Chapter 11
Evelyn
Morning came too soon. Light seeped through the sheer curtains in soft gold ribbons, warming my bare skin, exposing the aftermath of a night I’d convinced myself I could forget. Every inch of me ached—in the best, slowest, deepest ways.
My thighs protested. My neck pulsed. My body remembered him far more honestly than my mind ever would. I slid out of the bed with the practiced silence of someone escaping a crime scene.
The penthouse looked different in daylight—less sinful, more intimidating. Too polished. Too masculine. Too his.
I gathered my dress from the floor and tiptoed toward the ensuite bathroom.
I needed a minute to breathe. To pull myself together.
To clean him off me before I did something catastrophic—like crawl back into that bed.
Inside, I closed the door and leaned against it, exhaling shakily.
I washed quickly, wiping away the evidence of the night—his hands, his mouth, the way he’d held me like he wasn’t planning to ever let go.
But some marks were stubborn. Some weren’t meant to be erased.
In the mirror, I found them. A bite mark on my shoulder—dark, blooming, deliberate. Bruises along my thighs where he’d pinned me down—visible fingerprints of pleasure. Heat flared in my cheeks. God. It had been the best sex of my entire life.
A kind of unraveling I wasn’t prepared for and would probably never experience again. And it had to stay that way. A memory. A stupid, beautiful, reckless memory.
I slipped back into my dress and eased into the bedroom. He was still sprawled in the sheets, all broad shoulders and tousled black hair, looking carved from sin and sleep.
I reached for the bedroom door. Then—His voice.
Rough. Morning-heavy. Dangerous. “You’re leaving?”
I froze. “I have to,” I whispered.
“You don’t.”
God—if he said anything else, I’d shatter. I turned halfway, unable to meet his eyes. “I never stay,” I said softly. “And this was… a huge mistake.”
I wasn’t sure whether I meant the confession or the lie. He didn’t get up. Didn’t pull me back. Didn’t beg. But I felt his gaze on me—quiet, awake, assessing—as I walked out.
Each step is heavier than the last.
By the time I reached the front entrance of the building, my cab waited outside, windows fogged from the cold.
I slipped in and gave the driver my address, sinking into the back seat with a pit in my stomach.
The ride home was long and antagonizing, each streetlight flickering like a judgment.
I sifted through a hundred possible outcomes—none of them good.
I was absolutely, unequivocally getting fired on Monday. Back at my tiny apartment, reality hit hard. The space looked even smaller, even lonelier after a night wrapped in silk sheets and a man who felt like a storm made flesh.
I took the hottest shower my pipes could manage, letting the steam swallow me whole as I scrubbed away perfume, sweat, fingerprints, and desire.
But no amount of hot water erased the bruises blooming across my skin.
By the time I wrapped myself in a towel, guilt mixed with hunger and dread.
I made breakfast—greasy bacon, eggs drowning in butter, the cure-all for bad decisions and hangovers.
Coffee in hand, I scrolled through my phone.
Messages from Samantha. I rolled my eyes. No. Not today. She would see right through me with one glance. One raised brow and I’d crumble. I typed the safest lie I could manage: “Night was like expected, only stayed a short while. Will return the dress as soon as I take it to the dry cleaners. xxx”
I hit send. Then I stared at the bruises on my thighs again—tiny, gorgeous reminders. And I knew this wasn’t over. Not even close.