Before I can react, he lifts me effortlessly, like I don’t weigh anything at all. My legs wrap around him without instruction, locking into place.
The shift in proximity is instant.
Now we’re closer, pressed together with no space left to pretend this is anything but what it is.
He kisses me again, deeper this time, moving as he does—out of the kitchen, down the hall.
I lose track of direction.
Of anything, really.
There’s only movement, heat, contact—too much and not enough at the same time.
A door opens.
His bedroom.
City lights spill through the windows, distant and bright. The bed is massive, untouched, almost staged.
He sets me down on the edge.
For a second, everything stills.
He’s standing over me. Taking me in—like he’s assessing, deciding, something I can’t quite read.
My pulse doesn’t slow.
His hand moves to the towel.
And whatever was left of rational thought drops to the floor along with it.
10
BEA
I look. I can’t help it. Can’t look away.
All of him. Unapologetic. Unhidden. Hard and ready and watching me watch him with that infuriating satisfaction in his eyes.
What am I doing?
He’s on me before the thought finishes.
His mouth crashes into mine, hungrier than before. His weight presses me into the mattress, solid and warm and inescapable. His hands find the zipper at the back of the red dress—the dress he chose, the dress he made me put on—and pull.
The fabric loosens and falls away from my shoulders. Cool air hits my skin.
“This is wrong,” I whisper against his mouth.
He pulls back. “Does it feel wrong?”
I can’t answer.
Because it doesn’t. It feels inevitable—like a bullet I’ve been dodging since the elevator. Since he trapped me there and called it a choice when it never really was one. Since I met his gaze and saw exactly how this would end for me.
He kisses me again, slower this time. His hands slide the dress down, easing the silk from my body inch by inch until it gathers at my waist… then my hips… and finally slips away completely.
I’m in my bra and underwear. Exposed and vulnerable.
