Chapter 8: Closet Confessions
The cedar scent thickened, sharp and woody, as Rhys crowded her against the shelves. His injured body moved with a predator’s unnerving grace, ignoring the fresh stitches pulling taut across his shoulder blade. One hand, rough and demanding, gripped the loose silk of her robe. With a sharp, decisive tear, he ripped it completely open. The ruined silk slithered down her arms to pool at her feet like discarded water. She stood utterly bare before him in the cool closet air, the soft light catching the pale curves of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the trembling line of her thighs.
His gaze raked over her, dark and consuming, stripping away any pretense of innocence or hesitation. It wasn’t admiration; it was possession. Assessment. Hunger, raw and immediate. "Open those pretty legs," he growled, the command low and gravelly, vibrating in the confined space. It wasn't a request. It was an order, laced with the promise of what came next.
Sera’s breath hitched, trapped in her throat. Fear, sharp and electric, warred with a terrifying surge of anticipation that pooled low in her belly. Her legs felt like water, unsteady. But under that scorching gaze, the command resonated deep within her, bypassing thought. Slowly, trembling, she shifted her feet apart on the cool marble floor. Just enough. An offering. An acceptance.
A harsh sound, part groan, part approval, escaped Rhys. He sank to his knees before her, the movement fluid despite the obvious strain it put on his wounded back. She saw the muscles in his shoulders knot, saw the fresh bloom of pink seep through the gauze pad she’d just taped over his stitches. The sight was a brutal counterpoint to the intimacy of his position. He ignored it, his focus entirely on the apex of her thighs.
His hands, large and calloused, slid up the insides of her trembling legs, pushing them wider apart with insistent pressure. His thumbs brushed the delicate skin of her inner thighs, sending jolts of sensation up her spine. Then his fingers found her, parting her folds with deliberate roughness. The cool air hit her exposed core, making her gasp. His gaze fixed there, intense, almost clinical for a heartbeat, before he leaned in.
The first touch of his tongue was a lightning strike. Hot, wet, and devastatingly direct against the swollen bud of her clit. Sera cried out, a sharp, involuntary sound that echoed off the cedar shelves. Her hands flew out, scrabbling for purchase against the smooth wood behind her as her knees threatened to buckle.
"Fuck," Rhys muttered against her skin, the vibration sending fresh tremors through her. "Soaked already." His tongue flattened, dragging slowly, deliberately over her clit, applying relentless pressure. It wasn't gentle exploration; it was punishment. Claiming. He licked into her with the same fierce intensity he did everything, his tongue circling, flicking, pressing hard against the hypersensitive nerve bundle until she was whimpering, her head thrown back against the shelves, her fingers digging grooves into the wood.
Then his fingers joined the assault. One thick digit pressed against her entrance, slick with her own arousal. He pushed inside without preamble, stretching her tight, unused muscles. The sudden, blunt invasion stole her breath. She gasped, arching away instinctively, but his hand clamped firmly on her hip, holding her in place against the shelves.
"Take it," he commanded, his voice muffled against her skin as his tongue continued its ruthless work on her clit. His finger pushed deeper, curling slightly, finding a spot inside that made stars explode behind her eyelids. He added a second finger, stretching her wider, the burn intense, almost too much. She cried out again, a ragged sob torn from her throat. Her hips jerked, caught between the instinct to escape the overwhelming sensation and the desperate need to press closer, to get more.
Rhys didn't relent. His tongue lashed her clit with punishing strokes while his fingers pistoned inside her, deep and demanding. The dual assault was relentless, overwhelming her senses. The cedar scent mixed with the musk of her own arousal and the faint metallic tang of his healing wounds. The scrape of his stubble against her inner thigh. The slick, obscene sounds filling the quiet closet. The sharp bite of pain from his fingers stretching her, countered by the building, terrifying pressure coiling tighter and tighter low in her belly.
"Rhys..." she gasped, her voice high and thin, pleading. She didn't know what she was pleading for – stop, or more, or just release from the unbearable tension winding her up like a spring.
He answered by biting down gently on her inner thigh, a sharp sting that made her yelp. His eyes flicked up, meeting hers for a split second. They were dark pools of pure intent, stripped of everything but the drive to fulfill his promise. To break her. To make her cum until she couldn't stand.
His fingers crooked harder inside her, rubbing that spot relentlessly. His tongue focused its assault, flicking rapidly against her clit with pinpoint precision. The coil snapped.
