Chapter 6: A Kiss and a Closet
The closet smelled like cedar and starch.
Emma's back pressed against the shelves, the sharp edge of a folded tablecloth digging into her spine, and she couldn't breathe—not because Craig's hand was at her throat, but because it wasn't. Because he was standing so close she could count the flecks of gold in his irises, could see the vein pulsing at his temple, could feel the heat rolling off him in waves that made her skin prickle and her thoughts scatter like startled birds.
"Answer me." His voice was low, rougher than she'd ever heard it. "Did you like it?"
"Craig—"
"Did you like him kissing you? His tongue in your mouth? His hands on you like you're something he bought?"
The words were ugly. The jealousy behind them was uglier. Emma should have been offended. Should have pushed him away, told him to go to hell, reminded him that none of this was her choice. But the raw hurt in his voice—the way his hands trembled at his sides like he was physically restraining himself from touching her—made something crack open in her chest.
"No," she whispered.
"Then why did you let him?"
"Because I don't have a choice."
"You always have a choice."
"Not when my father's life is on the line."
Craig's jaw tightened. His eyes dropped to her mouth, lingered there, and she watched him wage a war with himself. The closet was too small. The air was too thick. Somewhere beyond the door, the clink of silverware and the murmur of conversation continued like nothing had happened, like the world hadn't tilted on its axis the moment Dominic's lips touched hers.
"Your father," Craig said slowly, "is a piece of shit who gambled away everything you had and then sold you to save his own skin."
"I know."
"So why are you protecting him?"
Emma's laugh was hollow. It echoed off the shelves, bounced back at her, sounded like someone else's voice.
The laugh died in her throat when she saw his face.
Craig wasn't angry anymore. That would have been easier to handle—anger she understood, anger she could deflect. What she saw instead was something raw and fractured, something that looked almost like grief, and it made her want to reach for him even though she knew she shouldn't.
"You're not protecting him," Craig said.It wasn't a question.
She shook her head slowly, the movement small and deliberate. "I'm not just protecting him. It was made very clear by Dominic and your father that if I try to leave or run I'm dead."
The words landed between them like stones dropped into still water.
Craig went rigid. Every muscle in his body locked, his hands curling into fists at his sides, and for one terrible moment she thought he might punch the wall. Instead he exhaled—a slow, controlled release that seemed to cost him something—and when he spoke again his voice was quieter.
"I could get in trouble for being alone in this closet with you," Emma added. "If Dominic comes back and finds us..."
"Let him."
"Craig—"
"I mean it." He stepped closer. The shelves creaked behind her, a tablecloth tumbling from its stack and pooling at their feet. "Let him find us. Let him see exactly what I think of his claim on you."
"That's easy for you to say. You're not the one he'll punish."
The truth of it hung in the air, sharp and undeniable. Craig's expression shifted—something dark moving behind his eyes, something calculating and cold. She'd seen that look before, in the VIP booth, when Dominic fed her strawberries and wiped her mouth like she was a child. She'd seen it when he shattered a glass in his bare hand and didn't flinch.
"You think I don't know that?" His voice cracked on the edges. "You think I haven't spent every day since this bullshit engagement started trying to figure out how to get you out without starting a war?"
"Have you?"
"Yes."
"And?"
"And I keep coming up empty." He laughed—a bitter, broken sound that scraped against the walls. "My father controls everything. The money, the men, the connections. If I move against him without a plan, he'll bury us both. And Dominic..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "Dominic is a different problem."
Emma's back pressed harder against the shelves. The cedar smell was making her dizzy, or maybe it was him—the proximity, the heat, the way his chest rose and fell inches from hers. She could feel the phantom weight of his mouth on her lips from the bathroom, the memory of his hands on her hips, and she wanted it again with a desperation that frightened her.
"He's your cousin," she said.
"He's a fucking animal."
"He's going to be my husband."
Craig's hand moved before she could react. His palm slammed against the shelf beside her head, rattling the folded linens, and suddenly he was everywhere—crowding her, surrounding her, his breath hot against her cheek. She should have been afraid. Any sane woman would have been afraid.
She wasn't.
"Don't," he said. "Don't you dare call yourself that."
"It's the truth."
"It's a prison sentence." His forehead dropped to hers. Their noses brushed. She could taste his breath, whiskey and mint and something underneath that was just him. "You are not his wife. You are not his anything. You're a hostage, and I'm going to get you out."
Emma's eyes burned. She blinked rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall. "How?"
"I don't know yet." His hand came up, fingers threading through her hair, tilting her head back. "But I'm done pretending I don't want you. I'm done watching him touch you and doing nothing."
"Craig..."
