Chapter 6: The Marathon Begins
The door to the penthouse slammed shut behind them, and Amber barely had time to drop her purse before Kash had her against the wall.
Not gently.
Her back hit the velvet wallpaper with a soft thud, and his mouth was on hers before she could catch her breath. His hands were everywhere—her waist, her hips, the curve of her ass—pulling her closer like he was trying to fuse them together.
"Kash—" she gasped against his lips.
"Don't." He kissed her jaw, her throat, the sensitive spot behind her ear. "Don't say anything. Just let me—"
Let me what?
She didn't get to ask. He lifted her like she weighed nothing, her legs wrapping around his waist on instinct, and carried her through the penthouse without breaking the kiss. She felt the cool air of the living room, heard the distant hum of the city through the windows, and then they were in his bedroom, and he was lowering her onto the edge of the bed.
The sheets were still warm.
She'd been here two hours ago. Had left for her shift at the bakery with a kiss on his forehead and a promise to call later. And now she was back, and something was different.
Something was hungry.
Kash stood over her, chest heaving, eyes dark. His Henley was stretched across his shoulders, and she could see the tension in his arms, the way his hands were clenched at his sides.
"Take it off," she said.
"Take what off?"
"All of it." She reached for the hem of her own shirt and pulled it over her head. "Or I will."
He didn't need to be told twice.
The Henley hit the floor. His jeans followed. And then he was on her again, pressing her into the mattress, his skin hot against hers.
"Tell me what you want," he said against her collarbone.
"You."
"That's not specific."
"I don't care." She arched into him, her nails raking down his back. "Just—please."
He pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes were wild, pupils blown wide, and there was something almost feral in the set of his jaw.
"Please what?"
"Please stop talking."
He laughed—a low, rough sound that vibrated through her chest—and then he was kissing her again, and there was nothing gentle about it.
---
He took her against the wall first.
Her legs wrapped around his waist, her back against the velvet wallpaper, her hands fisted in his hair. He drove into her with a rhythm that was punishing and desperate, like he was trying to prove something, like he was trying to claim something.
"Kash—" His name tore out of her throat, raw and broken.
He didn't answer. Just buried his face in her neck and kept going, his hips slamming against hers, the sound of their bodies meeting echoing off the walls.
She came like that—fast and hard, her vision going white, her nails leaving crescents in his shoulders. He didn't stop. Didn't even slow down.
"Again," he growled.
"I can't—"
"You can."
And she did.
---
The bed came next.
He bent her over the end of it, her feet barely touching the floor, her hands gripping the sheets. He was behind her, one hand on her hip, the other tangled in her hair.
"Tell me if it's too much," he said.
"It's not enough."
He hissed through his teeth and thrust into her. Deep. Hard. The kind of deep that made her forget her own name.
The rhythm was different now. Slower. More deliberate. Like he was trying to memorize the feel of her, the shape of her, the way she clenched around him every time he pulled back.
"God, Amber—"
She couldn't respond. Couldn't do anything but hold on and take it.
Her thighs were shaking. Her voice was hoarse from screaming his name. And still, he didn't stop.
Not when she clawed at his back.
Not when she begged him for mercy.
Not when the sheets were soaked through and the sun started to rise.
---
He flipped her onto her back sometime around three in the morning.
She'd lost count of how many times she'd come. Lost track of where her body ended and his began. All she knew was that he was still hard inside her, still moving, still looking at her like she was the only thing keeping him alive.
"I need—" She couldn't finish the sentence.
"What?" He kissed her forehead, her eyelids, the corner of her mouth. "Tell me what you need."
"You."
"That's still not specific."
She laughed—or tried to. It came out as a breathless wheeze. "Just you. Just—keep going."
He smiled. Soft. Tender. A jarring contrast to the way he was fucking her.
"Whatever you want," he said. "I'm not stopping until you tell me to."
---
So he didn't.
He went down on her instead, his tongue flat against her clit, his fingers curling inside her. She came twice like that, her thighs clamped around his head, her hands fisted in his hair.
He kissed his way back up her body. Licked the salt from her skin. Whispered things against her neck that she was too far gone to understand.
And then he slid back inside her.
She was raw. Sensitive. Every nerve ending firing at once. And still, she arched into him, pulled him closer, wrapped her legs around his waist.
"You're going to kill me," she whispered.
"Probably." He kissed her throat. "But what a way to go."
She laughed again. Real this time. And then he started moving, and the laughter turned into something else.
