THIRTY-THREE #2
Until breath was scarce. Until my knees couldn’t hold me any longer.
Finally, he pulled back, making space between us like it cost him something.
The rasp of the zipper brought us back, followed by the soft, broken sound of his elbows hitting the wall behind him as he moved as far from me as the space allowed.
I straightened my dress. Ran trembling fingers through my hair.
He watched me in silence. I watched him back.
Neither of us looked away as we corrected ourselves – not just clothes, but selves – slipping the masks back on for the world, one rough breath at a time.
Because we knew the truth now: we weren’t strong.
We were weak; frail in the face of lust. Helpless beneath the truth.
And ugly.
But not to each other.
‘There’s no stopping this now, Paula. You don’t understand…’
‘You don’t understand,’ I countered. He bit back the next exhale. I let a beat pass before I let him in on my own secret. ‘Your monster feeds mine. I want your mouth, your cock, your soul…’
He surged forward again, devouring my lips.
‘Take it all…’ he growled. ‘Take it all… take it all…’ he reiterated as he flooded me with kisses.
When the murmurs behind the door rose again, urgency gripped us both.
Palming the towels from behind, I moved one between us, but he yanked it from me. Let the water run from the faucet, soaking the cloth. Then he sank down, eyes fixed between my legs.
He wiped. Cleaned.
One hand guiding the towel, the other moving up and down my leg as if to remind him it was done; we couldn’t stay in here.
I watched his ritual. Gasped when he leaned in and ran his tongue up the inside of my thigh. Once. Twice.
Then moved to the other.
The murmurs behind the door grew louder, the sound of wood scraping against wood, the dispenser clicking.
Slowly, Cain realigned his spine. Inclined his head slightly towards the door, the motion almost imperceptible – a silent command wrapped in discomfort.
I reached for the handle, my palm damp against the metal.
He stepped back, letting me pass.
Turning my back on him felt unnatural.
The warmth of late sunlight spilt over me as the door opened, painting golden streaks across the wooden floor. I stepped out. Both pairs of eyes turned to me in perfect synchrony, deliciously unaware of the sin that unfolded just moments ago behind that closed door.
Vinnie’s narrowed. His gaze sliced across my face like a scalpel, searching for something I didn’t want him to find. But the moment Genevieve leaned in, murmuring something soft, he recovered. That practised killer-smile bloomed – too fast. Too bright. Too fake.
I held my breath as the door clicked shut behind me.
My footsteps beat too loudly as I crossed the room towards the hallway.
‘It’s nearly time for dinner. Should we go downstairs?’ I asked, my voice gentler than the tension deserved.
The reporter angled her head, frowning faintly before glancing at Vinnie. They exchanged a puzzled look.
‘We just had some coffee,’ she said, brushing a strand of long, brown hair behind her ear. ‘I’m not very hungry.’
I hummed, eyes sliding to the old mantel clock above the fireplace. Nearly six.
‘If we want to avoid the crowd, we should probably go. Right, Vinnie?’
His eyes met mine. For a beat, he didn’t blink. Then something shifted, like fog lifting from glass.
Recognition.
It sobered him instantly.
His gaze veered towards the bathroom door. A twitch of muscle pulsed along his jaw before he dropped his stare to the carpet. When he spoke, his voice was distant.
‘Paula’s right. We should go.’
‘Where’s Mr D’Angelo?’ Genevieve asked.
I felt a smug, sharp-edged smile threatening to rise but I buried it. Barely.
‘He left some papers in his car,’ I lied, smooth as silk.
Vinnie’s jaw flexed again. A silent rearrangement of anger and restraint.
He moved past me, brushing my shoulder as he reached for the door and held it open.
Genevieve exited first.
I followed. But before I could cross the threshold, Vinnie’s hand slammed flat against the frame. The sound cracked through the hallway almost like a gunshot, but Genevieve was, thankfully, already talking on the phone.
I stopped, startled, eyes locking with his.
I’d never seen him like that. Not angry.
Wronged.
As if I’d cheated on a promise that was never made.
Those soft Mediterranean blues had frozen over, rimmed in dark steel that made them look all the more sharper. He was too quiet.
The door handle clicked behind us. Wood creaked.
A single step punctured the atmosphere.
I didn’t turn.
Vinnie slanted a glance to the side – the line of his throat tight, his expression etched in disbelief as he undoubtedly saw the state that Cain was in.
Like the aftermath of a betrayal he hadn’t expected to bleed.
He knew exactly what had gone down.
And worse – he felt it.
Had I miscalculated?
Was Vinnie truly that invested that this, of all things, felt like disloyalty?
He didn’t look back at me. Just turned and followed after the reporter, his retreat as clean and cold as a knife surrendering its edge back to the sheath.
I glanced over my shoulder. Cain stood at the bathroom threshold – cheeks flushed a soft, guilty pink, lips stained red, hair tousled from my fingers. A picture of perfect chaos.
And I didn’t know whether to take a step into the hallway – or fall straight back into him.
He crossed the suite’s living room in several slow, agonising strides. His head dipped – but he missed my mouth, grazing the corner instead just as I angled up, drunk on the scent of him. Musky. Undone. Mine.
And then he licked from the hollow of my throat all the way to the edge of my jaw, with a finishing bite to my chin – not cruel, but not gentle either.
We never did gentle.
He exhaled against my lips. ‘Time to go, little angel.’
I must have closed my eyes at some point, because they fluttered opened in that moment. Sunlight slashed through the curtains, catching the fire in his eyes.
‘The sooner we wrap up here,’ he murmured darkly, ‘the sooner I get to bite you again.’
Reluctant, I left him there.
Stepping into the lift with Vinnie and Genevieve, I reminded my lungs to work.
The descent was drowned in the quiet. Polished chrome reflected our forms, but no one met my eyes.
The walk to the restaurant was worse. Vinnie didn’t so much as glance my way, even as he pulled out both chairs with the ingrained grace that usually made women blush. But tonight, it felt cold. Mechanical.
‘Actually,’ Genevieve frowned, glancing over her shoulder as if suddenly remembering something. ‘I need the ladies’ room.’
Vinnie gestured loosely in the right direction, then sank into his own chair. He leaned forward with elbows to the table, one fist pressed into the other, lips resting on the ridge of his knuckles.
As though it were the only thing stopping him from spitting words he’d regret.
He stared at me. Unblinking.
I knew what was going through his mind. I remembered what I had told him in my flat a few days ago.
The silence thickened until it felt like smoke in my throat.
I couldn’t take it any more.
‘It’s not you, Vinnie,’ I said softly, offering a smile that tried to smooth over the wreckage, and nearly wincing at the cliché.
His brow twitched. His breath dragged in. ‘Not my business.’
It was a poor deflection.
The way his voice cracked? Hurt, dressed in professionalism.
The scent of saltwater and pine announced Cain’s arrival before his body slid into the seat beside mine.
Vinnie’s stare turned into knives.
Cain’s movements stilled. He met his best friend’s gaze – and something changed. His face hardened. Shoulders lowered like a bull’s, muscles bunching beneath his jacket. Armour, forged in a primal sort of instinct, snapped into place.