"Say my name again."
"Craig."
He kissed her.
It wasn't like the bathroom—desperate and hungry and frantic. This was slower. Deliberate. His mouth moved against hers with a patience that felt almost cruel, his tongue tracing her lower lip, asking permission she'd already given. When she parted for him, he groaned low in his throat and pressed closer, his body flush against hers, and she felt every inch of him through the thin fabric of her dress.
His thigh slid between her legs.
The pressure was immediate and electric, a spark that traveled up her spine and exploded behind her eyes. Emma gasped against his mouth, her hips bucking involuntarily, and Craig swallowed the sound with a hunger that made her knees weak.
"That's it," he murmured against her lips. "Let me feel you."
"We can't—"
"We can." His mouth trailed down her jaw, her throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin below her ear. "We are. I don't give a shit who's outside that door."
"Dominic—"
"Is in the study." He bit down, just hard enough to leave a mark, and Emma whimpered. "On a call. Five minutes minimum. Ten if we're lucky."
"Craig, this is insane."
"So is letting you marry him." His hands found the hem of her dress, fingers sliding beneath the fabric to grip her bare thighs. "So is pretending I don't think about you every second of every day. So is standing by while he parades you around like a trophy he won."
"He—"
"I don't want to hear his name again." He pulled back, just enough to meet her eyes. His pupils were blown wide, his lips swollen and red, and he looked like a man on the edge of something irreversible. "Say yes or tell me to stop. Those are your options."
Emma's heart hammered against her ribs.
She thought about her father—his gambling debts, his tearful apologies, the way he'd handed her over to Salvatore Moretti like she was collateral on a loan. She thought about Dominic's cold hands and colder eyes, the way he spoke to her like she was a child who needed correcting. She thought about the life stretching ahead of her—years of quiet submission, of masks and lies and pretending.
Then she looked at Craig.
"I don't know how to say yes," she whispered.
His expression softened. The hard edges of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders—something in him shifted, and when he touched her face again it was almost gentle.
"Then I'll say it for both of us."
He lifted her.
One arm hooked beneath her thighs, the other braced against the shelf, and suddenly she was off the ground, her legs wrapped around his waist, her back against the linens, and gravity had no meaning anymore. The tablecloths beneath her were soft, the shelf edge digging into her shoulder blade, and Craig was kissing her like she was oxygen and he'd been drowning for years.
His hips rocked against her.
Fabric dragged against fabric, her underwear damp and useless against the friction, and the pressure of his cock through his trousers made her gasp into his mouth. He was hard. Thick. The shape of him pressed right where she needed it, and when he moved again she saw stars.
"You feel that?" His voice was ragged. "Feel what you do to me?"
"Yes—"
"That's been there since the moment you walked into dinner." He ground against her, slow and deliberate, and she moaned. "Since the moment I saw you in that dress. Since the moment you sat down next to him and let him put his hand on your knee like he owns you."
"He doesn't—"
"I know he doesn't." His teeth found her earlobe, bit down. "But you're going to let me prove it."
His hand left the shelf, found the waistband of her underwear, and pulled.
The lace tore—cheap fabric, easy to rip—and Emma's breath caught in her throat. Craig didn't pause. His fingers slid through her slick folds, spreading her, exploring her, and when he found her clit she nearly screamed.
"Shh." His thumb circled the bundle of nerves, slow and torturous. "You have to be quiet, sweetheart. Can you do that?"
She nodded, teeth sinking into her lower lip.
"Good girl."
The word—the same word Dominic had used in the booth—sounded completely different coming from Craig's mouth. It wasn't a command. It was a reward. A promise. And it made her wetter than she'd ever been in her life.
"Please," she whispered.
"Please what?"
"Please—I need—"
"I know what you need."
He shifted, one arm still supporting her, the other hand working at his belt. She heard the clink of metal, the drag of a zipper, and then he was free—hot and heavy against her thigh, thick enough to make her eyes widen. She'd felt him through his trousers, but this was different. This was real.
"Look at me," he said.
She did.
His eyes were dark and burning, his chest heaving, and there was something vulnerable in his expression that made her heart crack. He looked terrified. He looked triumphant. He looked like a man who'd just bet everything he owned on a single hand of cards.
"This is insane," she whispered.
"Yeah."
"If we get caught—"
"We won't." He positioned himself at her entrance, the head of his cock pressing against her slick opening. "But if we do, I'll tell them the truth. That I'm in love with you. That I've been in love with you since the moment you told me you weren't impressed by my club."
Emma's breath hitched.
"You—"
"I'm going to fuck you now." His voice broke on the last word. "And then I'm going to figure out how to save you. But right now, in this closet, you're mine."
