Chapter 2
1560 Words
I should’ve stopped.
Should’ve gone back upstairs and put on some damn pants, maybe pretended I didn’t just flirt with my father’s best friend like it was a game.
But I don’t move.
Because the truth is—I saw it. In his eyes. In the tension in his shoulders. The way he had to walk away before he said or did something we couldn’t undo.
He wants me.
And now, I want to see how far I can push him.
I tiptoe into the hallway, silent as a breath. The guest room is halfway down, door cracked open, light off. But I can hear him. The subtle creak of leather, the rustle of fabric. He’s in there.
I step closer, heart pounding.
One more step.
A floorboard groans under my foot.
“Brie,” he says from inside the room.
His voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to. It cuts through me, rough and low and full of warning.
“Go back upstairs.”
I grip the doorframe.
“You can’t tell me what to do,” I say.
He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, arms braced on his knees. The lamp’s off, but moonlight spills through the blinds, casting silver stripes across his face. His jaw is clenched. His knuckles are white.
“Your dad’s downstairs,” he grits. “And you’re playing with fire.”
“No,” I whisper. “I’m feeding it.”
His eyes flash.
“I’m not afraid of you,” I add, stepping inside the room.
“You should be.”
His voice is so quiet it sends a shiver down my spine.
I take another step. We’re inches apart now. I can smell his cologne — dark, masculine, expensive. I can see the scar that cuts across his knuckle. I want to touch it. I want to know where it came from. I want to know everything.
“You’re not my dad,” I say, soft but defiant. “You don’t get to talk to me like I’m a child.”
He looks up slowly.
“I’m not your father,” he murmurs. “But he’s mine in every way that matters. And you think you can come in here—wearing that little shirt—tossing those eyes around like they don’t mean anything—and I’ll what? Fold?”
His breath is shallow now. His hands clench on his knees.
“You’re trying to make me lose control,” he says, voice shaking. “But you have no idea what that looks like.”
I swallow.
“Then show me.”
The second the words leave my mouth, the air snaps.
He stands in one brutal motion, and suddenly he’s right in front of me—so close I feel the heat pouring off his body, so tense it feels like the whole room might ignite.
“You don’t know what the hell you’re asking for,” he growls.
I tilt my chin up, eyes locked on his. “Then teach me.”
His nostrils flare. His hands twitch at his sides. I can feel him resisting—every muscle screaming not to touch me.
“Christ,” he mutters. “You’re really going to do this.”
“I’m not afraid,” I whisper.
“I am.”
He takes a half-step back, like just one more second near me might ruin everything.
I follow.
He grabs my wrist.
Not hard, but firm.
“Go to bed,” he says, eyes blazing. “Now.”
I stare at his hand wrapped around mine. Large. Calloused. Warm.
Slowly, deliberately, I pull away.
“I’ll go,” I murmur. “But not because you told me to.”
I turn, heart pounding, and walk back to my room. Every step feels like a scream. I can still feel his eyes on me. I want to run back and dare him to break every promise he’s ever made to my father.
But I don’t.
Because the game just started.
And I already know how it ends.
⸻
The next morning, I find him in the backyard with his shirt off.
Of course I do.
The punching bag hangs from the old oak, swinging wildly as his fists slam into it. Sweat rolls down his spine. His muscles flex and tighten with every blow.
He’s angry.
Good.
I cross the patio, standing just far enough to be seen but not acknowledged. He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t speak. But I see the way his jaw tightens when he realizes I’m there.
“You’re really making the most of this visit,” I say casually.
He doesn’t pause.
“Didn’t sleep?” I ask, c*****g my head.
“No.”
I fold my arms. “That’s too bad. I slept great.”
He throws one final punch, then grabs the towel slung over the back of a chair.
“Did you need something?” he asks, wiping the sweat from his neck.
“Just came to say good morning.”
He turns, finally facing me. And I swear—for one second—his eyes drop to my legs.
I’m wearing cutoff shorts and a thin tank top. It’s already ninety degrees out, and I didn’t bother with a bra. I can see the exact moment he notices.
“Morning,” he says flatly, then starts walking past me toward the house.
I grab his arm before he can escape.
It’s like grabbing a live wire.
He freezes.
Slowly, he turns his head. “Brie.”
I step closer. “I don’t want to pretend.”
He closes his eyes. Just for a second. When he opens them again, they’re darker.
“This isn’t pretend,” he says. “This is war.”
I blink. “What does that mean?”
“It means if you keep pushing…” His voice drops to a near growl. “Eventually, I’m going to push back. And you won’t walk away the same.”
I take a breath. “What if I don’t want to walk away?”
He steps into me, closing the distance so fast it makes my breath hitch.
“I’ve killed men,” he says softly. “I’ve done things you couldn’t imagine. You think you’re playing some kind of sexy little game, but you’re playing with something that doesn’t bend. It breaks.”
My heart slams against my ribs.
“I’m not scared of you,” I whisper.
“You should be,” he says again.
But his eyes drop to my mouth. And for a second—just a second—I swear he leans in.
The back door swings open.
“Dominic!” my dad yells. “Phone call!”
He tears himself away like I burned him. Runs a hand through his hair. Doesn’t look back as he storms into the house.
I stare after him, chest heaving.
I wanted to push him.
But I didn’t realize how close to the edge he really is.
⸻
That night, I can’t sleep.
My room is hot. The air’s thick. I toss and turn in the sheets until I finally give up and tiptoe downstairs in search of something cold to drink.
The kitchen’s empty, lights dimmed. I open the fridge, grab a bottle of water, and close it—
And there he is.
Standing in the hallway.
Dominic.
He’s wearing a pair of dark sweatpants and nothing else. His chest is bare, body carved from steel. His eyes look even darker in the low light.
We stare at each other.
The air between us is too quiet. Too charged.
He steps forward. I don’t move.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“That makes two of us.”
He walks into the kitchen, grabs his own bottle. His hand brushes mine when he closes the fridge, and for one insane moment, I wonder what would happen if I just said kiss me.
He leans against the counter. His voice is low.
“You need to stop this.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m not the man you think I am.”
“Then show me who you really are.”
He stares at me.
We’re both breathing too hard. The fridge hums in the background like a warning.
He sets his bottle down. His hand lands on the edge of the counter behind me. Then the other. He boxes me in.
He’s not touching me. Not yet.
But I can feel it.
“If I kiss you,” he says roughly, “I won’t stop.”
“Then don’t.”
His mouth crashes onto mine before I finish the words.
It’s not soft. Not gentle.
It’s everything I knew it would be—rough, demanding, starved.
His hand slides into my hair, tugging just enough to make me gasp. He swallows the sound like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.
I claw at his shoulders, pulling him closer, opening my mouth for more. His tongue tastes like heat and whiskey and something darker—something broken.
When he finally pulls back, we’re both panting.
His forehead rests against mine. His voice is wrecked.
“This is a mistake.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do,” he whispers.
But his hands don’t move.
And neither do I.
- Writer
