When the Good Girl Sin

Chapter 5 - Photographed

POPPY

Perched high above the city’s restless heartbeat, the Ritz-Carlton penthouse was a sanctum of opulence suspended between earth and sky. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped the suite in a crystalline panorama of glittering skyline—towers ablaze with twilight, streets pulsing with life far below like the veins of a living, breathing metropolis.

Inside, silence reigned like a well-bred secret. The marble floors gleamed beneath the golden kiss of chandelier light, each crystal prism catching glints of dusk like fire trapped in ice. The furnishings were a careful orchestration of modern luxury and timeless elegance—deep velvet lounges in stormy hues, a grand piano in the corner untouched but dignified, and a dining table long enough to host ghosts of kings.

A fireplace flickered in the master lounge, more for ambiance than warmth, its flames dancing behind tempered glass. The air held the subtle perfume of polished wood, fresh orchids, and something more elusive—money, perhaps, or memory.

The bedroom was cathedral-quiet. Silk drapes whispered against the windows, framing a bed that looked less like furniture and more like a promise. Even the sheets—snow-white and impossibly smooth—seemed to murmur of indulgence. A private terrace spilled out from the room, where one could stand at the edge of the world and watch the stars blink awake.

It was the sort of place where power was both earned and expected. Where whispered deals were made over aged scotch. Where someone, somewhere, had probably fallen in love—and someone else had carefully chosen not to.

I used to think my penthouse in L.A. was already beautiful and exquisite—but Kai Thorn’s penthouse at the Ritz-Carlton is on a whole different level.

It screams power and sophistication. While mine radiates peace with its white and brown aesthetic, this one is all about black and grey. And it fits him perfectly—his energy, his presence… even his tattoos.

“Wow...” I breathe, eyes fixed on the balcony view of his penthouse—so high above the city that no other buildings are in sight, only the vast dark sky and a scattering of glittering stars. That’s how high up this place is—like it’s no longer part of the world below.

I hear Kai chuckle behind me as he walks toward the kitchen, just beside the sliding glass doors. It’s cold out here, but the soft, steady warmth from the fireplace behind me keeps the chill from settling too deep.

A mansion on top of a building. That’s what comes to mind. Not a penthouse—no, this is far more than that. This is a mansion in the sky.

“What do you want? Water or coffee? I’ve got tea too,” he offers casually.

I glance over my shoulder at him. “Whiskey, please.”

He chuckles again, still leaning against the kitchen island. “No—you’ve already had enough at the bar.”

The only light in the room comes from the moon pouring in through the glass walls and the flames flickering in the fireplace. Everything else is shadows and silence.

“It’s fine,” I say, voice low. “I just need something that’ll help me sleep tonight.”

He pauses as he begins to make coffee but doesn’t look at me. “Why? Do you have insomnia?”

I sigh and walk over to the island, settling into one of the tall chairs across from him. “I do.”

This time, he looks at me. “Since when?”

“Honestly? I don’t remember anymore.” I laugh softly. “That’s why when you see tabloid headlines saying I’m slacking off at shoots or bailing on early morning filming—it’s not laziness. I just didn’t sleep the night before.”

Kai draws a deep breath and rests both hands on the island, his gaze fixed on me—sharp, unreadable. “Are you taking anything for it? Prescriptions?”

I shake my head. “The last thing I need is for the tabloids to start spinning stories that I’m unstable or insane.” I let out a short laugh, but he doesn’t join me.

After a few seconds, he exhales, then silently grabs a glass, pours me a whiskey, and slides it across the island.

“Thanks,” I murmur, taking the drink in hand and turning again to face the view. From here, with the stars above and the city forgotten below, the world feels quieter—especially when you're sitting in a place like this, where even insomnia dares not speak too loudly.

“You have a really beautiful place,” I say, letting my gaze sweep across the luxurious interior. “I wish I’d seen it sooner... maybe I would’ve beaten you to buying this property.”

Kai smiles, lifting his glass of whiskey to his lips. “Then just live with me,” he says casually, like it’s the easiest solution in the world. “I’m not stingy with space. And I like seeing you here—walking around like you own the place, sleeping just one room away from me, breathing the same air.”

He smirks. “I think I’d love that.”

My heart stumbles—no, slams—against my ribs, the pace sharp and reckless. I let out a nervous laugh, trying to shake it off. “And what? Let the tabloids say we’re dating?” I take a sip of my whiskey, forcing a light tone. “Yeah... I don’t think so.”

This time, he doesn’t smile. Doesn’t laugh. His expression shifts—quiet, unreadable. Maybe I hit a nerve. Maybe I offended him.

But then again, what he said back at the bar still echoes in my mind: He’s bad news.

And I believe him.

“I didn’t mean to—” I start, trying to explain, but he cuts me off.

“It’s okay.”

His voice is flat. No smile, no glance in my direction—just a quiet retreat as he steps away from the kitchen.

“Kai, that’s not what I meant—”

I rise quickly and follow him, reaching out to stop him with a gentle hold on his arm. My fingers land on his inked skin—the tattoo I remember so clearly: an angel, full-bodied with wings spread wide, eyes covered. So lifelike it feels like it could breathe. Beautiful in a haunting, sacred kind of way.

He pauses. Turns to look at me.

“Then what is it?” he asks, his voice low, his gaze steady. “Hmm, Poppy?”