Sera shattered. A raw, guttural cry tore from her throat as the orgasm ripped through her, violent and all-consuming. Her vision whited out. Her legs buckled completely, held up only by his grip on her hip and the shelves behind her. Wave after wave of intense, almost painful pleasure crashed over her, draining every ounce of strength. She trembled violently, gasping for air, tears pricking her eyes.
Rhys didn't stop. He rode the waves of her climax, his tongue relentless, his fingers still working inside her, drawing out the spasms until they became tremors, then weak shudders. Only when she slumped bonelessly against the shelves, whimpering softly, utterly spent, did he slowly withdraw his fingers. He gave her clit one last, lingering lick, slow and possessive, before pulling back slightly.
He stayed kneeling before her, breathing heavily himself, sweat beading on his forehead despite the closet's coolness. His back was a mess; fresh blood stained the gauze pad crimson. He looked up at her, his expression unreadable in the dim light. She was a wreck – trembling, flushed, tear-streaked, her legs still spread wide, utterly exposed and exhausted.
He reached up, his thumb brushing roughly over her swollen lower lip. "One," he stated, his voice rough but devoid of mockery. It was a simple fact. A promise kept. Part one.
Sera whimpered, a frail sound escaping her lips as aftershocks trembled through her. Her fingers still clawed weakly at the cedar shelf behind her, slick with sweat. Every muscle felt liquefied, useless. She couldn't lift her head. The cool air pricked her exposed skin, a sharp contrast to the furnace heat Rhys had ignited deep inside her core.
He didn’t give her respite. Rough thumbs brushed her inner thighs again, pushing them impossibly wider despite her spent trembling. She cried out as his tongue returned, not gentle, not exploring, but demanding. It stabbed ruthlessly at her swollen clit, still hypersensitive from the first brutal climax. His fingers plunged back inside her aching entrance, deeper this time, curling hard. The sharp burn of renewed stretching cut through the haze.
"Another," Rhys growled against her skin, the vibration sending fresh jolts. His voice was gravel scraped raw, devoid of tenderness, focused only on the task. He scraped his teeth lightly over her inner thigh, a primal punctuation to his command. The sensation was sharp, grounding, forcing her raw nerves back into focus against her will. He found that spot inside her again, relentless pressure, while his tongue flicked rapid-fire against her clit. It was too much, too soon, yet her traitorous body arched towards him, seeking the impossible peak again.
The second climax hit like a hammer blow, shorter, sharper, tearing a ragged scream from her throat. Her vision fragmented into blinding white sparks. She convulsed violently against the shelves, her body straining against his punishing grip. Tears streamed freely down her flushed cheeks now, mingling with sweat. She sagged bonelessly, gasping shallow, desperate breaths. Two. The word echoed faintly in her shattered mind. Two.
Rhys withdrew his fingers slowly, slick and glistening. He stood abruptly, ignoring the fresh crimson bloom spreading across his shoulder gauze. Pain tightened his features momentarily, but his eyes remained locked on her, dark and unwavering. "Bed," he commanded, his voice tight with effort and intent. Before she could process it, his hands gripped her waist, hauling her limp form away from the shelves.
Her feet barely touched the floor as he half-carried, half-dragged her out of the cedar-scented closet and towards the vast bed. The plush comforter met her back, cool against her overheated skin. He dropped his towel, his cock thick and rigid, angry against his thigh. The intricate tattoos snaking over his hips seemed to writhe in the dim light. He climbed over her, bracketing her body with his arms, careful despite his urgency to avoid pressing his wounded back onto her completely.
He didn't kiss her. He didn't speak. He simply guided himself to her slick entrance. The blunt, stretching pressure as he pushed inside stole what little breath she had left. She cried out, a hoarse sound muffled against the comforter. It was different from his fingers – deeper, fuller, an invasion that resonated in her bones. He sank into her completely, groaning low in his throat, a sound of profound satisfaction mixed with strain. He held himself there, buried deep, letting her unused muscles clutch and flutter around him, letting her feel the sheer, undeniable presence of him filling her.
Then he moved. Slow, deliberate pulls that dragged against every sensitive nerve ending, followed by deep, grinding thrusts that battered that hidden spot inside her. "Rhys," she gasped, her voice breaking. "Please... too much..." Her hands found his hips, not pushing him away, but clutching, anchoring herself against the tidal wave building once more.
"Not yet," he ground out, driving into her harder. The bedframe creaked softly. Sweat dripped from his jaw onto her collarbone. He shifted, angling himself, finding a rhythm that was pure torture, each thrust sparking fire along her nerves. "Cum for me again." His command was a harsh whisper against her ear. The coiled tension snapped, harder this time, deeper. Her third orgasm rolled through her like a crashing wave, stealing her voice, leaving only choked whimpers and violent tremors. Her body clamped down on his cock in fierce, rhythmic pulses. Three.