He pushed inside.
The stretch was immediate and overwhelming—a fullness that bordered on pain, her body clenching around him, trying to adjust. Craig groaned, low and guttural, his forehead dropping to her shoulder. He didn't move. Didn't thrust. Just held himself there, buried to the hilt, trembling with the effort of restraint.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Fuck, Emma."
"I—" She couldn't speak. Couldn't think. Her nails dug into his shoulders, her legs tightening around his waist, and she felt so full she might split apart.
"Tell me you're okay."
"I'm okay."
"Tell me you want this."
"I want this."
He pulled out—slow, agonizing—and slammed back in.
Emma's cry was swallowed by his mouth. He kissed her through it, desperate and messy, his hips finding a rhythm that was brutal and perfect. Each thrust pushed her further up the shelf, the linens shifting beneath her, the cedar smell mixing with the scent of sex and sweat. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Could only feel—the drag of his cock against her walls, the press of his pelvis against her clit, the way his hands gripped her ass like he was afraid she might disappear.
"You're so tight," he rasped. "So fucking perfect. Tell me he's never made you feel like this."
"He hasn't—"
"Tell me I'm the only one."
"You're the only one." She meant it. God help her, she meant it.
His pace quickened, brutal and relentless, and the shelf beneath her started to shake. A stack of napkins tumbled to the floor. A towel joined the growing pile at their feet. Emma didn't care. She was climbing—climbing toward something bright and shattering, her body coiling tight around him.
"I'm close," she gasped.
"Come for me." His thumb found her clit again, circling hard and fast. "Come on my cock. Let me feel it."
The orgasm hit her like a freight train.
White light exploded behind her eyes. Her body convulsed around him, walls clenching, a sob tearing from her throat that she barely recognized as her own. Craig fucked her through it, grunting with each thrust, his rhythm faltering as he chased his own release.
"Fuck—fuck—Emma—"
He buried himself deep and came with a groan that shook his entire body. Hot pulse after pulse flooded her, and she felt him twitch inside her, felt the way his hands clenched on her ass, felt the ragged breath he exhaled against her throat.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
The closet was silent except for their breathing—harsh and uneven, slowly returning to normal. The mess of linens at their feet looked like a war zone. Emma's legs were shaking. Craig's hands were still on her, holding her up, holding her together.
"We just—" she started.
"Yeah."
"In a closet."
"Yeah."
"At your father's house."
He laughed—a genuine sound, surprised and warm—and lifted his head to look at her. His eyes were soft now, the hard edges smoothed away, and he was looking at her like she was something precious.
"Best decision I've ever made," he said.
"Craig."
"Hmm?"
"We need to go back."
The softness faded. Reality crept back in—the dinner, the family, the fiancé waiting in the study. Craig's jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. He just nodded, slowly, and helped her down.
Her legs nearly gave out.
He caught her, steadying her with a hand on her waist, and for one moment she let herself lean into him. Let herself pretend they were somewhere else—somewhere safe, somewhere far from the Moretti family and their impossible demands.
"I meant what I said," he murmured against her hair. "I'm going to get you out."
"I don't see how."
"Let me worry about that." He pulled back, his hands cupping her face, forcing her to meet his eyes. "But when the time comes—when I find a way—you have to be ready to run. No hesitation. No looking back. Just go."
Emma's throat tightened.
"What if I can't?"
"You can." He kissed her forehead, soft and lingering. "You're the strongest person I've ever met. You just don't know it yet."
A sound from the hallway made them both freeze.
Footsteps. Slow and deliberate. Coming closer.
Craig moved fast—tucking himself back into his trousers, straightening his shirt, bending to grab the fallen linens. Emma smoothed her dress with shaking hands, ran her fingers through her hair, tried to look like she hadn't just been thoroughly fucked against a shelf of tablecloths.
"Wait," Craig whispered.
The footsteps passed.
They didn't stop.
Emma exhaled. Craig caught her eye, and the smile he gave her was small but real—a secret shared between two people who'd just done something monumentally stupid and couldn't quite bring themselves to regret it.
"Go first," he said. "Wait thirty seconds. Then come out."
"Craig—"
"One word." He touched her chin, tilted her face up. "That's all I need. When you're ready. One word and I'll burn it all down for you."
Emma's eyes burned. She nodded, unable to speak, and reached for the door.
The hallway was empty.
She stepped out, straightened her shoulders, and walked back toward the dining room. The clink of silverware grew louder. The murmur of voices rose and fell. And behind her, hidden in the darkness of the linen closet, Craig Moretti stood alone with his hands still trembling and the taste of her still on his tongue.