Page 124 of Kiss the Villain

As we stand there, under the water, while he kisses me, I’m hit with an uncomfortable realization.

I might be the one who fucks Gareth, but he’s the one who’s owning me inch by agonizing inch.

Because I like kissing him more than I’ve liked kissing anyone.

My wife included.

20

GARETH

“You made this?”

I stroll out of the bedroom, rolling the cuff of my denim jacket.

So, yeah, I shouldn’t be here. In hindsight, stepping into Kayden’s house the first time was mistake number one. Pretty sure he had a witch cast a spell on me, because ever since, I keep coming back.

It’s a valid theory for this disaster of a situation. Because, seriously, what the fuck was I doing just now?

Let’s say yesterday was about being stuck and pretending I had no way out—literally—thanks to those damn ropes. But there were no ropes in the shower, and I still practically begged him to fuck me.

I came because he called me the most beautiful person he’d ever seen.

And Ikissedhim.

Iclaimedhim.

I couldn’t stop.

Pretty sure I only snapped out of it when he tried to help with, well, the cum in my ass, and I managed to kick him out. I think he caught the wide-eyed “holy fuck, I’m so fucking screwed” look before he left, though.

He also left me ointment on the bed, next to my folded clothes.

And I took some time to get dressed. One, because my ass is sore. Two, I needed time to think. To sort through this clusterfuck and reach a logical conclusion.

If my so-called genius brain could deliver one, that’d be great. He sure is useless lately.

For now, I considered running away, and I needed a change of clothes before school anyway. Then I walked in onthisscene, and, well, now I’m frozen.

Again.

There’s that weird tight feeling in my chest.

Again.

Kayden’s at the table, setting down plates of eggs, the smell of fresh coffee mingling with the sweet tang of strawberries. The red fruit glistens, perfectly sliced, ripeness on point.

He’s changed into navy blue slacks, tailored so well, they practically worship his legs. The sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up, snug around his forearms, and showing off veins and muscle.

“I only cut the strawberries and brewed the coffee,” he says, glancing at me with a small smirk. “The rest is from a nearby restaurant.”

I glare, and he laughs—a rich, distracting sound.

The soft morning light catches in his styled hair, giving it a faint blue sheen. I’m watching every flick of his long fingers on the dish towel, the stretch of his shirt across his chest as he sits down.

The chest that pressed me against the mattress, the glass as he fucked and pounded and rearranged my fucking insides.

I have to stop myself from thinking of those images so that I don’t get hard. Again.

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