CHAPTER 8
653 Words
Clara’s cheeks were flaming. Still breathless, still dizzy from the kiss. And now completely mortified.
Dominic stood stiffly, jaw clenched, his entire aura screaming “don’t mess with me”—but it was no use. Gusto and Runnip were still laughing like two drunk high schoolers at a slumber party.
Clara hissed under her breath, “I cannot believe they saw us—”
But before she could finish—
Dominic grabbed her wrist.
Firm. Swift. Possessive.
“Come,” he said, low and sharp, turning toward the hallway.
Clara blinked. “W-Where—”
He didn’t answer.
Just marched her out of the warehouse like she was his and the whole world could burn if anyone dared stop him.
Runnip stopped laughing.
Gusto blinked. “Wait—uh—where are they going?”
Runnip’s jaw dropped. “DOMINIC? WHAT ARE YOU—”
SLAM.
The hallway door shut behind them.
He didn’t stop walking. His grip stayed gentle but commanding as he led her down a dim corridor inside the warehouse—through the back, up a staircase, across a balcony, until—
Click.
The bedroom door opened.
Clara froze in place.
It was… his room.
Dark, neat, cold. Just like him. Heavy curtains drawn. A tall bookshelf filled with guns and vintage books. Clean bed. Black sheets.
He finally turned.
And locked the door.
“Dominic—”
“They don’t get to watch.”
His voice was low, like gravel and velvet at once.
“They don’t get to ruin this moment. Not again.”
Her eyes widened.
He stepped closer. “I waited long enough, Clara. I’m not giving them another second of you.”
She opened her mouth to respond, but—
His hand cupped her face.
His lips brushed hers again—softer this time, tender and raw.
Like she was the only thing in the world that made sense to him.
And just like that, they disappeared from the world.
Into the shadows.
Into the night.
Into each other.
Dominic didn’t wait for words.
He pulled Clara gently by the waist and led her to the bedroom in silence, his grip firm but respectful.
She followed, her heart thudding louder with each step. The walls of the warehouse were dimly lit, shadows playing softly under the warm golden bulbs. The door clicked behind them. The world outside melted into quiet nothingness.
Dominic turned to her, his eyes darker than the night sky, and spoke low and sincere.
“Clara… if you ask me to stop, I will. I need you to know that.”
She didn’t answer with words.
Instead, she stepped forward, placing her hand on his chest, feeling the rapid beat under her palm. Her fingers slid upward to cup his jaw. Their eyes locked.
“I’m not asking you to stop,” she whispered.
In one fluid motion, he closed the distance.
Their lips met again—but this time slower, deeper. It wasn’t rushed. It was all-consuming. A kiss that carried the weight of everything unsaid between them.
He kissed her like he had waited lifetimes.
And she kissed him like she finally found something real.
Clothes came off piece by piece—his fingers tracing her skin with care, her breaths growing shorter, warmer. He took his time, memorizing every inch of her with reverence.
She laid back, framed by moonlight that poured through the high window.
Dominic leaned over her, never breaking eye contact.
“You’re so beautiful… it hurts,” he murmured, voice raw.
Clara reached up, fingers threading through his hair.
“Then let it hurt.”
He kissed her again, slower now. His hands moved like he was holding something fragile—something sacred.
And for that night, Dominic Petrov wasn’t the mafia’s second-in-command.
He was just a man in love, wrapped in the arms of the only woman who ever made him feel human.
- Writer
