous. “And I know that you want me to kiss you.”
I try to be clever, but my defenses crack wide open. “I wouldn’t say no.”
That smirk—lethal, smug, and devastating—breaks across his face. Victory.
He leans in, tongue tracing the seam of my mouth before I even exhale.
It’s a provocation, and I give in instantly, closing the sliver of distance.
His mouth crashes into mine with years of memories snapping all at once—rough, consuming, claiming.
His hand fists the hair at the nape of my neck, pulling me closer, anchoring me, like he’ll never let me slip away again.
It’s not just a kiss. It’s a fucking storm. Heat, hunger, memory, fury, want—all of it colliding in a rush that steals every breath I try to take.
I melt before I can stop myself. My fingers claw at his shirt, dragging him closer, greedy for more, while his hands slip down my arms, spreading wide on my thighs, my skin alive with his touch.
There’s no air. No thought. Just Theo—his mouth devouring mine, his tongue tangling with mine, his body pressed to mine like he owns me already.
His hand moves fast, unbuttoning my jeans. The rasp of the zipper coming down sends butterflies through me, and then he’s inside, pushing beneath the lace, sliding two fingers into me with no warning.
My body bows, a strangled gasp ripped out of me, but his eyes stay locked on mine, sharp and smug. “Still perfect,” he murmurs, fingers curling deep, dragging a groan out of me before I can catch it. “So fucking tight. Like you’ve been waiting for me.”
I dig my nails into his chest, my breath coming out ragged. He doesn’t speed up, doesn’t give me the rhythm I’m chasing. He keeps me right there, hovering, until I’m trembling.
Then, just as quick, he pulls out. My curse dies on my tongue as I watch him lift his hand. He licks his fingers clean, obscene with hunger, his gaze boring me.
“Fuck, Lilly,” he drawls, voice thick. “You still taste like sin, and I fucking love it.” He sucks one finger deeper into his mouth before pulling it free with a wet pop. His smirk sharpens, cutting straight through me. “I bet if I asked, you would beg for my cock again.”
Heat floods me, dizzying and real. I forget where I am, forget why I came. All I want is more. Him. Closer. Deeper. My fingers tremble as I reach for the buttons of his shirt, desperate to strip away whatever separates me from the body I remember too well.
But his hands close over mine.
I freeze. Lips parted, breath ragged from the kiss he just stole. His grip is firm—gentle, but final.
“What—” My voice cracks, confused and hungry.
“No,” he says.
For a second, I just stare at him, stunned. My skin is burning, my panties ruined, and he’s stopping now?
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I snap, the frustration raw in my throat.
He releases my hand, smooths his shirt down like he didn’t just unravel me with a kiss, with his fingers, and steps back. Composed. Collected. A man who just dropped a bomb and walked away from the wreckage.
My pulse rages as he plucks his phone off the island, scrolls, then presses it to his ear. “Have the car ready.”
My jaw tightens. “Seriously?”
He hangs up, looks at me. Calm. Controlled. Like I’m not still shaking on the counter of his obscenely perfect kitchen. “I’m walking you out.”
I blink. “You’re walking me out?”
“That’s what I said.”
I slide off the marble, buttoning my pants, my body still humming, irritation curling sharp under my ribs. “Is this some kind of sick power play?”
“No.” His voice is pure steel. “This is self-control.”
I scoff, too loud. “You touch me like that and then cut me off? You’ve got some nerve.”
His mouth curves into a smirk that promises things I’m not ready to admit I want. He steps close enough for the heat to spark again, for my breath to catch. “Did you really think I was going to fuck you tonight?”
My laugh is jagged, defensive. “It wasn’t on the agenda—until that.” I motion toward the island like it proves my point.
He leans in, voice dropping to a dark whisper that coils low in my belly. “Don’t worry, Angel. I’ll fuck you again.” His eyes glint with wicked certainty. “But not until I know exactly who you are.”
The air between us thickens, charged and cruel, before he turns and heads for the elevator—leaving me flushed, furious, and not sure which one of us just walked away the victor.