Chapter 7:Heat behind doors
585 Words
The steam clung to Ellie’s skin as she stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped tightly around her chest. She hated how sore her legs felt—not from work, but from tension that had followed her since last night. Since he told her—
“You’ll be begging for it.”
That voice still echoed in her head, low and controlled, like he knew he could get under her skin and was in no rush to prove it.
She shook the thought off and padded across the room, water dripping to the floor as she reached for her robe on the bed.
The door creaked open.
Ellie froze.
She hadn’t heard footsteps.
No knock. No warning.
Then came his voice.
“I see privacy’s not a priority.”
Salvador.
Her pulse spiked.
He stood in the doorway like he belonged there. Dressed in a dark suit, tie loose, jacket tossed over one shoulder. His eyes took in the scene—her half-naked, startled—but there was no apology. No rush. Just cold, unnerving calm.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she asked, gripping the towel tighter.
“You left the door unlocked,” he said as he stepped inside.
“That’s not an invitation.”
“You’re in my house. You don’t make the rules.”
She backed away, her damp feet squeaking faintly against the marble. “This is my room.”
He stopped in the middle of the space, eyes grazing over her without shame. “You’re just a tenant, Ellie. One I’m regretting giving shelter to.”
“You think I want to be here?”
“You tried to leave,” he said flatly. “Didn’t work out so well, did it?”
Her cheeks flushed.
Then she said it—because part of her needed to throw it out, to make it real.
“You want to touch me.”
His expression didn’t change.
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
That hit harder than she’d expected.
She bristled. “You’re lying.”
He took a slow step forward, closing the distance like a shadow sliding over light.
“You’re wet, half-naked, and standing there like you want a reaction,” he said, voice steady. “But I have control, Ellie. Something you clearly lack.”
Her chest rose sharply. “Get out.”
“I haven’t touched you,” he said, unmoved. “If I wanted to, I would have. I don’t need to play games to get what I want.”
She hated that he sounded so calm. That he looked like he meant every word.
“You’re a bastard,” she muttered, turning away before he could see how red her face had gotten.
He paused near the door.
“You should be more careful next time,” he said without looking back.
“Why?”
“Because next time, it might not be me.”
Then he left. No slam. Just a quiet click.
She stood still for a long moment, towel clutched to her body, heart thudding against her ribs.
She told herself she was angry.
That he’d humiliated her.
That he was a controlling, arrogant prick who thought he could treat people however he pleased.
But beneath all of that—under the embarrassment, the fury, the tension—was something else.
A warmth low in her belly that she did not want to examine.
A flutter.
A pull.
She hated him.
She did.
But then why couldn’t she breathe right?
- Writer
