Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Summer
I wiped at my face, my fingers trembling slightly, still feeling the weight of the night pressing down on me.
My body was exhausted, my mind overwhelmed, but in the strangest way, I felt lighter.
Like releasing all those emotions, falling apart in Malcolm’s arms, had taken just a fraction of the pressure off my chest. But that didn't mean the tension between us had disappeared.
If anything, it had only gotten heavier.
Malcolm hadn’t moved. He was still standing too close, his hands resting lightly at my waist, his presence wrapping around me like something inescapable.
His eyes, dark and unreadable, traced over my face with an intensity that made my breath catch.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t rush me. He just watched, waiting, his silence louder than words.
I tried to laugh, tried to break the moment before it swallowed me whole. “You really know how to make a girl cry, Sinclair.”
He tilted his head slightly, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Instead of responding with some cocky remark like I expected, he reached up, his fingers brushing gently along my cheek, wiping away the last trace of my tears.
“I hate seeing you like this,” he murmured, voice husky, rough around the edges.
Something inside me tightened, twisted, burned.
I stepped back slightly, not because I wanted distance, but because I needed it.
Needed to breathe. Needed to remember that Malcolm Sinclair was dangerous in more ways than one.
“Well, then look away,” I said, forcing a weak laugh, trying to play it off, to lighten the moment before I did something reckless.
But Malcolm didn’t look away.
Instead, he moved closer.
"You don’t have to do everything on your own, Summer," he said, voice quiet but firm, the kind of voice that made my stomach twist in ways I didn’t want to acknowledge.
I swallowed hard. “I don’t?—”
"You do," he cut me off smoothly, his hands tightening slightly at my waist, grounding me, keeping me from slipping away. "You always have."
I hated that he was right.
Hated that his words hit something deep inside me, something I didn’t want to admit.
The silence between us stretched, thick with everything unspoken, everything I had spent the last ten years trying to bury.
I exhaled sharply, shaking my head. "You should go," I said, the words barely above a whisper.
Malcolm’s eyes darkened.
He didn’t move.
"Is that really what you want?"
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t know anymore.
And then—his lips were on mine.
The world tilted.
The breath ripped from my lungs, my pulse slamming against my ribs, my body going still for just a fraction of a second before I caved.
Before I kissed him back.
A quiet, desperate sound escaped me, and Malcolm groaned against my mouth, his hands pulling me closer, his body pressing into mine until I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything except feel.
It wasn’t soft.
It wasn’t careful.
It was raw. Desperate. Claiming.
Years of tension exploded all at once, unraveling into something neither of us could control.
His fingers tangled in my hair, angling my head, deepening the kiss as his other hand slid down my back, gripping my waist, pulling me against him so tightly I could feel every part of him.
I gasped against his lips, my fingers fisting into his shirt, clinging to him as heat rushed through me, as the space between us disappeared completely.
"Tell me to stop," he murmured against my mouth, his breath uneven, ragged.
I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
Instead, I pulled him back in, kissing him harder, deeper, like I was trying to make up for ten years of silence, ten years of pretending this wasn’t inevitable.
Malcolm groaned, his grip on me tightening as he lifted me effortlessly, guiding my legs around his waist, carrying me through the dimly lit apartment with a purpose that made my skin burn.
The back of my knees hit the mattress, and suddenly, I was falling, sinking into the softness of my bed, Malcolm following me down, his weight settling over me, his body pressing into mine, every inch of him aligning perfectly.
His lips never left mine, never gave me a chance to catch my breath, to second-guess this, to think.
And I didn’t want to think.
I just wanted this.
His hands roamed over my body, exploring, memorizing, his touch igniting something primal, something uncontrollable.
I arched against him, gasping as his fingers brushed beneath the fabric of my shirt, sliding along my skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.
His lips moved from my mouth, trailing down my jaw, my throat, his breath hot against my skin, his name slipping past my lips in a way that made him curse under his breath.
"Summer," he murmured, voice rough, needy, like he had been starving for this as much as I had.
His mouth found the curve of my shoulder, teeth grazing lightly, and I shuddered, my nails digging into his back as my entire body lit up from the inside out.
The rest of our clothes disappeared, piece by piece, tossed somewhere into the darkness, but I didn’t care. All I cared about was him. His body against mine. The way his skin felt beneath my fingertips. The way his breath stuttered when I touched him.
His hands slid down my thighs, his touch reverent, worshipping, like he was relearning every inch of me.
And then—he entered me.
I sucked in a sharp breath, my fingers tightening against his shoulders, my head tipping back as pleasure ripped through me, as the world narrowed to just this moment, just him.
Malcolm groaned, his forehead dropping against mine as he stilled, as he let me adjust, let me feel him.
"You okay?" he murmured, his voice tight, strained.
I nodded, my breathing shaky. "Yeah."
And then he moved.
Slow. Deliberate.
Like he was memorizing every single reaction.
Like he was making sure I felt every second of this.
Our bodies moved together, our breaths mingling, his name falling from my lips over and over again, a quiet plea, a desperate confession.
His hands held me like he didn’t want to let go.
His lips found mine again, swallowing my gasps, my moans, his movements becoming deeper, rougher, more urgent.
Like he was claiming me.
Like he was reminding me who I belonged to.
I shattered beneath him, pleasure rolling through me so intensely I forgot how to breathe, forgot how to think, forgot everything except the feeling of Malcolm pulling me under, keeping me there.
His release followed, his body tensing, his grip tightening, his head dropping to my shoulder as he let out a low, ragged moan.
For a long moment, neither of us moved.
We just laid there, panting, tangled, lost in the aftermath.
Malcolm’s fingers traced lazy circles along my spine, his lips pressing against my temple, soft now, lingering.
"You’re mine," he murmured against my skin, voice rough with exhaustion, with certainty.
"You always have been."
I didn’t argue.
Because maybe he was right.
And maybe… I didn’t care.