13. Leslie The Breaking Point
Leslie: The Breaking Point
His lips are on mine—hard, desperate. A kiss meant to silence, to take control. And for one reckless second, I let it.
Heat surges through me, my body responding before my mind catches up. His hands grip my waist, pulling me flush against him. My fingers curl into his shirt, torn between pulling him closer and pushing him away.
Then, reality slams into me.
I shove at his chest, breathless. “No.”
Kyle stares at me, his chest rising and falling, his grip still firm like he doesn’t want to let go.
I push harder, breaking free. “You don’t get to do this,” I snap, my voice sharp, raw. “You don’t get to kiss me when it’s convenient for you. When you feel like losing control.”
His jaw tightens. “It’s not like that.”
I let out a bitter laugh, shaking my head. “Then what is it, Kyle? Because one minute, you’re acting like this—we—are a mistake. And the next, you’re all over me.” My voice wavers, but I hold my ground. “You don’t get to pick and choose when you want me.”
Something flashes in his eyes—anger, frustration . . . regret? He drags a hand through his hair, his breathing still uneven. “You think this is easy for me?”
I cross my arms, refusing to let the vulnerability in his voice sway me. “I don’t know. You tell me.”
His gaze darkens, his expression unreadable. “You think I don’t—” He stops himself, exhaling sharply.
I take a step forward, my pulse hammering. “Don’t what?”
His eyes lock onto mine, something raw and exposed in them. “Don’t want you?” His voice is low, almost a growl. “Don’t think about you when I shouldn’t? Don’t wake up in the middle of the damn night, fighting the urge to—”
He stops again, shaking his head like he’s already said too much.
I swallow hard. I wasn’t expecting that.
He exhales, his shoulders tense. “I’m losing control, Leslie. Especially around you.”
The words hang between us, heavy, thick with meaning.
I should walk away. Hold onto my anger, my frustration. But I don’t.
Instead, I take a step closer. My voice comes out softer, unsure. “Then stop fighting it.”
He looks at me like I’m asking for something impossible.
I don’t know who moves first, but suddenly, we’re tangled together again. The kiss is slower this time—deeper, searching. Like we’re both trying to figure out what this is, where it’s leading.
His hands slide up my back, fingers pressing into my skin like he’s memorizing every inch. My hands roam his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart.
We break apart, breathless, foreheads resting against each other.
We don’t speak. He just takes my hand, leading me toward his bedroom.
But when I expect him to push me onto the bed, to take what we both clearly want, he doesn’t.
Instead, he just holds me.
We lie there, tangled in the sheets, his body warm against mine. His arm is draped over my waist, his breathing slow, controlled. It’s intimate, but not in the way I thought it would be. Somehow, that makes it even more scary.
I don’t know when I fall asleep.
But sometime in the night, I wake up.
The space beside me is cold. Empty.
I blink, adjusting to the darkness. The room is quiet, except for the faint hum of the city outside.
Kyle stands near the floor-to-ceiling window, shirtless, staring out at the skyline. His back is to me, muscles tense, his hands resting on his hips.
For a moment, I just watch him.
He looks . . . conflicted. Like he’s deep in thought, fighting some battle in his mind.
And I wonder if I’m part of it.
I shift, sitting up slowly. “Can’t sleep?”
He doesn’t turn. “I never do.”
There’s something in his voice—like sleep is a luxury he doesn’t allow himself. Like rest is weakness.
I hesitate, then slip out of bed. The floor is cool under my feet as I walk toward him.
I stop just behind him, close enough to feel his warmth. “Kyle, what’s wrong?”
He exhales, still staring at the skyline “Nothing.”
I look up at his head from the back. “Kyle, if this is just sex to you—if I’m just some mistake you’ll regret in the morning—you need to tell me now.”
His head tilts slightly, like he’s thinking. Then, finally, he speaks. “If it were just sex, I wouldn’t be standing here right now.”
His words make my heart stop for a second.
He finally turns, meeting my eyes in the dim light. His expression is guarded, but not cold.
“I don’t regret this,” he says quietly. “But that doesn’t mean it’s not a problem.”
I frown. “Why would it be a problem?”
