Chapter 3
1122 Words
Dominic disappears before sunrise.
By the time I drag myself downstairs, bleary-eyed and still dizzy from that kiss, he’s already gone. His bed untouched. No note. No sound. Like last night didn’t happen. Like he didn’t kiss me hard enough to bruise, like his hands weren’t in my hair, like I didn’t taste the exact moment he lost control.
But I know better.
I felt it.
And now I want more.
Dad’s in the kitchen making eggs. The smell turns my stomach.
“You look like hell,” he says.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“You sick?”
“Didn’t sleep.”
“Too hot?”
Too tense.
“Something like that.”
I grab a glass of orange juice and force it down, praying it’ll settle the storm inside me.
“Dominic headed out early,” Dad adds. “Didn’t say where. Probably needed space. He gets like that.”
I nod, keeping my face blank. Because the truth is, I’m the reason he left.
And I’m also the reason he’s going to come back.
⸻
He doesn’t show up that day. Or the next.
And with every hour that passes, the burn under my skin deepens. It’s not just the kiss. It’s the rejection. The silence. The way he vanished without a word, like I’m a mistake he’s trying to erase.
But I’m not that easy to forget.
So on the third day, I text him.
BRIE: You can’t ignore me forever.
No response.
BRIE: Or maybe you can. But you still kissed me. That happened.
Still nothing.
I toss my phone on the bed, seething. I’m not ashamed. I’m not scared. And I’m not about to let a man like Dominic Shaw run from the one thing he clearly wants.
I head into the city.
His name’s still on the title of a combat gym just outside downtown—one of those brutal places with no air conditioning, no mirrors, just blood, sweat, and leather.
I walk in wearing skin-tight jeans and a tank top that hugs all the wrong places. Heads turn. Not his.
He’s in the ring. Sparring.
Black gloves. Black tank. Sweat dripping down his temple. He doesn’t see me.
He’s punishing someone.
His opponent—young, muscular, cocky—is getting obliterated. Dominic’s movements are precise, powerful, merciless. Controlled violence, barely leashed.
It’s arousing and terrifying all at once.
He knocks the guy on his ass with a final blow and tosses his gloves off. Then, as he steps out of the ring, he freezes.
Our eyes lock.
His expression says it all.
You followed me.
You shouldn’t have.
Too bad.
I cross my arms. “Ignoring me? Mature.”
“Leave,” he says flatly.
I walk closer.
“I don’t scare easy,” I whisper.
He grabs my arm and pulls me into his office so fast I can’t breathe.
Slams the door behind us.
“You don’t get to show up here,” he growls. “This is my space.”
“And I’m not a child,” I snap. “You kissed me.”
He towers over me, chest heaving. “And I shouldn’t have.”
“But you did.”
His hands fist at his sides. “I was weak.”
“No,” I whisper, stepping into him. “You were honest.”
He backs up. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” I press. “Don’t say it again? Don’t kiss me? Don’t admit you want to f—”
He slams me against the wall before the word’s out.
One hand gripping my wrist above my head, the other pressed flat against the wall beside my face.
“I said don’t,” he growls.
His face is inches from mine. Breath hot. Eyes burning.
“I’m not going to survive this if you keep coming at me like that.”
“Then don’t fight it.”
“You don’t get it,” he breathes. “This isn’t some fantasy. If I cross that line again, I’m not stopping. I’ll take everything.”
My pulse kicks.
“Then take it,” I say.
And something inside him shatters.
He kisses me again.
This time it’s worse.
Better.
Desperate.
His mouth crashes over mine, bruising, hungry, devouring. His tongue sweeps deep, and I moan into him, helpless against the wave of need that surges through me.
He lifts me.
Just grabs my thighs, pins me to the wall, and kisses me like he’s drowning.
My legs wrap around him. I grind into his heat, and he groans against my mouth like it’s killing him not to take more.
“f**k,” he mutters. “This is wrong. It’s so wrong.”
“But it feels right,” I whisper.
He drops his forehead to mine.
“You’re my best friend’s daughter.”
“I’m a grown woman.”
“I’m supposed to protect you.”
“Then protect me from everyone except you.”
His grip tightens. His teeth graze my bottom lip.
“I can’t keep saying no,” he growls.
“Then say yes.”
He lets me down. Steps back like I burned him.
Breathless. Ruined.
“You need to leave,” he says.
“No.”
His jaw flexes. “If you stay here one more second, I’ll f*ck you against this wall and never look back.”
My throat tightens.
“Then don’t look back.”
He slams his fist into the wall behind me, missing my head by inches.
It doesn’t scare me. It thrills me.
Because that control he clings to? It’s cracking.
And I’m the one doing it.
“I want you,” I whisper.
“I know.”
“Then take me.”
He looks at me. Really looks.
Like he’s deciding whether to destroy me or worship me.
Then he steps away.
“I’ll come to you,” he says roughly. “When I’m done pretending I don’t need to.”
And just like that, he walks out.
⸻
That night, I dream of him.
Not soft dreams. Not romantic ones.
I dream of his hands all over me. Of teeth and tongue and tangled sheets. I wake up soaked in sweat, thighs clenched, breath catching in my throat.
But the space beside me is still empty.
He hasn’t come.
Not yet.
⸻
Two days pass.
Radio silence.
And I tell myself to move on. To stop chasing something he clearly doesn’t think he deserves.
But then I come home late from work, walk into the kitchen—
And he’s there.
Leaning against the counter. Black shirt. Dark jeans. A storm in his eyes.
“I’m done pretending,” he says.
And this time?
I don’t run.
I fall.
- Writer