I sigh, unable to meet his eyes. “It’s just that... if my parents find out about you—not that there *is* anything between us, or that we’re in some kind of relationship—they’ll blow it out of proportion.”

I finally glance up, guilt pooling in my chest. “I don’t care what the world says about me. I never have. But my parents... they’re different. They’ll think they’ve lost control. That I’ve lost myself.”

This time, he fully turns to face me—and without a word, pulls off his white shirt and lets it fall to the floor.

The room is dim, lit only by the flickering fireplace and the moonlight streaming through the glass. But it’s enough. I see everything. His ink-covered skin, each tattoo telling a story in shadows and curves. And something stirs inside me—something I’ve never felt for anyone else. A spark. A pull. A fire.

I don’t let him see how my eyes linger. How they trace the hard lines of his chest, the six-pack that flexes with every breath, the strong arms that look like they could lift me effortlessly. He’s tall—taller than I remember—and somehow, even more dangerous in silence.

“Is it because I look like this, Poppy?”

His voice is low, steady. He starts walking toward me, slow and deliberate.

I instinctively take a step back. Then another. But I don’t know why I’m retreating—or who I’m trying to protect myself from.

“Because I look like a monster?” he continues, his tone a mixture of challenge and something more vulnerable, more broken.

“Because I look *ugly*… with all this ink?”

I shake my head, eyes locked on his. “No. That’s not it at all.”

But I don’t get to say more. I run out of room. My back hits the cold edge of the kitchen island.

And he doesn’t stop.

He closes the distance between us, until I have no space left to breathe. I place both hands on his bare chest to keep him back, and I flinch—not because I’m afraid, but because touching him feels like setting a match to my own skin.

The heat between us shifts, thickens.

I look up—and he’s already smirking, eyes dark with something unreadable. He plants both hands on either side of me, bracing himself against the kitchen island.

He cages me in again.

And this time… I don’t know if I want to escape.

All I could see were his eyes—dark, unwavering, fixed on mine with an intensity that said things I couldn’t quite translate. Things I could feel in my bones but didn’t have the language to name.

I didn’t hesitate.

I had never wanted anyone—not like this. Not the way I wanted him the moment I first saw him.

I didn’t even know I *could* be drawn to someone like him—edgy, shadowed, with the presence of a storm and the beauty of a dark raven. But Kai Thorn made me crave what I didn’t understand.

I rose on my toes, slipped both arms around his neck, and kissed him—eager, desperate, unapologetic.

He didn’t stop me.

He didn’t touch me at first either, but I felt the way his body went rigid, muscles coiled like he was holding something back. But when he kissed me back, it was no longer gentle—it was hungry, consuming, like he’d waited just as long.

When breath finally left me, I pulled back slightly to inhale—but that’s when his arm wrapped tight around my waist, and his other hand rose to my face, fingers splayed along my jaw and neck. His palm was so large it almost covered me entirely, grounding me in place. He wouldn’t let me pull away.

But I didn’t want to. I was too far gone, too intoxicated by him to care.

He bit down on my lower lip—just enough to make me gasp.

“Do you want to do this?” he asked, voice like gravel and smoke.

I laughed softly, remembering the rooftop at Contraband, his words still echoing in my head. That him wanting a Good girl this time.

“I wanted a bad boy this time.”

That was all it took.

Without warning, he lifted me effortlessly into his arms and carried me, still kissing me like he was starving. My hands tangled in his hair, and my lips found his throat, the skin just below his ear—he growled low in his chest, the sound vibrating through me.

He kicked open a door—I assumed it was his bedroom. The space was darker, quieter, like it was holding its breath.

This time, I was the one who moved first. I stripped off my top in one swift motion.

He froze for a second.

His gaze dropped, and I saw the shift—the way his eyes darkened as they dragged over me, now dressed in nothing but a black lace bra and a short skirt that suddenly felt too flimsy under the weight of his stare.

And just like that, the tension between us cracked wide open.

Moments later, he laid me down slowly onto his bed—like I was something delicate, something he wasn’t sure he deserved to touch.

I lay there, breath uneven, my skin tingling under his gaze. He stood at the edge of the bed, unmoving, just watching me. Eyes dark. Unblinking. Like he was memorizing everything—the curve of my body, the way I looked at him, the way I *wanted* him. The weight of his stare made the fire inside me burn hotter, deeper. I had never felt so seen.

Then—click.

A soft flash made me blink. I looked up, startled, and found him holding a vintage camera, the kind that felt too personal, too intentional.

“For what?” My voice trembled slightly. Panic flickered in my chest. I was nearly naked, my body open and vulnerable, my face still dazed with desire. He had captured it all.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look guilty.

“Don’t worry,” he said, voice low and certain. “You just looked too beautiful right now… I couldn’t not capture it. I want to see this—*you*—every day from now on.”

My heart softened instantly, melting under the weight of his words. I sat up, pulse thudding hard in my ears, and reached for him—this time not with hesitation, but with need.

I undid his belt slowly, my fingers shaking not from fear, but from the intensity of this moment. I didn’t know where this version of me had come from—needy, desperate, starved for him. Maybe it was his bad boy look. Maybe it was because he seemed untouchable, unreadable. Or maybe… it was how he always said the right things, the *exact* things I never knew I needed to hear.

As the belt slid free, he dropped the camera and cupped my face again, and kissed me—deeper, fiercer, like he was claiming every broken piece of me.

And I let him.