WILD HONEY: The Chronicles Of Alice Jaja

LOOSE ENDS AND TIGHTER LEASHES

CHAPTER 7

I didn’t sleep after that.

I stared at the ceiling, phone still in my hand, Duke’s message like a brand on my skin.

Then stop pretending you ever had the rules.

What the f**k did that even mean? That I never had control? That I was just dancing to a rhythm he’d set, too smug to notice I wasn’t leading?

I tossed the phone aside and sat up. My body ached—not from Tamuno, not really. It was a different kind of ache. Deeper. Like something inside me had been pulled too tight, stretched by want, by anger, by the sharp edge of my own pride.

I padded back into the kitchen, still naked. Poured a glass of wine, even though it was 3 a.m. I didn’t care. The night was already ruined, or maybe it had never stood a chance.

I sipped and lit another cigarette.

Halfway through it, my phone buzzed again.

Duke: Open your door.

I blinked.

Stared at the screen like it was lying to me.

Then I walked—slow, disbelieving, a little scared—toward the door.

I opened it.

And there he was.

Dark suit, no tie, shirt undone just enough to expose the top of his chest. He looked like sin dressed in power. His eyes were steady, unreadable, but his jaw was tense like he’d been clenching it since he hit send.

I leaned against the frame, wineglass still in hand. “What are you doing here?”

He didn’t answer.

Just stepped forward and gently took the glass from my fingers, setting it down on the console behind me.

“I asked you a question,” I said, but it came out breathy. Weak.

“You said you were tired of playing,” he murmured. “I came to see if you meant it.”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

He stepped in. I backed up. He closed the door behind him with a soft click that sounded louder than it should have.

Then he kissed me.

No warning. No hesitation. Just full contact, heat, and a hunger that snapped every nerve in my spine.

I clutched his shirt. He grabbed my waist like he owned it.

I tasted wine and smoke and the cold night air still clinging to his skin. My legs tangled around his as he walked me backward, guiding me like he knew the layout of my apartment better than I did.

I hit the wall. He kissed down my neck. Bit just hard enough to make me gasp.

“Still pretending you’re not mine?” he asked against my skin.

“I was never yours,” I breathed.

He smiled against my collarbone. “Then why do you sound like you’re begging for it?”

I didn’t answer.

I couldn’t.

My hands were already unbuttoning his shirt. His fingers pushed past the waistband of my panties. I gasped.

There was no slow build this time.

No teasing.

Just raw, electric need.

He pushed me up against the wall and sank to his knees, yanking my panties down like they were in the way of something sacred.

His mouth was fire.

His tongue moved like he was spelling something secret into me, and I didn’t care what it said. My head thudded back against the wall as I moaned, fingers buried in his hair, thighs trembling.

I was already close, already on the edge, and he knew it. The bastard knew it. He pulled back just before I came, stood, lifted me like I weighed nothing, and carried me to the couch.

“Duke—”

“I’m not finished.”

He laid me down, hovering over me, eyes locked on mine as he slid into me.

No rush.

No roughness.

Just slow, deliberate pressure, like he wanted to feel every inch of me, wanted to be sure I felt every inch of him.

My breath caught.

He moved deeper, his hands holding my hips, his eyes never leaving mine.

It wasn’t fast.

It wasn’t frantic.

It was possession.

Pure and aching.

I wrapped my legs around him, nails digging into his back, matching his pace. Every thrust pulled a sound out of me I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t just pleasure. It was surrender.

And I hated how much I liked it.

“Say it,” he whispered.

“What?”

“That you’re done pretending.”

I bit my lip, trying to stay quiet, trying to hold on to the last shred of pride I had left.

He hit deeper.

I cried out.

“Say it.”

I moaned into his neck, desperate, trembling.

“I’m done,” I gasped. “I’m done playing.”

He smiled—dark and satisfied—and f****d me harder.

And when I came, it was with his name on my lips and my body shaking like something sacred had cracked open.

He followed right after, groaning into my neck, holding me like he wasn’t sure he could let go.

For a long time, neither of us moved.

Just breathing.

Sweaty.

Wrecked.

Finally, he pulled back, kissed my forehead, and sat up.

I watched him, heart thudding like I’d just survived something.

“Is this real?” I asked quietly.

He looked down at me, face unreadable again.

“I don’t do casual, Alice. Not with women like you.”

My stomach flipped.

“But I don’t do obedience either,” he added.

I smiled. “Good. I don’t take orders.”

He stood, buttoned his shirt, then leaned down to brush one last kiss across my lips.

“I’ll call you,” he said.

Then he left.

And I lay there, limbs sore, chest aching, mouth swollen from kisses I wasn’t ready to forget.

I didn’t know what I’d just done.

But it didn’t feel like a game anymore.

It felt like war.

And I had no idea who’d win.

The morning wasn’t kind.

Sunlight crawled across my bare skin like guilt I hadn’t earned but still carried. The air smelled like s*x and sin—his cologne clinging to the sheets, my thighs still sore in the best way. Duke was gone. Not in the dramatic, ghost-you kind of way. Just… not there.

He left a glass of water on the nightstand. One sip in, and I knew—Evian. Room temperature. Exactly how I take it. The man paid attention, and that scared me more than anything.

I sat up, naked under the sheets, heart still pacing like it hadn’t caught up to what we did. What I let him do. What I begged him to do.

Every inch of my body was marked. Not with bruises, but with memory.

His voice.

His weight.

His mouth—God, his mouth.

I touched my lips, still swollen from how hard he’d kissed me, as if he needed to claim something no one else had dared to hold.

The sheets slid off my shoulder and I stared at the doorway, half-expecting him to walk back in like it wasn’t over. Like it wasn’t already too much.

But silence greeted me. Heavy. Full of what-ifs I didn’t want to unpack.

I found my panties tangled in the corner of the couch and slipped them on, legs shaky. My robe was draped over the barstool—he must’ve left it there after undressing me. Slowly. Like unwrapping something expensive he didn’t want to break.

I wore it, tied it loose, and padded into the kitchen. The coffee was already brewing.

Duke’s doing. Of course.

The man didn’t just f**k. He lingered. Left breadcrumbs. Made you remember him in stupid, domestic ways.

I poured a cup and leaned against the counter, staring into the dark swirl of caffeine and confusion.

He hadn’t texted since that last message. The one that sliced deeper than any insult.

“Then stop pretending you ever had the rules.”

I hated how right he was.

And still, I wanted him. Not in the clingy, pick-me way. In the wild, uncontrollable ache that made my hands tremble and my mouth dry.

Last night hadn’t scratched the itch.

It had multiplied it.

Belema was right—I wasn’t playing anymore.

I was caught.

And the only question left was: what did Duke Kalio want from a girl like me?

And what would it cost when he took it?