Guilty as Sin

Chapter 5 - Unravel Intentions

She inhaled deeply, bracing herself before stepping toward the cabinet. The handle was cool beneath her fingertips as she pulled it open, reaching for the toothbrush—

And froze.

Her breath hitched, her fingers stilling mid-air.

Inside, ten boxes of Magnum XL condoms sat stacked in perfect alignment, pristine and untouched. Not tossed inside haphazardly, not half-hidden behind a razor or a cologne bottle. No. They were deliberate. Purposeful. Like some kind of twisted trophy display.

She blinked. Once. Twice.

Then, a soft, incredulous laugh escaped her lips as she shook her head.

Of course.

She was still thinking about it when she finished showering, steam curling around her like ghostly fingers. About the neatness, the intention. The quiet, maddening certainty in it.

She yanked a towel from the rack, wrapping it tightly around herself before stepping back into the bedroom—

Only to find Marcus waiting.

He sat on the edge of the bed, forearms braced on his knees, his gaze fixed on her the moment she emerged. Unblinking. Watchful.

The air between them shifted, the room temperature plummeting and igniting simultaneously.

His gaze swept over her—wet strands of hair clinging to her collarbone, drops of water trailing down her bare shoulders, the curve of her thigh visible beneath the edge of the towel. A muscle feathered in his jaw, but his expression remained unreadable.

“Feel better?” His voice was rougher now, lower. Like he was holding something back.

She swallowed against the warmth creeping up her neck. “Much. Though I have to say, you’re surprisingly… prepared.”

One brow lifted, slow and sharp. “For what?”

“For unexpected guests.”

A slow smirk, one that sent something twisting low in her stomach. “I wouldn’t call you unexpected.”

Her fingers curled into the towel, knuckles whitening. “Right. And the cabinet? Also expected?”

Silence. Just for a second. But she felt it. The shift in the air, the way his smirk faded into something quieter.

Then Marcus leaned forward, elbows still resting on his knees.

“You snooped,” he murmured.

She huffed. “I looked for a toothbrush. Your ridiculous stockpile of XL condoms was impossible to miss.”

A dark chuckle. Low. Rough. “A man likes to be prepared.”

Cruella rolled her eyes, stalking toward the dresser, reaching for the shirt he’d left for her. She tugged it over her head, and the moment it slid down, brushing against her skin, she nearly cursed.

Because it smelled like him.

Clean, warm, edged with something dangerous.

Something that made her heart hammer against her ribs.

She cleared her throat, keeping her back to him as she said, “Yeah, I noticed. Are you always expecting an orgy to break out, or—?”

She didn’t need to turn to know his expression had darkened. The air in the room thickened, something heavy pressing against her skin.

And then—

He moved.

One step. Two.

Not fast, not hurried. Just a slow, deliberate prowl.

By the time she turned, he was there.

Close. Too close.

Her breath caught, her pulse hammering.

“I don’t keep them for every woman,” he murmured, his voice like smoke curling around her. “Just the ones who matter.”

A breath. A heartbeat.

Something unfurled in her chest—sharp and tangled and dangerous.

Her brain scrambled for a sharp-edged and dismissive retort, but the words knotted on her tongue, refusing to come.

Marcus’s gaze flicked over her face, unreadable, assessing. And then—

That smirk again. But this time, there was no humor in it. No mockery. Just quiet, unshakable intent.

And then, as if ensuring she was well and truly unraveling—

He leaned in.

Slow. Unhurried.

Brushing a kiss against her cheek, barely more than a whisper of contact.

But it wrecked her all the same.

Cruella didn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

By the time she blinked, Marcus was already turning away, heading toward the bathroom, his steps silent against the floor.

And damn him—damn him—she was left standing there, pulse racing, fingers clenched at her sides, with nothing but the scent of him on her skin and the undeniable feeling that she’d just lost whatever game they were playing.

The moment Marcus shut the bathroom door behind him, he was already pulling his shirt over his head, yanking it off like it had personally offended him.

Fuck.

His pulse thundered in his ears, his blood running hot—too hot. His body was tight, muscles coiled with restless, pent-up need.

And his c**k? Hard as f*****g steel.

All because of her.

Cruella. Standing there in nothing but a towel, skin still damp from the shower, looking so goddamn effortless in her confidence, in her sharp little jabs.

And when she slipped on his shirt? When it had draped over her frame, teasing him with bare legs and clinging to her curves just enough to make his imagination run wild?

Yeah. That was the moment he knew he was royally f****d.

Marcus turned on the shower, cranking the handle to cold, stepping beneath the punishing spray without hesitation.

The ice slammed into him like a brutal shock, biting into overheated skin, but it still wasn’t enough.

He braced his hands against the tile, his head hanging forward, the water running in rivulets down his back.

His body did not give a s**t about the cold.

Not when the image of her still burned behind his eyelids—

The delicate line of her throat when she swallowed.

The way her damp hair clung to her collarbone.

The way her lips parted when he stepped closer.

The way her pulse jumped when he leaned in, dragging his mouth against her cheek, letting his breath graze her skin.

He should have pulled away.

He should have left the room the second he saw how she looked at him—like she knew exactly what she was doing to him. Like she was enjoying this damn game.

Instead, he stayed.

Got too close.

Let himself breathe her in, let himself want.

He squeezed his eyes shut, his breath coming in sharp, ragged exhales as the water pummeled his skin, but his c**k still pulsed, still ached, and still refused to get the memo.

This was not helping.

Marcus ran a hand over his face, dragging his fingers through wet hair, exhaling sharply as he pressed his forehead to the tile.

Maybe he could have wrestled back some control if he hadn’t seen her just now.

But the second he stepped into that bedroom and saw her standing there—his shirt on her body, his scent on her skin—it was over.

And now?

Now, she was out there in the living room, admiring the city lights like she wasn’t undoing him piece by f*****g piece.

Marcus grits his teeth.

If he walked out now, she’d still be there—probably stretched out on the couch, bathed in the soft glow of the skyline, looking completely unbothered while he was in here, fighting for his goddamn life.

He sucked in a sharp breath and slammed the water off.

Standing there, dripping wet, chest rising and falling with too-deep breaths, he knew one thing with absolute certainty:

This wasn’t over.

Not even close.

And when he stepped out of that bathroom?

He had a feeling Cruella knew that, too.