Chapter 32: Gar
The city lights bled through the sheer curtains of Katy’s penthouse, painting the lavish bedroom in streaks of gold and electric blue. The air was still, heavy with the scent of blown-out candles, expensive perfume, and the unmistakable, musky tang of sex. Garrett lay on his back, staring at the intricate patterns on the velvet canopy above the bed. The silence was a physical weight on his chest.
Every nerve ending felt scraped raw. He could still feel the ghost of her internal muscles clenching around him, the memory of his own release a hot, shameful brand inside her. He’d come in her. Twice. The thought should have sickened him. It did sicken him. But beneath the revulsion, a darker, more stubborn current flowed: a deep, satiated thrum that felt like coming home.
Her body was a warm, curving weight against his side, one arm thrown possessively across his stomach, her head nestled in the hollow of his shoulder. Her breathing was slow and even, the sleep of the victorious. He was trapped. Not by her limbs, but by the terrifying truth taking root in the wreckage of his conscience.
This was wrong. It was a sin, a transgression written into the very code of family, of society. He repeated the words in his head, a desperate mantra. Wrong. Cousin. Sick. Fuck. But the words were just sounds. They had no purchase against the memory of her whispering in his ear, against the feel of her skin, against the way his entire being had quieted when he was buried inside her.
The fight was gone. The tension that had coiled in his gut for days, the same tension that had driven him to that pathetic silicone imitation in his guest room, had dissolved. In its place was a terrifying calm. He loved her. Not with the easy, platonic affection of their shared childhood, but with a desperate, consuming hunger that owned him. It was a love that felt less like a flower and more like a cancer, beautiful and destructive, rewriting his entire understanding of himself.
A soft sound escaped him, half sob, half sigh. He turned his head, his lips brushing against her forehead. She stirred, mumbling something incoherent in her sleep, and pressed closer. Her thigh slid over his, her bare skin impossibly soft.
He gave up. He surrendered to the ruin. His arm, which had been lying rigid at his side, curled around her, pulling her tight against him. She was small and solid in his embrace, her fake breasts a soft, yielding pillow against his ribs. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling the scent of her, and let the darkness take him.
When his breathing deepened into the steady rhythm of sleep, Katy opened her eyes.
She had been awake the whole time, feigning sleep to feel the war play out across his body. She had felt the rigidity of his muscles, the hitch in his breath, the final, devastating collapse when he wrapped himself around her. She had won. Completely.
She shifted slightly, just enough to look at his face in the dim, colored light. The tension was gone from his jaw, the crinkles around his eyes smoothed in repose. He looked younger, innocent. Hers.
A slow, deep throb echoed from her core, a phantom pulse of the pleasure he’d given her. It was different from anything she’d ever felt. It wasn't just the physical act, though that had been… seismic. It was the conquest. The absolute shattering of his resistance. He had been so morally upright, so terrified of his own desire. Breaking that had been more intoxicating than any orgasm.
She remembered the first time, in his narrow bed, the way he’d roared as he came, a sound of pure, animal surrender. She remembered the feel of him, thick and urgent, stretching her, filling a hollow space she hadn’t even known was there. It was more than just a cock; it was a key. It was his. The one thing her money couldn't buy, the one man her sharp intellect couldn't truly intimidate, now utterly claimed.
Her hand drifted down from his stomach, over the crisp hair of his pelvis, her fingers finding him soft and spent. She cupped him gently, possessively, feeling the weight of him in her hand. A faint, slick dampness coated her inner thighs, a visceral reminder of his presence inside her. She closed her eyes, savoring the feeling of being claimed in return, of being so thoroughly used and filled by him.
He was hers. Not just his body, but his conscience, his peace, his fucked-up, beautiful love. It was all hers.
A small, triumphant smile touched her lips as she listened to the hum of the city below. It sounded like applause.