3. Not A Good Idea Either
Not A Good Idea Either
Ican see it now.
When—yes, when, I'm still the optimistic type, so it's when, not if—when this is all over, and if (well, this part, I'm hoping it's an if) any of this becomes public, and Netflix still insists on turning my life into a biopic…
The old title won't work. Because the genre's changed. This time, I'm not dead, but I'm still a victim.
Karyna Francisco: The Girl Who Knows What Stockholm Syndrome Means But Pretends She Doesn't.
Because right now, I'm just feeling really…swoony.
I don't know if that word exists either, but since I've already started pretending, why not keep pretending?
So yeah, swoony.
As in, knees-about-to-buckle swoony, but it has nothing to do with what happened in the past few hours.
I mean, the way my now husband got me out of the hotel?
It was like we were shooting for one of my favorite action movies.
He had me hiding in a housekeeper's laundry cart, and after that, he had me whooshing down a laundry chute like it's a water park slide, and slipping out of a service exit like a spy before racing away in a bulletproof car like we're being chased by bad guys.
We weren’t, by the way.
I mean, Konrad and his men are bad guys, but thankfully, we really did give them the slip.
I don’t think they’ll catch up to us anytime soon, and as for the official he told me about who could make us husband and wife?
He already had the papers ready, and after signing on the dotted line, we were man and wife just like that, and… The End.
As in, that's how I ended up here, flying back to America in my own suite. Because my husband has his own jet. My husband, whose motive for potentially risking his life to rescue me is still unknown.
The suite is bigger than my old bedroom back home, which is a ridiculous thing to say about a room that's thousands of feet in the air.
There's a bed with more pillows than any one person could need, a window full of nothing but night, and a low hum coming up through the floor that I can feel in the soles of my bare feet.
My sneakers are still where I kicked them off by the door, one of them lying on its side, because I was too tired to care.
Too tired to sleep, too, apparently.
And yet…
Swoony.
That's how he makes me feel.
Every time I think about all the lengths he's gone to just to rescue me?
Swoon.
Every time I think about his too-beautiful face and how he looks in a suit?
Swoon.
And when I think about him, alone in the suite across from mine…
Don't do it, Kar.
I find myself shakily getting to my feet.
You'll regret this.
And now I'm leaving my room.
There's no excuse for this.
And knocking on his door—
My breath catches as he opens it, and my heart slams against my chest when his dark gaze meets mine.
He's lost the jacket. The harness is gone, too, and the guns with it, but somehow that only makes him look more dangerous instead of less. His white shirt is open at the collar, his sleeves are shoved up his forearms, and his hair looks like he's been running his hand through it.
He doesn't look like a man who's been sleeping, either.
"What's wrong?"
Oh no. Here goes. You still have time to turn back, Kar.
But instead I hear myself choke out, "I c-can't sleep."
He stares at me with dark eyes that are still impossible to read, and I fight not to squirm.
Yes, I know what I'm doing is shameful and shameless. I know this can't be Stockholm Syndrome at work when he's my protector, not my abductor. I already know I'm going to regret this, but before I can change my mind—
He's taking my hand, and I don't pull away.
His fingers close around mine the same way they closed around my wrist back in Moskra, all the way around with room to spare, except this time I don't even pretend to tug.
He's drawing me inside his suite, and I follow him like an innocent little lamb.
It's the mirror image of mine, only darker. One lamp. A glass of something amber on the side table that he hasn't touched. And a bed that's still perfectly made, which means he wasn't even trying.
But when we reach his bed, he stops and cups my face—
His hands are so big they cover my cheeks completely, and I know he can feel how hot my face is getting. There's no hiding it. There's never any hiding anything with me.
"Are you sure about this?"
I don’t answer right away. I’m worried he’ll leave if I say the wrong thing, but a part of me also knows it’s better if he does. One of us has to be smart and mature—
“I’m not sure at all,” I hear myself whisper. “But I also know I don’t want to leave either.”
And now, the countdown begins.
Will he let me stay or ask me to go?
Will he—
Oh?
Am I seeing things?
Or is he…
Well, he’s not actually smiling, but his eyes do gleam in a way that makes my heart race—
Swoony.
He makes me feel so, so swoony—
And then his lips are covering mine even as he gently guides me to the bed.
His mouth is warm, firm, and so much more patient than I expected.
I make a small, startled sound against it, and that seems to be exactly what he was waiting for.
My hands don't know where to go, so they grab fistfuls of his shirt and hang on.
Then the backs of my knees bump the edge of the mattress, and I'm going down, and he's coming with me.
The kiss deepening as his body covers mine.
He's heavy and warm, but he keeps most of his weight on his forearms, like he's making sure I have room to breathe.
Which is funny, because I can't.
My breath catching as our clothes melt away at the efficient work of his fingers.
My skin burning up as he claims me with his touch. His hands all over my body, his fingers tracing my every curve, and after that are his lips…
Oh, those lips of his will be the death of me, with just the faintest contact making my toes curl hard as my skin burns with heightened sensitivity. I’ve never been the ticklish type, but there’s just something about his mouth that makes me feel so, so feverish and restless.
He makes me want to pull away and burrow close at the same time. He makes me feel unable to speak, but at the same time, he has me whimpering again and again, and…oh.
Oh!
I’ve been waiting for it to happen from the very start, but it still catches me completely off guard, and all I can do is think…
Finally, oh finally.
My nails digging deep into the smooth hard planes of his back—
Oh, finally.
—as my mysterious-and-oh-so-gorgeous husband takes my virginity.
"Ruel."
All I can do is whisper his name.
Ruel.
It’s something he didn’t actually tell me himself. I only read it for the very first time a few hours ago, printed right above the line where I signed mine. But now…
Ruel.
It’s what I find myself sobbing out when he finally starts to move, and oh, oh, the way he moves…
"Breathe, Karyna."
I don’t even realize I’m about to run out of oxygen until he says it.
I don’t even realize how my body is moving of its own accord, arching up even as he hauls me close—
I'm still not sure how badly I'm going to regret this, but for now, oh just for now…
My hands curve over his shoulders as his movements pick up speed, tears burning behind my lids at the increasing fierceness of his possession. It’s too much, but I want more. I feel like I’m about to go crazy, but I also hope it’s never going to end.
“R-Ruel, p-please…”
And when passion overtakes us both like an explosive, all-consuming rush of heat—
Ah.
I shatter first, but my beautiful, fierce husband is right behind me.
“Karyna.”
He says my name in a rough, low voice, and the sound of it has me wrapping my arms around his neck—
I can feel it building again as he starts moving anew, and it’s at that moment I realize the truth.
One day, this mistake will break my heart.
But until then…