Page 97 of Misconducts & Temptation

"Don’t," he said firmly. "Don’t hide from me."

My breath caught in my throat. The sincerity in his gaze, the raw intensity—it was overwhelming.

"I should kill her for touching you," he muttered, his jaw clenched.

"And ruin your chance at being drafted?" I countered, trying to deflect the intensity of his anger with a touch of logic.

He scoffed. "We both know I don't have a snowball's chance in hell."

"You’re still going to the draft though?" I asked, searching for a glimmer of hope in his response.

His lips quirked into a half-smile. "I expect my wife will make me?"

"I doubt I could make you do anything," I replied, my voice softening despite myself.

His eyes dropped to my lips. "Trust me, babes," he murmured. "There are plenty of things you could make me do."

Before I could respond, he leaned in. His lips met mine slowly, tentatively at first, as if asking for permission. The kiss deepened gradually, his mouth moving against mine with an exquisite tenderness that sent shivers down my spine. His hand slid from my chin to cradle the back of my neck, pulling me closer.

Every sensation was heightened—the warmth of his breath mingling with mine, the soft brush of his lips exploring new territory. The world outside faded away until there was nothing but the connection between us. His kiss was a promise and a question all at once—intense yet tender, filled with unspoken emotions neither of us had dared to voice.

I melted into him, surrendering to the moment as his other hand cupped my face. Each touch ignited something inside me I hadn’t known existed—a spark that grew into a fire with every passing second.

Keaton’s eyes held mine, searching for something I wasn’t sure I could give. But in that moment, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the unspoken promise between us and the hope that maybe—just maybe—we could find a way out together.

We got out of the car, the cool night air wrapping around us. Keaton's hand found mine, his grip firm yet gentle. He led me inside, our steps echoing in the grand hallway. The house was quiet, almost eerily so, as if holding its breath for what was to come.

We made our way upstairs, my heart pounding with each step. Keaton pushed open the door to our room, and I followed him inside. He didn't stop there, though. Instead, he guided me to the attached bathroom.

The bathroom was nothing short of luxurious. Marble floors gleamed under the soft lighting, and the walls were lined with intricate tiles that seemed to shimmer. A large, freestanding bathtub took center stage, its smooth curves inviting and elegant. Beside it stood a spacious glass shower with multiple showerheads, each promising a cascade of water from different angles.

On one side of the room, a long vanity stretched out with twin sinks embedded in its surface. The faucets were sleek and modern, their polished metal reflecting the light like tiny mirrors. Above the sinks hung a massive mirror framed in dark wood, its surface unmarred by fingerprints or smudges.

Soft towels were neatly folded on a heated rack, and a collection of high-end toiletries sat arranged on a small shelf nearby. The air smelled faintly of lavender and eucalyptus, calming and refreshing all at once.

Keaton turned to face me, his eyes searching mine for any sign of hesitation or fear. I felt none—not here, not with him.

"Let’s get you cleaned up," he said softly, his voice carrying a tenderness that took me by surprise.

He moved to turn on the faucet at one of the sinks, adjusting the temperature until steam began to rise from the flowing water. He reached for a soft cloth and dampened it under the stream before gently pressing it against my cheek where Lola’s slap had left its mark.

And that was one injury amongst others.

The warmth of the cloth against my skin felt soothing, washing away not just the physical sting but some of the emotional pain as well. Keaton’s touch was careful and deliberate, each movement filled with an unspoken care that I hadn’t expected from him.

"Better?" he asked after a moment.

I nodded, feeling a lump form in my throat. "Thank you."

His eyes softened further as he continued to clean away any traces of tonight’s ordeal. In that luxurious bathroom with Keaton’s gentle hands tending to my wounds, I felt a flicker of something I hadn’t felt in a long time—hope.

When Keaton finished cleaning my cheek, he turned his attention to the bathtub. The tub was a masterpiece of design, an inviting expanse of pristine white porcelain set against a backdrop of elegant marble tiles. Its smooth curves beckoned, promising warmth and comfort.

Keaton reached over and turned the gleaming chrome faucet, adjusting the water temperature with precision. Steam began to rise, curling into the air like soft whispers. The sound of running water filled the room, mingling with the calming scents of lavender and eucalyptus that permeated the space.

He turned back to me, his eyes holding something akin to tenderness. Without a word, he reached for the hem of my shirt. His fingers brushed against my skin as he lifted it over my head, the fabric whispering away from my body. I stood still, my breath catching in my throat as he continued to undress me with deliberate care.

One by one, he removed each piece of clothing, his touch never wavering. His movements were slow, as if each part of my body held a story he wanted to uncover. When I was finally bare before him, he took a moment to look at me, his gaze steady and unflinching.

---