god father obsession

too close

Chapter Six: Too Close

The house was too quiet.

No footsteps. No distant chatter. No clinking plates from the kitchen staff. Just silence.

Everyone had gone out—my mother and Raymond to some charity dinner, the household staff mostly off for the evening. I was alone. Or so I thought.

I padded downstairs in cotton shorts and a cropped tank, just looking for something to eat, trying to shake off the lingering bitterness from the school argument earlier. The air was cool against my bare skin, but as I stepped into the kitchen, I froze.

Xavier was already there.

Shirtless.

Sweat glistened along the hard ridges of his chest and abs, clinging to skin stretched over muscle. A white towel hung around his neck, damp from what looked like an intense workout. He stood by the counter, casually pouring water into a glass—completely unbothered by the fact that I was standing there, staring.

Of course.

“I didn’t know you were home,” I said, keeping my voice neutral despite the dryness in my throat.

He glanced up, his gaze dragging slowly from my bare legs to my face—slow, unhurried, burning.

“You always walk around like that when you think no one’s watching?” he asked.

“It’s my house too now, isn’t it?” I shot back, lifting my chin.

His jaw ticked. He stepped forward. “Careful.”

“Or what?” I countered, pulse beginning to quicken. “You’ll scold me again? Judge me like you always do?”

He dropped the towel on the counter. Another step. Closer. The air between us sparked with something I didn’t want to name.

“You think I’m judging you?” he asked, voice low.

“Aren’t you?” I said tightly, heart pounding against my ribs. “You talk like I’m some spoiled child who doesn’t belong here.”

And then it happened—fast and hot and reckless.

In two strides, he had me backed against the wall. His arm braced beside my head, his body towering over mine. He wasn’t touching me. Not yet. But the space between us crackled with danger. Too small. Too intimate. Too tempting.

“I don’t think you’re a child,” he said, voice like smoke—slow, sinful, impossible to ignore.

My breath caught in my throat.

“I think you’re reckless,” he murmured. “I think you like pushing limits just to see what happens.”

My chest rose and fell rapidly. His presence was everywhere—his scent, the heat radiating from his body, the look in his eyes. I was trembling, not from fear, but from the sheer force of wanting.

“And what’s happening now?” I whispered, barely able to form the words.

His gaze dropped to my lips. Held there. Lingering.

“You tell me,” he said softly.

The silence pressed in. I could smell him—sweat and spice and something distinctly him. I hated how much I wanted him in that moment. Hated the thrum between my legs, the ache in my chest. Hated how good it felt to be trapped.

My voice was barely audible. “Are you going to kiss me?”

His jaw flexed. Slowly, his hand slid up the wall beside my head, fingers brushing the edge of my hair.

“No,” he said hoarsely. “Because if I do… I won’t stop.”

And just like that, he pulled away.

The heat snapped like a rubber band. He stepped back, breathing hard, but his face was a mask—tight, unreadable. Only his eyes betrayed him—dark, conflicted, wanting.

He glanced over his shoulder once as he left, his voice like gravel scraping against restraint.

“Next time, don’t tempt me.”

Then he disappeared down the hall, leaving me alone in the kitchen—breathless, flushed, and aching in ways I didn’t know how to name.

I leaned back against the wall, pressing a hand to my chest. My heart wouldn’t slow down.

How the hell was I supposed to survive living under the same roof as a man who felt like fire?

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