Chapter 18: The Morning Confession
Morning came like a blade through the curtains.
Adrian woke to light that cut white-hot across his vision, stinging his eyes, and for one disorienting moment he did not know where he was. Then he felt her—the weight of her leg thrown across his thighs, the warmth of her breath against his shoulder, the faint tickle of jet-black hair splayed across his chest like spilled ink. The sheets were twisted around their bodies, damp with sweat and the lingering evidence of the night, and the scent of her perfume had soured into something muskier, deeper. Jasmine and sex.
His stomach lurched.
The guilt hit him like a physical blow, a fist driven between his ribs. Eleanor. Her name echoed in his skull, a hammer against the anvil of his conscience. Eleanor, with her soft laugh and her gentle hands and her trusting brown eyes. Eleanor, who had kissed him goodbye at the airport and told him to be safe, who had pressed her palm to his cheek and said she'd miss him. Eleanor, who was probably waking up in their bed right now, reaching for his side of the mattress and finding it cold.
And here he was. Naked. Wrecked. With a woman's body curled around him like a serpent.
He moved to slip out of bed, his muscles screaming in protest, but her hand shot out and caught his wrist. Her grip was surprisingly strong, her fingers digging into his skin.
"Where do you think you're going?" Her voice was rough with sleep, husky and low, and it sent a treacherous shiver down his spine.
"I need to—"
"You need to stay." She propped herself up on one elbow, her dark hair falling in tangled waves around her face. In the morning light, she was devastating. Her skin was pale and luminous, her lips still swollen from the night before, and her eyes—those impossibly dark eyes—were fixed on him with a hunger that made his breath catch. "You can't run from me, Adrian. Not anymore."
"I have a wife," he said, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "I have to—"
"You have to what? Call her? Tell her you're sorry?" Raven's lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. She reached down, her fingers trailing across his stomach, and he felt his cock twitch despite the war raging in his head. "Tell me, does your guilt make you hard? Does thinking about her innocent face while I touch you make it worse?"
"Raven—"
She wrapped her fingers around his shaft, stroking him slowly, deliberately. He was already half-hard, the traitorous organ responding to her touch with embarrassing eagerness. "I felt you stiffen when I said her name," she murmured. "You hate yourself for wanting this. You hate yourself for wanting me."
"Stop." His voice was weak, barely a whisper.
"Make me."
She straddled him in one fluid motion, her thighs sliding over his hips, her cunt brushing against his cock. She was slick already, wet and ready, and she reached down to guide him to her entrance. He tried to resist, tried to push her off, but his hands betrayed him, gripping her hips instead.
"Don't," he said, but the word came out as a groan.
"Don't what?" She sank down onto him slowly, inch by agonizing inch, her walls stretching to accommodate him. Her head fell back, a low moan escaping her lips. "Don't fuck you like this? Don't make you feel good?"
He bit down on his lip, hard enough to taste blood. The sensation was overwhelming—her heat, her tightness, the way she clenched around him as she began to ride him, slow and deliberate. Her eyes were locked on his, unwavering, and there was something triumphant in her gaze. Something victorious.
"Look at you," she breathed. "So conflicted. So tortured. And so fucking hard for me."
"Fuck," he hissed, his hands moving to her breasts, squeezing roughly. He was a weak man. A despicable man. But in this moment, he didn't care about right or wrong. He cared about the way she felt around him, the way her nipples pebbled beneath his thumbs, the way her mouth fell open as she rode him.
"That's it," she whispered. "Let go. Stop fighting."
She leaned forward, her lips brushing against his ear, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You're mine, Adrian. You've been mine since the day I walked into your office. You just didn't know it yet."
He grabbed her hips, slamming into her from below, desperate to regain some semblance of control. She cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders, and she matched his rhythm, her hips grinding against his as she took him deeper.
"Say it," she demanded. "Say you're mine."
"I'm—" He couldn't finish the sentence. The words caught in his throat.
She slowed her movements, teasing him, pulling almost all the way off before sinking back down. "Say it," she repeated. "Say it and I'll let you come."
"You filthy—"
"Say it."
He was trembling, his body a taut wire stretched to the breaking point. "I'm yours," he gritted out, the words torn from him like a confession.
She smiled, a predator's smile, and she rode him harder, her movements fast and frantic, her breath coming in gasps. He could feel his climax building, coiling in his gut like a serpent, and he knew he was going to spill inside her.
"Come for me," she commanded. "Fill me up."
He didn't stand a chance. His release crashed over him like a wave, his body shuddering as he emptied himself inside her, his cries muffled against her shoulder. She followed moments later, her body clenching around him, her own orgasm rippling through her in waves.
For a long moment, they lay tangled together, panting, slick with sweat. The guilt was still there, gnawing at the edges of his mind, but it was muffled now, distant, drowned out by the pounding of his heart and the warmth of her body pressed against his.
She lifted her head, her dark eyes meeting his. There was a glint in them, something dangerous and knowing.
"You know," she said, her voice casual, almost conversational, "if we keep doing this, I'm going to get pregnant."
The words hit him like a bucket of ice water. His blood ran cold. "What?"
"Pregnant." She said the word slowly, savoring it. "With your child. And then what are you going to do, Adrian? Go back to your sweet wife and pretend this never happened?"
He stared at her, his mind reeling. "You're not—"
"I'm not on birth control," she said simply. "I stopped months ago. Right around the time you hired me, actually."
"You planned this?"
She smiled, slow and satisfied, like a cat who had got the cream. "I planned everything. I knew exactly what I was doing from the moment I walked into your office. You're predictable, Adrian. You're a man who craves control, but you've never once been able to control what you feel for me."
"Raven—"
"Shh." She pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. "Don't ruin the moment with your guilt. You'll have plenty of time for that later. Right now, I want you to think about what happens next. Because this"—she gestured between them—"this is only the beginning."