Something that sounded like his name.
---
The first light of dawn crept through the sheer curtains, painting the room in shades of gold and grey. Amber was sprawled across the bed, her body boneless, her mind blank.
Kash was beside her, propped up on one elbow, watching her.
She couldn't remember the last time someone had looked at her like that. Like she was something precious. Something worth holding onto.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing."
"Stop saying that."
"Stop asking."
She rolled her eyes and tried to sit up. Her body protested. Everything ached. The good kind of ache. The kind that reminded her exactly what they'd spent the last six hours doing.
"I should go," she said.
"Why?"
"Because I have a shift in two hours."
"So call in."
"I can't call in. I own the place."
"Then open late." He reached out and pulled her back down, tucking her against his chest. "You need to sleep."
"I need to shower."
"Shower later."
"Kash—"
"Amber."
She sighed and let herself relax against him. Just for a minute. Just to catch her breath.
"Okay," she said. "But only because I can't feel my legs."
He laughed, and the sound rumbled through his chest. "That's fair."
---
She woke up three hours later to an empty bed and the smell of coffee.
Her body protested as she sat up, every muscle screaming in protest. She found her underwear on the floor, her shirt draped over a chair, and pulled them on with shaking hands.
Kash was in the kitchen when she shuffled out, wearing nothing but low-slung sweatpants. He was leaning against the counter, phone in one hand, coffee in the other.
"I called the bakery," he said without looking up. "They said they'd manage."
"You called my bakery?"
"They said you sounded like you needed a day off."
"I didn't sound like anything. I wasn't there."
"I told them you had a family emergency."
She crossed her arms. "You lied."
"I handled it." He finally looked up, and his expression softened. "You look like hell."
"Gee, thanks."
"I mean it in the best way." He set down his phone and walked over, cupping her face in his hands. "You look wrecked. Beautiful. Mine."
Her heart stuttered.
"Kash—"
"I know." He kissed her forehead. "I know it's too soon. I know you're not ready. But I meant what I said, Amber. I'm not going anywhere."
She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him that he was moving too fast, that she wasn't worth this kind of devotion, that he was going to regret it.
But she was tired. Too tired to fight.
So she just nodded and let him pull her into his arms.
---
They spent the rest of the day in bed.
Not having sex—well, mostly not having sex—but existing. Coexisting. He ordered food from a Thai place she'd never heard of, and they ate in bed with the curtains drawn and the TV on low.
He asked her questions. Real questions. What her favorite childhood memory was. What she wanted to be when she grew up. What her mother's laugh sounded like.
She answered. Hesitantly at first, then more openly. Told him about the time her mom had danced with her in the kitchen to Diana Ross. About the way her dad used to make pancakes on Sunday mornings before he disappeared. About the years she'd spent bouncing between foster homes, never staying long enough to feel like she belonged anywhere.
Kash listened. Didn't interrupt. Didn't try to fix it.
When she was done, he kissed her knuckles and said, "You're not alone anymore."
She didn't know what to say to that.
So she didn't say anything.
---
By evening, she'd stopped shaking.
Her body still ached, but it was a distant ache now. Background noise. The kind of pain that came with healing.
Kash was in the bathroom, shower running, steam curling under the door. Amber sat on the edge of the bed, her phone in her hand.
She'd been ignoring it all day. Ignoring the text she'd gotten from Lena last night, right after she'd hung up. Ignoring the voicemail. Ignoring the knowledge that there was a woman out there who knew Kash—really knew him—and wanted to tell her everything.
Her finger hovered over the voicemail icon.
She pressed it.
"Amber, it's Lena. I know you're probably thinking I'm just some jealous ex. I'm not. I'm someone who cares about Kash. Someone who's watched him destroy every good thing that's ever come into his life. I'm not saying you should leave him. I'm saying you should know what you're getting into. Call me back."
She deleted the voicemail before she could think twice.
Kash came out of the bathroom a minute later, a towel around his waist, his chest still damp. He looked at her, then at the phone in her hand.
"You okay?"
"Fine."
He tilted his head. "You sure?"
"Just tired."
It was a lie. And from the look on his face, he knew it.
But he didn't push. Just walked over and kissed the top of her head.
"Come back to bed," he said.
She did.
And when he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, she let herself pretend that everything was fine.
That there was no other shoe waiting to drop.
That she wasn't about to get her heart broken.
The lie felt good.
Almost as good as being in his arms.
Almost.