him, rather than just having someone around. I’ve ached for his eyes on me. Hell, I would’ve relinquished my trust fund just to listen to him telling me I’m a spoiled brat.
And now things are ruined.
We can’t.
I knew that before he leaned in. I knew it with the very first strike of his tongue against mine. I knew it before my fingers found the heat of his skin. We both did.
Kissing him was wrong. Wanting to keep doing it is a betrayal I’ll have to learn to live with. Deacon is a lot of things, but a man who goes back on his word isn’t one of them.
It was a onetime thing. It’ll never happen again.
I shove the pile of stuff on the bed to the side, moving it only enough for me to crawl under the covers and bury my face. He’s not even in the room, and I’m utterly embarrassed, but the increasing heat of my skin still isn’t enough for me to shove the blankets back enough so I can breathe comfortably.
This is my own personal hell. I agreed to be here. Truthfully, I want to be here, so long as he’s around, but that’s a double-edged sword after what just happened.
It was just a stupid kiss, my subconscious reminds me.
But it wasn’t.
It wasn’t stupid
And it surely wasn’t just a kiss.
That kiss was everything. It was the best. It rules supreme over every other kiss I’ve ever had from Josh in sixth grade straight through to the last guy I dated whose name completely escapes me right now.
Epic.
Fiery.
Passionate.
Too short.
All of it. I groan, grumble about my own stupidity as I bury my face deeper in the pillow. I’m going to have to face that man. I’m going to have to eventually walk out of this room and see him again. Just the thought makes my skin flame even more, both with shame and a level of lust I know I’ll never feel again.
It doesn’t matter that he kissed me first. I kissed him back. I want to keep kissing him. Forever seems like it wouldn’t be long enough.
I punch the pillow hard enough that something rolls off the bed and smacks the floor. Whatever it was sounds broken now, and I just don’t have the energy to care.
“Stupid men,” I mutter.
It’s with regret and sheer will to keep my ass planted in the bed that I manage to fall asleep. I wouldn’t even call it sleep. It’s that second right on the cusp that you grow weightless when a loud bang wakes me. The sound of something breaking forces me fully upright in the bed, but then silence surrounds me.
I know I didn’t dream it. The sounds were too real, as real as the sheer terror that fills every cell in my body. I ease out of the bed, using trembling hands to pull random clothes from the pile still on the bed. I shove my legs in jeans and put on a top before pressing my bare feet into a pair of shoes.
There’s nowhere to hide in this room. I discovered that the first night I arrived when Deacon left me here alone for a short period of time. Designer clothes won’t protect me, and since we’re on the nineteenth floor, climbing out of a window to get to safety isn’t an option.
I can hear every breath rushing past my lips, every pound of my heart, every single step I make toward the bedroom door. What I don’t hear is a single sound coming from the other side. I scream when the door swings open before I can reach for it, and nearly collapse on the floor in relief when I see Deacon rather than a masked murderer enter.
“Wh-what’s going on?”
He’s rumpled, sweat dotting his forehead and upper lip. He leans to the side filling the doorway, but that doesn’t stop me from seeing past him if only for the briefest of seconds.
A sob escapes my mouth, but my hand isn’t fast enough to cover it.
“There’s been an incident.” How can he be so calm?
“Is he dead?”
I can no longer see the guy on the floor right outside the bedroom door, but the ever-growing pool of blood surrounding his body will be burned into my brain for eternity.
“He’s dead.”
Deacon fills every inch of my line of sight, and I’m honestly grateful. I didn’t want to see the dead man once, much less getting another glance at him.
“Russian?” I manage when it’s clear Deacon isn’t going to