He rubs a hand over his face, his jaw tight. “Because of the board. Because of the company. Because of everything.”
I blink. “The board?”
Kyle lets out a slow breath, like he’s debating whether to tell me. Then, he does.
“We have a no-romance policy for executives. Since they found out about us, I think I'm losing their support. I could lose everything I’ve built.” His voice is steady, but I can hear the tension beneath it. “They think I’m too distracted. Too reckless.”
I stare at him, my heart pounding. “So what? You’re supposed to just . . . ignore how you feel?”
He looks at me like I don’t understand. Maybe I don’t.
“I don’t have a choice, Leslie.” He shakes his head. “I spent years proving myself, building this company from nothing. And now, because of this—” He stops, his jaw clenching. “Because of this . . . because of what we have, I could lose everything I’ve built.”
The words sting more than I expect them to.
“Because of me?” I echo, my voice barely above a whisper.
He drags a hand through his hair, frustration etched across his face. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Isn’t it?”
Silence. Heavy and thick.
Then, after a moment, he speaks again, quieter this time.
“I’m losing control, Leslie.” His voice is raw. “And I don’t know how to stop.”
I swallow hard, my chest tightening.
I don’t know what to say to that. Because the truth is, I feel the same way.
I cross my arms, looking away, trying to steady my breathing. Everything about him—his voice, his presence—feels too much.
For the first time since I met Kyle Donovan, he looks . . . too vulnerable. And that terrifies me.
Because if he’s falling, I’m falling too.
I let out a slow breath and move a finger on his back.
“I don’t think you should stop,” I say softly.
His brows pull together slightly, like he wasn’t expecting that.
I step closer, hesitating for just a second before reaching for his hand, threading my fingers through his.
“Maybe losing control isn’t always a bad thing,” I whisper.
His eyes flick to mine, something unreadable in them. Like he’s trying to decide if he believes me. If he wants to.
I don’t give him the chance to overthink it.
I tug at his hand, pulling him toward me. “Come with me.”
***
I step into the bathroom, pulling Kyle in with me. He follows without resistance, his grip firm but uncertain.
The soft glow from the vanity light casts shadows on his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw and the hesitation in his eyes.
Without a word, I reach for the shower handle and turn it on, letting the water run down in a warm rush. Steam rises instantly, curling around us.
Kyle watches me, his brows knitting together. “Leslie—”
I don’t let him finish. I step closer, pressing my palms against his bare chest. His skin is warm beneath my touch, muscles tight with tension.
I lift my gaze to his, searching for any sign that this is too much. But all I see is quiet intensity, conflict warring with desire.
Droplets of water splash against his skin, rolling over his shoulders, down his torso in slow, glistening paths.
I let my fingers follow the droplets, skimming over his damp skin. Then, deliberately, I trace the curve of his pecs, running a teasing circle around one of his nipples.
His breath falters. His abs contract beneath my touch, and a muscle ticks in his jaw.
"Leslie," he murmurs, voice rough, almost like a warning.
I do it again, watching as his breathing grows uneven, his restraint slipping.
“You’re always carrying everything on your shoulders,” I murmur, dragging my fingers lower, tracing the ridges of his stomach. “When do you ever let someone take care of you?”
His throat bobs as he swallows. “I don’t.”
I step closer, the heat of his body mixing with the warmth of the water. “Then let me.”
His eyes darken, like he wants to fight it, to fight me—but he doesn’t move away.
I reach behind me, tugging my soaked camisole over my head and letting it drop to the floor with a wet thud. The air between us shifts, heavy and charged.
Kyle still doesn’t touch me. His hands remain clenched at his sides, his control hanging by a thread.
So I take his hand and place it on my waist, guiding him beneath the warm spray. His palm is hot against my skin, grounding me. Slowly, like he’s testing his own restraint, his fingers flex, splaying wider, gripping a little tighter.
The warm spray drenches us both, water streaming through my hair, trickling down his chest, soaking the fabric of his joggers.
So I rise onto my toes and press my lips to his.
At first, he doesn’t move, like he’s still trying to fight this, fight me. But I don’t let him hesitate.
I deepen the kiss, sliding my fingers up his chest again, teasing over his nipples before dragging my hands lower. My touch is slow, deliberate.
