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520 Words
The room was cold without him.
Celeste sat frozen on the bed, her bra discarded, the sheets pulled tightly over her body like they could protect her from what just happened.
Or from what she felt.
Her heart was still racing. Her lips swollen from his kiss. Her thighs pressed together in a way she didnβt want to acknowledge.
And between them⦠blood.
Not from pain.
Not from violence.
Just her period.
The only thing that had stopped him.
She squeezed her eyes shut, mortified.
Heβd touched her there β down there β and she hadnβt stopped him.
Worse, she had wanted it.
Even now, with her skin flushed and her body trembling, she wasnβt thinking about how awful it was that he barged into her room like a drunken animal. She was thinking about his mouth, his hands, the deep sound of his voice when he growled her name.
She was thinking about the way her body had melted under his weight. About the ache still curling low in her stomach, begging for something he hadnβt finished giving.
βGod,β she whispered, burying her face in her hands. βWhatβs wrong with me?β
He bought her. That was what started all this.
One minute she was living her life, and the next β taken like a pawn in his mafia games. He threatened her father, locked her in this mansion like a golden prison. She should hate him.
She did hate him.
Didnβt she?
So why couldnβt she stop remembering the way his lips had moved against hers like he owned them?
Why did her body betray her every time he got close?
Why had she secretly hopedβjust for a secondβthat he wouldnβt stop?
The embarrassment wasnβt just physical. It was emotional.
She liked it.
Even when he touched her like he had every right.
Even when he growled that she was his.
Even when her brain screamed run, her body begged, more.
She rolled onto her side, staring at the ceiling. The room smelled like him β expensive cologne, whiskey, and something darker. Something addictive.
She pulled the sheets tighter.
She wanted to cry.
Not because he hurt her.
But because he didnβt.
Because now she didnβt know which side she was on anymore β the victim, or the woman quietly, desperately falling into something she shouldnβt even name.
Not love.
No, never that.
But craving.
She was craving him.
The man who imprisoned her.
The man who touched her like she was a flame he was daring himself to hold.
She closed her eyes, heat crawling down her neck.
She hated him.
She hated him.
And yetβ¦
Her fingers trembled at her lips, remembering the kiss. The way he breathed her in. The way his hands trembled with restraint like he was afraid of her. Afraid of what she made him feel.
Was she dangerous to him?
Was that why he always stopped?
Or was this some cruel game, meant to break her slowly?
She didnβt know.
And for the first time, that uncertainty excited her more than it scared her.
- Writer
