Chapter 12: The Proof and the Pickup
The elevator doors slid shut with a soft hiss, sealing them inside a box of brushed steel and muted light. The penthouse was silent above them, every window blacked out against the city, every surface polished to a cold, indifferent gleam.
Emma's back hit the wall.
Craig's hands slammed against the steel on either side of her head, caging her in. His chest heaved. His jaw was tight enough to crack teeth. He smelled like rain and whiskey and something darker underneath—something that had been building since the moment he'd seen her standing on that sidewalk with her little duffel bag and her fading bruise.
"You're staying with me," he said. His voice was low, rough, scraped raw. "No ring. No rules."
Emma's breath caught.
The duffel bag slipped from her fingers and landed on the floor with a soft thump. She stared up at him—at the sharp lines of his jaw, the dark fire in his eyes, the way his hands trembled against the wall like he was holding himself back by the thinnest possible thread.
"Craig—"
"Don't." He leaned closer. His nose almost brushed hers. "Don't tell me this is a bad idea. Don't tell me we shouldn't. I've spent the last three hours telling myself that, and it didn't do a goddamn thing."
Emma's heart was pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat.
"What do you want me to say?"
"The truth." His eyes searched hers. "Just the truth. For once in your life, Emma, stop being careful. Stop being polite. Stop protecting everyone else. What do you want?"
The question hit her like a fist to the chest.
What did she want?
She wanted to stop being afraid. She wanted to stop looking over her shoulder. She wanted to stop feeling like a piece of furniture being traded between men who saw her as nothing more than a debt to be collected.
She wanted him.
She wanted Craig Moretti—arrogant, foul-mouthed, dangerous Craig Moretti—with a desperation that terrified her.
"You," she whispered.
Craig's eyes flared.
"Say it again."
"You."
His mouth crashed into hers.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't careful. It was hunger and fury and relief all tangled together, his lips hard against hers, his tongue forcing her mouth open, his hands leaving the wall to grab her hips and yank her against him. Emma gasped into the kiss, her fingers finding the lapels of his coat, pulling him closer, needing him closer.
He tasted like whiskey and mint and something that was just him—dark and addictive and completely overwhelming.
Craig broke the kiss just long enough to speak.
"I've wanted to do that since the moment I saw you in my club," he growled. "Standing there with your fucking books and your fucking smile, looking at me like I was nothing."
"You were—" Emma's breath hitched as his mouth found her neck. "—you were being an ass."
"I was trying to get your attention."
"It worked."
Craig laughed against her throat—a low, dark sound that vibrated through her entire body. His hands slid under her sweater, his palms hot against her skin, and Emma arched into him without thinking.
"Bedroom," he said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
He pulled back just long enough to grab her hand and drag her down the hall. The penthouse stretched around them—all glass and steel and expensive silence—but Emma barely saw any of it. She saw Craig's shoulders. She saw the way his coat billowed behind him. She saw the door at the end of the hallway and the bed beyond it, huge and white and waiting.
Then they were inside, and the door was slamming shut, and Craig was on her again.
His hands were everywhere—her waist, her hips, her ass—pulling her sweater up and over her head, tossing it somewhere in the dark. His mouth found her collarbone, her shoulder, the hollow of her throat. Emma's fingers fumbled with the buttons of his coat, then his shirt, desperate to feel his skin.
"Fuck," Craig muttered as she pushed the coat off his shoulders. "You have no idea—"
"I have some idea."
He pulled back, his eyes dark and wild.
"You think so?"
"I think you've been driving yourself crazy," Emma said, her voice steadier than she felt. "I think you've been thinking about this since the hospital. I think you can't stand the fact that I'm not impressed by you."
Craig's mouth curved into something sharp and hungry.
"You're not impressed?"
"No."
"Good." He reached behind her and unclasped her bra with one hand—quick, practiced, infuriating. "I don't want you impressed. I want you wrecked."
The bra hit the floor.
Emma's breath stuttered as Craig's eyes dropped to her chest. He didn't move for a moment—just looked at her, his gaze like a physical touch, hot and heavy and possessive.
"Christ," he said. "You're fucking beautiful."
Then his mouth was on her.
Emma cried out as his lips closed around her nipple, his tongue hot and rough, his teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp. Her hands flew to his hair, tangling in the dark strands, holding him there. His other hand found her breast, palm rough against the sensitive skin, kneading and squeezing until she was arching into him, moaning without shame.
"That's it," Craig muttered against her skin. "Let me hear you."
He switched to the other breast, giving it the same brutal attention, while his hands worked at the button of her jeans. Emma felt the zipper give, felt his fingers slide inside, felt the first brush of his knuckles against the damp heat between her legs.
She jerked against him.
"Fuck," Craig breathed. "You're already wet."
"I—"
"Don't apologize." He lifted his head, his eyes meeting hers. "Don't you dare apologize for wanting this."
