CHAPTER 2.5 — THE NIGHT HE RUINED ME
858 Words
(Gina’s POV)
The suite door clicked shut behind us, and the sound felt like a lock turning on the rest of the world.
The music downstairs faded into a dull pulse beneath the floor, but up here everything felt sharper.
The silence. The heat. The man standing in front of me.
Reaper didn’t move right away.
He just watched me.
Those cold, dark eyes dragged slowly over me, taking in every uneven breath, every tiny shift of my body, every crack in the confidence I had tried to fake downstairs.
I could feel the tension in the room like something alive.
My pulse raced harder with every second he made me wait.
“You like doing this,” I whispered.
His mouth curved into that wicked half-smile.
“Doing what?”
“Making me ache for it.”
His gaze darkened.
“That ache tells me you’re honest.”
Before I could answer, he stepped closer.
The heat of him wrapped around me instantly.
Leather. Whiskey. Cedar. Danger.
His hand rose slowly, fingers brushing the line of my throat before trailing down the center of my chest with infuriating patience.
Every inch of skin he touched felt hypersensitive.
By the time his palm settled at my waist, I was already trembling.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
A low sound left him, approval wrapped in control.
His hand slid lower, following the curve of my hip, then down the outside of my thigh in a slow, claiming glide that made my breath catch.
The movement was maddening.
Measured.
Like he was learning exactly where my body reacted most.
My hands moved instinctively to his chest, palms flattening over hard muscle beneath the black cotton of his shirt.
The warmth of him, the strength under my fingers, the raised lines of ink—it all made me want to explore more.
I pushed the shirt up slowly, exposing the tattooed skin of his stomach and chest.
The serpent ink curled over muscle, disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans.
My fingertips traced the edge of it.
He went still.
Not frozen.
Focused.
The kind of stillness that felt more dangerous than movement.
“You’re curious,” he murmured.
I looked up at him.
“Maybe.”
A slow smirk.
“Then touch.”
The permission sent heat through me.
My hands moved over his chest, learning the rough lines of old scars and warm skin, sliding lower until my fingers brushed the buckle of his belt.
The sharp inhale he took made my pulse jump.
He let me feel the weight of his attention on every movement.
The way his gaze stayed locked on my face as my fingers moved carefully, slowly.
At the same time, his hand drifted back up my thigh, his thumb brushing the sensitive inside line in a way that made my knees weaken.
The contact was intimate without being rushed.
A slow, devastating exploration.
My breathing turned uneven as his hand lingered there, tracing heat through the places I was most aware of.
The roughness of his palm against such private, delicate sensitivity made every nerve in my body light up.
He watched every reaction.
Every inhale. Every tremble. Every tiny sound I failed to hold back.
“That’s it,” he said softly, voice dark with satisfaction. “Feel it.”
The words alone nearly undid me.
My fingers tightened at his waistband, exploring the hard lines of his body through denim, the private intimacy of touching him there sending another rush of heat through me.
The way his breath roughened told me he felt it too.
For a moment, the room disappeared.
There was only sensation.
His hand moving with maddening patience between my thighs. My fingers learning the shape of him through his jeans. The tension building tighter with every deliberate second.
When he finally kissed me, it was slow and devastating, his mouth taking control while his hand continued its teasing exploration.
The contrast ruined me.
His touch was confident. Knowing.
Possessive.
Every movement stretched the anticipation further, until my body felt like one endless ache for more.
He lifted me and carried me to the bed, laying me down with a kind of dangerous precision.
The city lights blurred beyond the glass as he leaned over me, his tattooed hand sliding over my body in long, slow passes that made every inch of me burn.
He took his time.
That was what made it unforgettable.
Not urgency.
Not recklessness.
But the way he seemed determined to make every touch linger until it branded itself into memory.
By the time the night finally dissolved into tangled sheets and breathless surrender, I was shaking from the intensity of it.
And then, just as quickly as he had consumed the room—
He was gone.
No arms around me. No warmth beside me.
No soft aftermath.
When I woke sometime before dawn, the other side of the bed was already cold.
The only trace he had ever been there was the ache in my body and the scent of leather still clinging to the sheets.
And somehow, that emptiness burned even hotter.
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