He didn't slow. He rode out her spasms, pistoning relentlessly. Her senses blurred. The room swam. She was vaguely aware of his labored breathing, the sting where his stubble scraped her shoulder, the overwhelming scent of sex and sweat and cedar clinging to him. Her body, battered by pleasure, felt heavy, disconnected. He shifted his weight, pulling her hips higher, changing the angle. The new depth sent fresh sparks flying behind her eyes.
"More," Rhys growled, his voice thick with exertion and dark promise. His thrusts became shorter, harder, brutally focused. The pressure built again, a relentless ache blooming low in her belly despite her exhaustion. Her whimpers became frantic, wordless pleas. "Give it to me, Sera." His name was a moan trapped in her throat. She shattered for the fourth time, the climax a deep, shuddering groan torn from her core, less violent than the others, but heavier, pulling her deeper into exhaustion. Four.
He flipped her onto her stomach with surprising speed, pulling her hips back towards him. She gasped as he re-entered her from behind, deeper still. The new position sent fresh bolts of sensation through her overloaded nerves. One hand gripped her hip hard, the other tangled in her damp hair, pulling her head back slightly. The pace was punishing now, jackhammer thrusts that drove her face into the comforter. The world narrowed to the slap of skin, his harsh breaths, the relentless friction igniting her core despite her body screaming for rest. The fifth climax hit without warning, a brutal, convulsive wave that drew a thin, ragged scream from her lungs. Five. She slumped forward, utterly spent, consciousness flickering like a dying bulb.
Rhys didn't stop. He leaned over her, his wounded back screaming, his own release a brutal pressure building at his base. He drove into her limp body, his rhythm faltering only slightly. "Last one," he rasped, breath scorching the nape of her neck. "Cum for me and go the fuck to sleep." His thumb found her clit, pressing hard circles. The sensation was agony on her oversensitive flesh, yet it sparked a final, desperate ember deep within her exhausted core.
"Rhys..." His name escaped her lips, a broken moan etched onto them, the only coherent thought left. A feeble pulse began deep inside, a weak echo of the previous explosions. Her body trembled around his cock in a final, weak flutter. Then darkness crashed over her. Her eyes rolled back. The tremors subsided into stillness. She went utterly limp beneath him, a wet, yielding mess, the faintest pulse still weakly clutching his length even as unconsciousness swallowed her whole.
Rhys thrust once, twice, deeper still, grinding himself into her unconscious heat. A raw, guttural groan tore from him as his own release slammed through him, pumping deep inside her limp body. He collapsed forward, catching his weight on his elbows above her, his breathing ragged, sweat dripping freely onto her slack shoulders.
He stayed there for a long moment, buried within her, feeling the faint, dying pulse of her core against him. The penthouse was silent except for their harsh breathing, his settling into exhausted pants. Slowly, painfully, he pulled out. He looked down at her. She lay utterly still, face pressed into the rumpled comforter, blonde hair plastered to her damp skin. A faint flush still colored her cheeks, her lips slightly parted around the ghost of his name.
He dragged a corner of the comforter over her hips, leaving her bare back exposed to the cool air. The white gauze pad on his shoulder was soaked through crimson. Pain flared anew, sharp and insistent. He sat heavily on the edge of the bed, head bowed, staring into the penthouse darkness. The primal satisfaction of conquest warred with the deep, bloody ache in his back and the unsettling vulnerability shimmering just beneath the surface of the night’s brutal promise kept.
The primal satisfaction of conquest warred with the deep, bloody ache in his back and the unsettling vulnerability shimmering just beneath the surface of the night’s brutal promise kept. Rhys pushed himself upright with a low groan, the muscles across his shoulders protesting violently. Crimson bloomed starkly through the white gauze pad taped over Sera’s careful stitches. He needed to fix that. Now.
He moved stiffly back to the en suite bathroom, the cool marble floor chilling his bare feet. The harsh overhead light revealed the full damage: the gauze was saturated, blood trickling sluggishly down his spine. He peeled it off with gritted teeth, the adhesive pulling at raw skin. The stitches held, strained but intact. He grabbed fresh antiseptic, wincing as the cold liquid bit into the inflamed edges. Clean gauze, fresh tape. A temporary patch.
Silence pressed in, thick and heavy. He glanced towards the bedroom. Sera lay exactly where he’d left her, sprawled face down on the rumpled comforter, utterly still. The rise and fall of her ribs was shallow, rhythmic. Exhaustion radiated from her slack form, blonde hair fanned across her shoulders, skin still flushed pink. A tiny sliver of innocence, utterly spent. He watched her for a long moment, the fierce possessiveness warring with a strange, unfamiliar ache in his chest. She’d stitched him. She hadn’t run. Not yet.
