22. Holy Sht, Am I Catching Feelings?
HOLY SH*T, AM I CATCHING FEELINGS?
Trevor
When I wake, it’s still dark. Not the heavy, womb-darkness of a blackout-curtained hotel room, but the glimmering, half-lit blue that filters through forty stories of glass and floats above the city like a low fog.
I keep my eyes closed for a second, cataloging the scene: cold air across my chest, the lingering tingle of last night’s violence in my hips and thighs, and the scent—undeniably, aggressively carnal—of a bed that is no longer just mine.
I open my eyes.
She’s there, curled toward me, hair a mess of gold across my pillow, the sheet rucked down around her waist. One breast—full, pale, perfect—has rolled out above the edge of the sheet, nipple mauve and peaked in the air.
Her back is femininely arched just enough to show the soft slope from neck to shoulder blade to waist, and the fine silk of her skin is lit up by the glow from the Minneapolis skyline, still stitched in sodium orange and blue even at this hour.
Kayleigh.
There’s a faint pink flush across her cheek, and her lips are parted, still swollen from the way I used them last night.
Her hands are tucked between her knees, the right wrist ringed in a faint red mark, the bruise of a handcuff left behind.
She is deeply asleep, the kind of sleep that only comes after you’ve been completely, utterly wrung out.
I prop myself on one elbow and watch her for a while, cataloging every inch: the tiny mole on her hip, the pale line of her inner thigh, the way her hair turns almost white at the ends.
This is the moment I should feel guilt, or at least some version of it, but what hits me instead is a kind of electric calm.
Not relief, exactly, but the afterglow of a need finally answered.
Last night, I broke her. Not physically—she’s not that fragile—but I took something that she will never get back.
There’s a kind of satisfaction in that, the old, primitive drive to conquer and own.
But it’s more than that, and the fact that I can’t quite put a name to it is what wakes me up, heart running cold and steady in my chest.
I stare at her face, the soft, fine skin; the innocent angles of her features; the shadow of her lashes against her cheek.
For a second, I think of Aleatha, and a hollow ache starts to climb up my ribcage, but I force it back down.
This is not that. I’m not sixteen anymore, and this girl is not a victim.
Kayleigh wanted this. She fucking dragged me out of bed to bail her out, and then bid on me in front of half the city’s gossips.
But this woman matters to me, and my heart contracts hard as I stare at the sleeping girl.
What is it about Kayleigh, exactly? I don’t know, but a surge of emotion makes my chest tight.
I shake my head. Shit, I have to get out of here before I totally lose my shit.
I move slow, careful not to wake her, and swing my legs over the side of the bed.
That’s when I see it: the thin red ring at the base of my cock, dried to a faint, copper-brown shadow in the dawn light.
I pause. The physical evidence of what I did to her, the blood and the pain, and the fact that she took it all—no, wanted it all—makes my chest expand, a ringing sound in my ears.
It’s possession. The real thing. I stare at her lush curves once more, and for the first time in years, I feel like a man who’s not pretending.
The bathroom is cold and silent, the marble floor chilled even through the pads of my feet.
I hit the shower and let the water run hot, steaming the mirrors, the old scars on my chest beading up with condensation.
The blood comes off easy—just a thin wash down the drain, diluted, unremarkable.
But I know what it means. I’m fully aware of the gift that she gave me.
I towel off, wrap my body in the old habits: dark trousers, crisp white shirt, bare feet.
No tie today. The top button undone, a little bit of muscle and throat exposed to the morning.
I like the effect: professional, but dangerous.
The kind of man you don’t want to be alone with, unless you really, really do.
I go back to the bedroom, expecting Kayleigh to be awake, but she’s still dead to the world. I sit on the edge of the mattress, close enough to touch, and watch her breathe.
She’s so fucking young. I remember what that felt like—to be new, to have every nerve ending exposed, every pleasure and pain dialed up to eleven. I wonder if she’ll remember this as a mistake, or if she’ll get hooked on it. If she’ll ever be able to walk away.
I lean down, close enough to feel the heat of her skin, and press my lips to her shoulder.
Not a kiss, exactly, but something like gratitude.
Her body tenses, then relaxes, a faint murmur in her throat.
I want to mark her up all over again. I want to keep her like this, in my bed, under my hand, forever.
She wakes, just barely, blue eyes unfocused. For a second, I see the confusion: Where am I? Then the realization, the soft flush, the memory of what we did. Her mouth parts, but she doesn’t speak. She looks wrecked, golden hair mussed, so fucking beautiful, and all mine.
“Draw a bath for yourself, sweetheart,” I say, voice low. “Epsom salts, as hot as you can take it. You’ll be sore.”
She blinks, trying to process.
I smile, reach out, and run my thumb over her lower lip. “It’s normal. I’m not a small guy, and the first time’s always rough. But you did perfect, sweetheart. You were perfect.”
She blushes, the color blooming down her neck and over the tops of her breasts.
“Okay,” she whispers, then winces as she shifts under the sheets.
I watch her try to gather herself, the way she curls up a little tighter, arms crossing her chest. She’s embarrassed, but not scared. I like that. I want her to remember every second, every bruise, every mark.
She glances up at me, then looks away. “What about the rest of the list you left me?” she says. Her voice is thin, barely audible. “I need to finish it.”
I shake my head. “Forget the list today. You need recovery time.” I pause, let my hand drift down to her hip, the skin there marked with the outline of my fingers. “I use my women hard, Kayleigh, so you need to rest. You’re not going to want to do much else for a while.”
She lets out a little laugh, half nerves, half delight. I watch her face—how fast the embarrassment and pleasure chase each other across it. I want to make her do it again.
She stares at the ceiling, then at me. “We even broke the bed,” she says, voice even smaller. “It snapped. I think. Or maybe it was something worse.”
I look at her, then remember the crooked angle of the headboard, the way the frame cants to one side. I can’t help it—a slow grin breaks across my face.
“That’s what happens when you fuck like you mean it,” I say. “And that wasn’t even a demonstration. I was being nice, sweetheart, on account of it being your first time.”
Her eyes go wide, and she actually gasps. I can see the titillation and the thrill coiling together in her. She’s trying to picture what “not nice” would look like, and I want to show her. I want to see how much she can take.
“Relax,” I say, and stand, smoothing my shirt down. “Today, you rest. Tonight, we pick up where we left off.”
She nods, biting her lip, eyes wide but eager. I can’t decide if she’s faking it, or if I really have her hooked.
I watch her for another second, the way the morning light cuts across her bare skin, the pale map of bruises and love bites I left last night. It’s almost a shame to leave her alone in the bed, but I have meetings. A life. People to manage and control.
But now, there’s something here worth coming home to.
With one last kiss to her bare shoulder, I step out of the bedroom, into the silent expanse of the penthouse.
The glass wall throws the city at my feet, all steel and darkness and distant noise.
I can see the bridge, the river, the endless churn of people going to jobs they hate and lives they’ll never escape.
Not me. Never me.
I hit the elevator, the doors gliding shut behind me. As I descend, I let myself think about what’s waiting for me later tonight: the girl in my bed, the sweet, exhausted body, the perfectly tight pussy that’s now molded to the shape of my shaft.
I think about how I’ll use her next.
And I realize, with a jolt of surprise, that for the first time in my life, I actually want something I already have.
When the elevator opens, I walk out into the new morning, smiling like a man who’s finally, finally whole.