Atara
My white denim shorts are damp.
I’m standing in the center of my bedroom, clutching the book to my chest like a shield, and I am so wet that my lace panties are clinging to my skin, heavy and soaked with my own slick, needy arousal.
“This makes no sense, Atara,” I whisper to the empty room, my voice shaking so hard it barely carries to the curtains. “Are you forgetting that you despise this man?”
I drop the book onto the bed. My hands are trembling. I slide one hand down my stomach, my fingers brushing the waistband of my shorts, and let out a soft, shuddering breath. My bodyis practically humming. The skin of my wrists still feels warm where his fingers clamped around them, and the back of my neck is tingling, still processing his mouth, the scraping bite of his teeth against my collarbone.
When he pressed his pelvis against mine, when that thick, impossibly hard length of him nudged right between my thighs through the denim... I nearly lost my mind. My nipples are stiff, aching peaks beneath my yellow sweater, chafing against the knit fabric with a sensitivity that feels almost like pain. They are starving for his touch. Starving for his lips, his hands, the rough slide of his tongue.
I wanted him to slide inside me. I wanted him to rip those stupid white shorts down and bury himself in me until the bookshelf rattled. When he growled that he was starving for me, my brain didn't care about the fact that he texts my mother on my behalf or locks me in the East Wing. My brain didn't care about logic at all. My ovaries were currently holding a massive rally, voting to impeach my common sense, and demanding that I run back down the hall and throw myself at his feet.
“He is a criminal, Atara,” I tell myself, pacing the length of the plush rug. “He is a dangerous, grumpy, ink-covered warlord who thinks he can manage you like a corporate merger. You cannot want to ride him like a carousel. It is statistically unsound.”
But my body doesn't care about statistics. The ache between my legs is a dull throb. Every step I take makes the damp denim rub against my clit, sending a sharp, agonizing spike of heat straight to my core. I want him. The yearning is a weight in my chest, a dark, heavy hunger that makes me want to scream.
I need a distraction. If I stay in this room staring at the ceiling, I’m going to end up playing with myself while picturing his smoke-and-ice eyes, and that is a level of defeat I refuse to accept.
I walk to the door. I turn the handle.
Surprisingly, it clicks open.
I peek my head out. The hallway is quiet, but there’s a new guard at the end of the corridor—a younger guy with a buzz cut who looks like he’s trying very hard to look intimidating. Miller is gone, probably reassigned because I called him a lizard, not my finest moment but ah well.
"Excuse me," I say, stepping out and putting on my best, most harmless 'Atara Sunshine' smile.
The guard turns, his shoulders squaring. "Miss Ross. You're supposed to stay in your suite."
"I know, I know," I say, walking toward him with a slight, theatrical sigh. "And I fully intend to. But I have a very serious medical condition."
The guard blinks, his stoic mask slipping. "A medical condition?"
"Yes. It's called low blood sugar. If I don't get a glass of apple juice and maybe a small bowl of those salted cashews I saw inthe kitchen pantry, I will literally faint. Right here on the Persian rug. And then you'll have to carry me, and honestly, neither of us wants that kind of physical labor on a Wednesday."
The guard shifts his weight, looking down the corridor as if hoping Sean or Kieran will appear to save him. "I... I can call the kitchen to bring it to you, ma'am."
"Oh, don't be silly," I say, patting his arm. His bicep feels like wood. "The kitchen staff is busy preparing whatever five-course meal Lorcan is going to stare grumpily at tonight. I can walk. I know the way. You can even walk with me. Think of it as a chaperone service."
He hesitates, but the prospect of me fainting seems to terrify him more than violating the perimeter rules. "Just to the pantry, ma'am. And then straight back."
"Deal!" I beam.
We walk down the quiet, carpeted corridors of the East Wing, turning toward the service area. The compound is massive, a maze of luxury and hidden doors. The young guard stays a step behind me, his hand resting near his belt. I take note of every turn, every security camera, every window.
When we reach the service pantry, a massive room filled with shelves of imported oils, spices, and snacks, I slip inside.
"I'll just be a minute," I tell him, pointing to the shelves. "I have to find the specific brand of cashews. I'm very picky."
The guard remains at the entrance, his back to me as he watches the corridor.
I wander deeper into the pantry. It’s quiet, the air smelling of cinnamon and dried lavender. At the back of the room, there's a heavy, insulated service door that leads to the utility corridors—the ones the domestic staff use to move laundry and supplies between the wings without disturbing the 'guests.'
The door is slightly ajar.
I’m about to grab a jar of cashews and play the good captive when I hear a voice.
It’s low, hurried, and coming from the other side of the service door, in the concrete stairwell. It’s a woman’s voice.
