Page 29 of Velvet Chains
Julian had only dropped her off after I had begged. And I had begged, like I was a child and he was my father, and he finally said yes. I put Rosie to bed and told her I would be more careful when she asked me what had happened to my neck. I told her I’d fallen down the stairs, which of course couldn’t cause these injuries, but she was only seven.
She would question it later. When she was old enough to understand.
Alek stayed longer than I wanted him to—helped me get upstairs, made sure I took the meds, hovered like he thought I’d shatter if he blinked. And then, finally, he left.
Now it was just me.
Me, this dull ache on my neck, the dry throat, the pounding headache.
The meds were supposed to knock me out. They didn’t.
I rolled over in bed, the sheets too stiff, the air too sharp. Everything felt off. I was supposed to be grateful to be safe, to be home, to be in one piece.
But all I could think about was Kieran Callahan.
The way he looked at me in that hallway…the sound of his voice when he said my name. The heat in his eyes that didn’t belong to a man who’d just murdered someone for me—but it had been there all the same.
I missed his tongue, his mouth, his fingertips.
What had he said when we had first met?
"I can’t commit. But I’m really good in bed.”
He hadn’t been lying, had he?
He was exceptionally good in bed. And he had only gotten better over the years…and, despite myself, it pissed me off that he’d been practicing with women that weren’t me.
I sighed. Everything ached. The idea of seeing him again should’ve been scary, and in theory, it was. But all I could think about was the way he looked at me when he was inside me and, before I knew it, my hands were reaching for the waistband of my pajama pants.
I looked at my phone on the nightstand and wondered if I should call him.
I didn’t. I did something worse. I went on the scarce social media he had and hunted for pictures of him. I found one of him looking right at the camera, green eyes shining with the sun in front of him. He was young in the photo, but it couldn’t have been that old. He’d gotten the tattoo on his forearm after Rosie had been born. I had barely taken stock of it the second time we had slept together, when he had fucked me in the shower of the en-suite right next to my bedroom.
My hand inched lower, under my underwear as I stared at Kieran’s eyes in the picture.
I pressed harder, dragging slow, lazy circles over my clit as I pictured the way he had fucked me that morning. No pretense. No apologies. His hand braced against the tile, his other gripping my ass, his voice rough in my ear:You still take me like you missed me, Ruby.
I did. I missed him desperately.
I slipped two fingers lower, slick and desperate, and moaned into the dark. I couldn’t stop thinking about the way his mouth had crushed against mine, like he was angry about how good it still felt. The way he’d bitten my bottom lip before shoving backinside me. The way I’d clawed at his back and begged him not to stop.
I fucked myself harder, chasing it now—hips rocking, breath catching, everything in me tuned to him. His mouth. His cock. The weight of his body and the heat of his skin and the way he always, always, looked at me like I was both his curse and his salvation.
It crested fast. Sharp. Shameful. Perfect.
I came with a shudder, one hand fisted in the sheets, the other buried deep, a broken gasp catching on my tongue. Kieran’s name almost slipped out.
Almost.
But it was already over.
The high faded. The ache didn’t.
And I was left with a cold bed, a throbbing neck, and a phone screen full of a man I should’ve stopped thinking about years ago.
But hadn't.
Not even close.