Emma's throat tightened.
"I wasn't going to."
"Good."
He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her jeans and pulled them down, taking her underwear with them. Emma stepped out of them, her boots already kicked off somewhere, and then she was standing in front of him in nothing but her socks and the fading bruise on her cheek.
Craig's eyes traced over her—slow, deliberate, hungry.
"I want to fuck you," he said.
The words hit her like a live wire.
"Yes."
"I want to fuck you so hard you forget every goddamn thing that came before me."
"Yes."
"I want to hear you scream my name."
Emma's heart was hammering.
"Yes."
Craig's hands went to his belt. He undid it with sharp, efficient movements, then shoved his pants down, stepping out of them and his boxers in one fluid motion. Emma's eyes dropped—she couldn't help it—and her breath caught in her throat.
He was hard. Thick. Ready.
And he was looking at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.
"On the bed," he said. "Now."
Emma moved.
She climbed onto the massive mattress, the sheets cool and impossibly soft beneath her knees. She turned to face him, but Craig was already there, crawling over her, his body a wall of heat and muscle and barely contained hunger.
He didn't kiss her this time.
He just looked at her.
"I need you to understand something," he said. "This isn't a one-time thing. This isn't me scratching an itch. I don't know what the fuck this is, but it's not that."
Emma's eyes burned.
"I know."
"Do you?"
"I—" She reached up and touched his face. "I know."
Craig closed his eyes for a moment, like her touch was too much. Then he opened them again, and there was something raw in his gaze, something almost vulnerable.
"I'm going to ruin you," he said.
"Promises."
He laughed—a real laugh, surprised and rough. Then he kissed her again, softer this time, almost tender, and Emma melted into him. Her arms wrapped around his neck. Her legs wrapped around his waist. His cock pressed against her thigh, hard and hot, and she gasped into his mouth.
"Please," she whispered.
Craig pulled back.
"Please what?"
"Please fuck me."
His grin was savage.
"Since you asked so nicely."
He positioned himself at her entrance, and Emma's breath caught. She could feel him there—thick and heavy, the tip pressing against her, teasing, testing.
Then he pushed inside.
Emma cried out as he stretched her. He was big—bigger than she'd expected—and the sensation was overwhelming, full and perfect and almost too much. Her nails dug into his shoulders. Her back arched off the bed.
"Fuck," Craig groaned. "Fuck, you're tight."
"Keep—" Emma's voice broke."Keep going."
He didn't need to be told twice.
He pulled back slowly, dragging every inch of himself against her, then thrust forward again. Hard. Deep. Emma gasped, her hands fisting in the sheets, her legs tightening around his hips.
"Again," she rasped.
Craig gave her what she wanted.
He fucked her with a rhythm that was brutal and perfect—fast and hard and relentless, each thrust driving the breath from her lungs. The headboard slammed against the wall. The bed shook. Emma's moans filled the room, mingling with Craig's grunts, with the slap of skin against skin.
"You feel—" Craig's voice was ragged. "—fuck, you feel so good."
"So do you—" Emma's eyes were squeezed shut. "—please, don't stop."
"I'm not going to stop."
He wasn't.
He drove into her harder, faster, his fingers digging into her hips. Emma's nails raked down his back. Her teeth found his shoulder and bit down. Craig groaned, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through her entire body.
"Tell me you're close," he demanded. "Tell me—"
"I'm close."
"Then come."
Emma's orgasm hit her like a freight train.
She shattered around him—back arching, legs shaking, mouth open in a soundless scream. Craig fucked her through it, his own release slamming into him moments later. He buried his face in her neck and let out a sound that was half groan, half roar, flooding her with heat.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Then Craig collapsed on top of her, his weight crushing her into the mattress. Emma didn't mind. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him there, her heart still pounding.
"Holy shit," she whispered.
Craig laughed against her neck.
"Yeah."
"I don't—" She swallowed. "I don't usually do that."
"Good."
"What?"
He lifted his head and looked at her—sweat-damp and flushed, his eyes soft in a way she'd never seen before.
"I don't want you doing that with anyone else," he said. "Ever."
Emma's throat tightened.
"Craig—"
"I know." He pressed a kiss to her forehead."I know. But I meant what I said. This isn't a one-time thing."
He pulled out of her slowly, gently, and collapsed onto his back beside her. Emma turned to face him, their breath mingling in the dark.
"What is it, then?"she asked.
Craig looked at her.
"I don't know," he said. "But we're going to find out."
They lay there for a long time, tangled in the sheets, listening to the city hum beneath them. The world outside was chaos—Dominic, Salvatore, the debt, the ring hidden somewhere in Emma's duffel bag and the danger that was coming for all of them.
But for now, in this room, there was only this.
Emma closed her eyes.
For the first time in years, she didn't feel alone.