Page 39 of Blood Debt
Still blank. Still that same practiced, vacant calm.
The third button slides loose. Then the fourth. Her fingers are trembling now, but she keeps going. Keeps undoing my shirt like she was born to serve. Or like she’s afraid of what happens if she doesn’t.
Chapter 9 – Serafina
Bellarosa Estate
His shirt is soft beneath my fingers. My hands move with practiced care, but tonight they tremble. The pearly buttons are slick, cool as they roll under my fingertips. I can feel the heat radiating off his skin through the fabric, and with every undone button, I’m drawn closer to it.
His chest rises and falls, the scent of whiskey wafting from him like smoke. He doesn’t speak. He just watches me. His eyes, dark and glazed, track my every movement with a frightening stillness. He’s half-drunk, but his stare is sharp, cutting through me.
I don’t look at him. I can’t.
My gaze stays lowered, fixed on the center of his chest, anywhere but his face. My breath comes shallow, the space between us thick with tension. One more button. I slide it through the hole, my knuckles brushing warm skin beneath. I pull my hands back, too fast.
Then his hands are on me, large, calloused palms cradling my face.
I freeze.
His touch is gentle, unexpectedly so, but it makes me want to recoil. I don’t. I can’t. I just stand there, trembling. My eyes remain downcast, my lashes fanned low to hide the fear that threatens to rise like a tide.
He leans in, and my breath catches. I brace myself.
But he pauses. For a moment, he simply stares, searching my face for something I’m not ready to give. Then his hands fall away.
I step back.
The space between us stretches. My chest heaves with the first real breath I’ve taken all evening. I straighten, smoothing my apron with shaking fingers, ready to leave. Ready to disappear before the silence between us becomes something worse.
But his hand lashes out.
Fingers clamp around my arm. I yelp, startled, and in one swift tug, I’m yanked off my feet. The world tilts. My knees hit the edge of the mattress, and I tumble down, landing against him with a soft, stunned gasp.
He’s already sitting on the bed. Waiting.
I struggle to rise, but he’s fast. One arm snakes around my waist, the other braced behind him. He leans in, his eyes fixed on my mouth like a man starving. His breath fans across my cheek, laced with that faint sweetness I hate myself for recognizing.
I turn my head, but it’s too late. His lips brush mine—barely a touch.
Then he kisses me.
I jerk against him, pushing at his chest with both hands. “No,” I whisper against his mouth, but the sound is lost. He deepens the kiss, and I beat at his chest, fists pounding against hard muscle. His arm tightens, pulling me flush against him, pinning me down against the mattress.
His body is all heat and pressure, and I’m trapped beneath it.
My legs kick. My fists hammer. But it’s like pushing against stone. His lips are everywhere—mouth, jaw, down to the hollow of my neck. My breath comes in panicked bursts, but my fight wanes the longer his mouth lingers. There’s something in the way he kisses…something that drags at me.
He tastes of whiskey and honey like danger laced with intimacy, something I should have forgotten.
My hands stop fighting.
They clutch his shirt now, gripping the fabric as if it could anchor me. His tongue slides against mine. I hate the way my body responds. My hips arch. My lips part. A low sound escapes me—half fear, half desire. No matter how much I try to deny it.
His kiss grows heavier, more possessive. Teeth graze my lower lip—a nip that sends a shock through me. I gasp, and he swallows it whole. One hand tangles in my hair, the other pressed firm against my waist, keeping me there, beneath him.
My chest rises against his. My heart pounds.
And I kiss him back.