His encrypted phone, discarded earlier on the nightstand beside the whiskey glass and bloody medical wrappers, buzzed insistently. A single, coded vibration. Business. The fragile peace shattered. Rhys scooped it up, his expression hardening, the brief softness evaporating like steam. He padded silently into the expansive, shadowed living area, putting distance between himself and the sleeping girl.
He tapped the screen, connecting the call. No greeting. "Report." His voice was low, gravelly, stripped of everything but cold command.
Marco’s voice, tense and efficient, crackled through the line. "Boss. Cleanup’s done. Location sanitized. No traces." A pause, heavy with unspoken tension. "The shipment? The one Vargas was supposed to intercept?"
Rhys stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the city’s glittering sprawl far below. His reflection was a ghostly outline against the darkness. "Handled." The single word carried the weight of the violence etched onto his back. "Permanently."
Marco exhaled sharply. "Good. Fucker deserved worse." Relief bled into his tone, followed by immediate concern. "The product? Secure?"
"Locked down," Rhys confirmed, his gaze drifting back towards the dark hallway leading to the bedroom. "Safehouse Gamma. Double guard rotation." He pictured the crates – guns, tightly packed bricks of uncut product – tucked away beneath the nondescript facade of a downtown storage facility linked to one of his lesser-known clubs. "Move it tomorrow night. Midnight. Use the tunnel access off 7th."
"Got it, boss." Marco hesitated. "And... you? That sounded messy earlier. On the comms."
Rhys flexed his shoulder, feeling the fresh sting beneath the gauze. "Took a souvenir. Nothing critical." He dismissed the concern. "The ledger? Vargas’s people?"
"Secured," Marco said quickly. "Digital and physical copies. Clean. No loose ends there." Meaning Vargas’s associates wouldn’t find the incriminating records pointing fingers elsewhere. "But... word’s out, Rhys. About Vargas disappearing mid-play. People are jumpy. Asking questions."
"Let them ask." Rhys’s voice was ice. "Let them wonder." Fear was a useful tool. "Anyone gets too curious, point them towards the river. Or the incinerator. Their choice." He paused, the silence heavy. "Scrub Vargas’s known associates. All of them. Deep. Find the leaks. Find who tipped him off about that shipment route."
"You think it was internal?" Marco’s voice tightened.
"Someone got greedy. Or stupid." Rhys’s knuckles whitened around the phone. "Find them. Before they find another loose end to pull." Like the girl sleeping in his bed. The thought sent a fresh spike of cold fury through him. "Make it disappear, Marco. All of it."
"Understood, boss. Consider it gone." Marco’s voice held grim certainty. "Rest up. We’ll handle the sweep."
The line went dead. Rhys lowered the phone, the blue glow fading from his face. The penthouse felt cavernous again, filled only with the low hum of the climate control and the distant pulse of the city. The scent of antiseptic and sex lingered. He walked back towards the bedroom doorway, leaning against the frame.
Sera hadn’t moved. She slept like the dead, her breathing deep and even, one arm curled loosely under her cheek. The comforter still only covered her hips, leaving her bare back exposed. Moonlight filtered through the blinds, catching the delicate curve of her spine, the pale sweep of her shoulder. Utterly vulnerable. Utterly unaware of the guns being moved beneath her city, the bodies being dissolved in acid, the treacherous associates being hunted down because of the violence staining the man watching her sleep.
He’d promised exhaustion. He’d delivered. A brutal, necessary oblivion. Rhys pushed off the doorframe, moving silently to the bed. He didn’t lie down. He sat heavily on the edge, the mattress dipping beside her hip. His gaze traced the lines of her face, softened in sleep. The fierce possessiveness surged again, darker now, edged with a protective ferocity he rarely acknowledged. This tiny sliver of innocence, this unexpected complication… she was his. Stitched into his skin, claimed in his bed.
His hand, rough and stained with the invisible grime of his real business, hovered for a second. Then, with surprising gentleness, he brushed a stray strand of hair from her damp temple. His thumb lingered for a heartbeat on the delicate skin there. She sighed softly in her sleep, nestling slightly into the pillow.
Rhys withdrew his hand, clenching it into a fist on his knee. The vulnerability shimmered again, dangerously close to the surface. He looked down at his hands. They were clean now, washed after tending his wounds. But he knew the blood was still there. Always there. Beneath the surface. Just like hers.