Kiara （Present） #2
I smile internally.
“If you want to run away again, run. I have zero fucks to give,” he says casually.
Nice try. He says it like he’s carved from stone, but I can hear the crack under it.
“Oh really?” I raise my eyebrows, challenging.
“Oh really.” Not even a blink. His eyes stay on mine, black and unblinking.
“I don’t trust you, Kasien.”
“Right back at you, Kiara.”
My stomach flips at the sound of my name.
Without breaking eye contact, he slips a cigarette between his lips and flicks the lighter, the flame bright between us, his mouth level with my forehead.
I’m forced to look up at him, right into those eyes, but I swear there’s a very real bulge forming in his black pants.
I’m not looking down to confirm, but I can sense it.
“Did you enjoy my show yesterday?” I ask, smiling—or trying to.
God, please don’t let him see the blush crawling up my face.
“Don’t cheer for yourself, Kiara. I don’t have time for your bullshit.”
Gotcha. You’re lying through your teeth, you sneaky bastard.
“If you want me to believe that, maybe deal with those hard-ons first.”
His jaw locks so hard I hear the click.
Oh, he hates that.
Good.
“That day you threw me around like a caveman, you seriously thought I didn’t feel it? Or now? You think I don’t see what’s happening in those nice black pants? Want me to help with that? Is that why you’re here?” I shoot.
And just like that, I’m back on the horse.
“I can have someone sucking my dick back in my room in like… ten minutes tops.” He exhales smoke and winks at me, his lip twitching into a cocky little half-smile. “You’re the one locked up. Alone. And obviously desperate.”
I gulp.
And just like that, the horse kicks me off again.
“So, who’s the one who needs help here, huh?” His tone is pure challenge.
I stay silent. No words. No air.
“I think you forgot that I know your body better than you do.” His voice drops, smooth and lethal. “I know every tell it gives me.”
His eyes fall to my sports bra, lingering on my hard nipples pressing through the fabric.
“And right now,” he leans in, his breath warm on my cheek, “it’s inviting me in.”
He takes a slow drag, a smug smile unfurling across his mouth, and my stomach free-falls.
I don’t know what hits harder—the butterflies exploding under my ribs because I haven’t seen that smile in six years, or my pussy clenching on thin air because of him.
“If you beg really nicely, I might give your body what it’s asking for.”
Another drag. Another blow to my sanity.
He’s calm while I’m evaporating.
He flicks what’s left of the cigarette into the ashtray by the door, then returns to me, towering, unmovable, that look on his face like he’s already won something.
“So what’s it gonna be?” he asks and lifts his eyebrows.
His hand comes up to my face. Index finger sliding above my ear, the rest hooking under it, half in my hair. His thumb lands on my bottom lip.
Instinct takes over. I lean into his palm without meaning to, the heat of his scarred skin burning into my cheek, old muscle memory crashing into me like a punch.
“Okay,” he murmurs, voice low enough to bruise, “I’ll help you. Repeat after me.”
My eyes drop to his mouth as he traces my lips with his thumb, coaxing the words out of me. He shapes the word slowly, deliberately.
“P—Please.” It slips out of me.
Did I just fucking say that out loud?
His smile is slow and vicious.
“Please who?” his brows lift.
I hate him.
My dignity is long gone anyway.
Fuck this.
“Please, Kasien,” I whisper, shutting my eyes, defeated.
He inhales like he just won a trophy.
Before I can second-guess anything, his hands hook under my knees and he lifts me clean off the floor. I gasp, grabbing his shoulders for balance as he carries me like I weigh nothing.
In one smooth movement, he steps over the bench press setup, sits down, and lowers me onto the cold leather bench beneath him.
He reaches up, grabs the barbell loaded with what has to be over two hundred pounds, and racks it on the lower hooks.
So close to my neck the metal nearly touches my skin, trapping me in place.
Panic prickles under my ribs and I instinctively try to push it up, which is of course a pathetic attempt that only makes him smile more.
He stays straddling the bench, my legs draped over his thighs, his head tilted, watching me struggle under the weight like it’s his new favorite movie.
After a while, I stop fighting and force myself to breathe.
His fingers slide under the straps of my sports bra and he drags them off my shoulders, down my arms, down my ribs.
He doesn’t pause. He just catches the waistband of my leggings together with the thin underwear beneath in the same grip and slices everything down my body in one motion, shifting back to pull the clothes off my feet.
The whole pile of clothes hits the floor.
And I’m suddenly, completely naked.
My thighs snap shut on instinct. Being naked and pinned in place under that bar has every nerve in my body glitching. I’m nervous, yes, but more than anything, I’m starving.
Six fucking years without him.
Six years wanting a touch I pretended I didn’t miss.
He wraps his hands around my ankles, that familiar, electric touch that shoots butterflies straight into my core, and guides my legs apart with force I cannot fight, settling them against his hips.
He holds me open, keeps me there, and just looks.
Predatory. Focused.