When my fingertips brush the waistband of his joggers, I pause.
A slow smile tugs at my lips as I slip my hand inside, he's so hard.
He shudders against me, his grip on my waist tightening as my fingers wrap around him, stroking, feeling the heat of him beneath the damp fabric. His head tilts back slightly, a sharp breath escaping his lips.
Instead of kissing him again, I lower my mouth, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses down his chest, savoring the taste of warm skin and water.
Then, slowly, I move lower.
A sharp inhale hisses through his teeth when I flick my tongue over his nipple, circling it in slow, deliberate strokes.
His whole body jerks, his fingers digging into my waist like he’s torn between stopping me and letting me drive him insane.
“Leslie—” His voice is rough, strangled.
Before I can react, he palms my breasts, his thumbs brushing over my nipples, making me gasp. His lips trail down my neck, hot and desperate against the warm water.
Then he spins me.
I barely have time to catch my breath before I’m facing the glass shower wall, my palms pressed flat against it for balance.
His hands glide down my back, firm and commanding, before gripping my hips and arching me toward him.
I feel the heat of him press against me, teasing for just a moment before he pushes in, slow and deep.
My fingers curl against the wet glass as a moan escapes my lips. The sensation is overwhelming—the warmth of the shower pouring over us, the heat of his body against mine, the way he fills me completely.
Kyle moves slowly at first, his hands tightening on my hips but as I push back against him, urging him on, his restraint shatters completely.
His pace quickens, each thrust sending a shudder through my body. The glass fogs beneath my fingertips, the sound of water and our breathless moans filling the space around us.
Then, suddenly, he stops.
Before I can protest, he spins me to face him, his hands gripping my thighs as he lifts me effortlessly. Instinctively, I wrap my arms around his neck, my legs around his waist.
His eyes meet mine—dark, intense—before he thrusts into me again.
A cry slips from my lips as he drives deeper, his rhythm relentless, consuming. My fingers tangle in his wet hair, my nails scraping lightly against his scalp as he buries his face in my neck.
The tension coils tighter, heat pooling low in my stomach. His breathing grows ragged, his grip tightening as he pushes us both closer to climax.
One more thrust and I shatter.
The release crashes over me in waves, my body trembling against him. A heartbeat later, he follows, groaning my name as he holds me tighter, his body tensing before finally stilling.
For a long moment, neither of us moves.
We stay there, clinging to each other beneath the water, our breaths mingling, our bodies pressed together, slick with heat and steam.
Silent.
***
The first thing I notice when I wake up is warmth. The lingering heat of another body beside me.
Half-asleep, I shift, reaching out instinctively, my fingers searching for him.
But all I find is cold sheets.
My eyes open slowly. The space next to me is empty. The spot where he slept is barely there.
Reality settles in like a weight on my chest.
He’s gone. Again.
I sit up, pulling the blanket around me. The apartment is silent. Too silent. I check my phone—no messages, no missed calls. There’s no note on the nightstand. Nothing except the faint scent of him still on the pillow.
Just emptiness.
I climb out of bed, wrapping myself in the silk robe I’d left on the chair. The weight of the night before still clings to me as I step into the bathroom.
The mirror is fogged from the steam, a faint reminder of what happened here just hours ago.
I run a hand over the glass, clearing a small section. My reflection stares back, lips still slightly swollen, eyes shadowed with something I don’t want to name.
A sharp buzz jolts me from my thoughts.
I turn, heart hammering.
My phone.
I hurry back to the nightstand and grab it.
Mia.
I swipe to answer. “Mia?”
There’s a pause. Then, her voice comes through, tight, urgent. “Leslie, we have a problem.”
My pulse spikes. “What kind of problem?”
A beat of silence. Then—
“There’s evidence. Someone thinks you’re a spy.”
My stomach drops. The room tilts slightly. “A what?”
“I don’t have details yet, but whatever this is—it’s serious.” Mia exhales sharply. “Les, someone is trying to frame you.”
My breath comes in shallow, uneven bursts.
First, Kyle disappears without a word.
Now, this.
I grip the phone tighter. “Tell me everything.”
Mia hesitates. “Not over the phone. Meet me in an hour.”