Page 37 of The Final Contract
No answer.
The silence makes everything worse. I know I heard something. My mind flashes a thousand ways it could go wrong—my stalker finding us, slipping inside, Killian fighting him to the death in the living room.
It’s ridiculous. A giant like Killian would make noise if that were happening. A lot of noise.
Unless… unless he left me here. Or worse, invited someone over. Someone who dots her i’s with hearts and something very passionate is taking place on the sofa out there. My mouth goes dry at the thought, hot and bitter in my chest.
I glance at the clock. Nearly one in the morning, and curiosity wins.
Sliding out of bed, I pad across the floor, bare feet silent against the rug. I press my ear to the door. Nothing. Not a sound.
Slowly, carefully, I ease it open and nearly gasp out loud.
He’s there. Right there. Leaning against the wall outside my door. Asleep.
The thud must have been him shifting. The position looks brutal, like his spine is twisted, his head against the wall, body folded wrong.
I kneel beside him, nudging his shoulder gently. “Killian…” I whisper.
His reaction is instant. Predatory.
Before I can blink, I’m flat on my back, his body caging mine, his hand around my throat.
“Killian—” it’s supposed to be a cry of recognition, but it slips out as more of a plea. “It’s me.”
His eyes open, blinking fast, the tension in his face slowly easing. His grip loosens. His other hand presses at my hip, where his shirt has ridden up. My stomach, my panties—bare beneath him.
“I just didn’t want you to sleep on the floor,” I manage, breathless.
“Seraphina.” My name leaves him like a prayer, a whisper that melts every inch of me.
My heart pounds so hard I know he can feel it. My thighs part without thought, and at the same moment his hips shift—just barely—grinding into me. The smallest taste, but enough to drench me instantly. My body knows. My body wants.
My hands drift over his warm skin, feeling the tension in his shoulder muscles. I tilt my hips against him, subtle, and his breath drags in like I burned him.
The hand at my hip slides higher—slow, deliberate—searing a path up my body. The grip at my throat adjusts, his thumb caressing the length of my jaw.
“Seraphina,” he rasps. “We can’t do this.”
He doesn’t mean it. I know he doesn’t mean it. Because his hips roll into me again, firmer this time, and I can feel him thickening against me.
“What are we doing?” I whisper, rocking with him, my legs snaking around him.
His hand travels up, around my rib cage, the pace glacial, torturous. I arch into the touch, silently begging for his palm on my breast, his mouth on my skin.
“We can’t cross this line.” The words sound like pain, like every syllable scrapes his throat raw. His body contradicts him with every subtle press, every almost-thrust that tests and teases the edge.
“I can’t keep you safe like this.” The whisper ghosts over my lips, so close I can taste his breath.
A tiny shift from me and my bottom lip brushes his. Not a kiss. Barely a touch. But enough.
Reality slams back into him.
He tears himself away in an instant, moving off me as fast as he pinned me. My body aches with the loss, skin burning, heart hammering against emptiness where his weight had been.
And I can’t help but wonder—if I hadn’t moved, if I hadn’t brushed his mouth—what would’ve happened?
His voice is gravel, low and rough as he grabs my hand and pulls me up. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