His stare alone burns straight through my spine and makes my whole body tremble. I swear I could cum just from the way his eyes drag over me. My clit is throbbing so hard it borders on painful, but I keep my hands flat beside me, refusing to give in first.
His gaze runs from my chest, down my stomach, slow and hungry. As if he’s remembering. Or as if he’s taking in the new me, the six years older me.
Then he tips his head back and inhales, like he’s trying to steady himself. Or like sensing me is too much.
He drops my ankles and reaches up, unfastening the loosened tie at his neck. He pulls it off with one hand and lets it fall to the floor. Then he’s back on me, palms on my knees, lowering himself toward my core. His lips touch the inside of my knee.
A small kiss. Then another, higher. And higher. The trail up my inner thigh is soft, unbearably slow, and every kiss sends a violent shiver up my spine. My entrance clenches helplessly, and my whole body arches with need for him.
He stops right in front of my pussy, close enough that his breath ghosts over me, and deliberately moves away, placing a kiss just below my navel. Then another on my lower belly. Then on the bone right above my pussy.
My eyes roll back.
“Beg for me once more, Kiara,” he whispers, lips brushing my skin right above my swollen clit. My breath stutters out of me.
“Fuck you.”
He smiles against my thigh, I feel it, right before his teeth sink gently into my skin. Not enough to break it, just enough to make me gasp.
Pain blooms, melts instantly into pleasure, and a whimper escapes my throat.
To hell with this man.
“Please, Kasien,” I breathe, hating how easy he makes it.
“You know,” he murmurs, voice low and maddeningly smug, “one sound from your lips and I’d fall to my knees for you. But the begging?” he smirks and exhales. “Irresistible.”
And then his tongue finally touches my clit.
A moan tears straight out of me—loud, helpless, humiliating.
My hips jerk up to meet his mouth, chasing the heat of him as he slides his tongue slowly through my pussy, teasing me with a long, deliberate stroke before circling my clit again and giving it the softest suck.
My back arches off the bench.
I can’t breathe. I can’t think.
He settles on a slow and tender pace with his tongue while his thumb slides down to my entrance, just teasing around it, and it’s almost embarrassing how fast everything inside me coils tight and shatters.
The orgasm hits me like someone yanked a wire straight from my spine down into my core, heat flooding my insides so hard I cry out.
My pussy clenches on nothing, empty, throbbing, dripping. I can feel the wetness pooling under me. And right at the peak, when my whole body seizes and breaks open, he pushes two fingers inside me. I cry out so loud the sound echoes through the gym.
Six years. Six years of imagining this. Of missing him.
Of course I’m falling apart from the first touch.
“That was too easy. Give me one more.” His voice drops into something feral, and before I can even breathe, his mouth is back on my clit while his fingers curl inside me like he owns every inch of me.
I’m going insane.
The first orgasm barely leaves my body before the next one starts coiling low in my spine—heavier, deeper, ready to tear me apart.
I moan his name, hate myself for it, then moan it again, louder, my feet sliding helplessly against his thighs.
His other hand slides under my ass, rough and bruising, holding me still so he can press my pussy tighter against his mouth.
He’s devouring me like he hasn’t eaten in days, and when I manage to look down, seeing the muscles in his arm flex, the scars catching the dim light, his fingers buried in me, rough and relentless, I snap.
The orgasm rips through me so violently I choke on his name. I lose my breath, my whole body shaking, legs completely limp on his thighs.
“Fuck you,” I exhale, collapsing entirely.
He finally lifts his head, licking my taste off his lips, but he keeps his fingers inside me, moving them slowly, watching them, savoring every pulse of my release. His other hand grabs my jaw, firm and possessive, forcing my gaze to lock with his.
“Open your mouth.” His thumb brushes my lower lip, opening my mouth as he continues, “Show me your tongue.”
I do as he says, sticking my tongue out a little before he slides his fingers out of my pussy and pushes them into my mouth—deep, hitting the back of my throat so I gag before instinctively sucking them clean.
We stare at each other, locked in the moment. Me trembling, ruined, barely holding myself together, him with eyes so black and empty it almost hurts to look at.
Without a word, he rises, lifts the barbell off my neck like it weighs nothing, sets it back on the rack, and doesn’t look back at me.
“Be back in your suite in five minutes tops.” His voice is flat, cold, a command, and then he’s gone.
I sit up, arms instinctively crossing over my bare chest, staring at the doorway he vanished through.
The anger rises first, hot and sharp, but it collapses into something uglier in my ribs. Something that stings. My eyes burn. I swallow hard, force the tears back, pull my clothes on with shaking hands, and storm out of the gym.
By the time I reach my suite, the anger and the ache have folded into each other so tightly I can’t tell them apart. I slam the door shut behind me and slide down against it, finally letting the tears spill.
It’s him. And yet it isn’t.
Something’s missing, or maybe something new has grown in its place—something colder. He looks almost the same, same scars, same eyes, but the silence around him feels heavier, like it’s swallowing him whole.
How am I supposed to tell him I regret running? That I came back the next morning only to find a field of ash and ruins?