Chapter 17: Fire and Friction
Selene
The moment Adrian’s lips meet mine, everything else fades—the city lights, the buildings, even my common sense along with everything .
His kiss is deep and demanding, his hands slipping up beneath the hem of my top like he’s been craving this touch since the moment we parted ways yesterday. And maybe he has. I know I have.
I push up onto my toes, pressing my body into his, feeling the firm ridge already straining against his jeans. He groans low in his throat and backs me toward the wall, our mouths colliding again and again like neither of us can get enough.
“God, I missed this,” he mutters against my skin, lips trailing down my jaw to the hollow of my throat.
“You kissed me last night,” I gasp, laughing breathlessly.
“Not like this.”
My top hits the floor, followed by my bra. He pulls back just long enough to look at me, hands roaming slowly over my curves like he’s memorizing me. Then he lifts me in one swift motion, my legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he carries me toward the massive bedroom.
His bed is immaculate , sheets crisp like he’s never quite gotten used to sleeping in them. That won’t be a problem tonight.
He lays me down carefully, reverently, like I’m something precious—and then promptly tears off his clothes like he can’t wait another second.
I suck in a breath.
It’s not just that he’s ripped—though, yes, God, he is. It’s the way he looks at me, like I’m the only woman he’s ever seen naked and the only one he’ll ever want to see baked again and that cock is hard and thick waiting to fill me up.
My skirt is next, sliding down my legs as he kisses his way lower, teasing, worshipping, letting his mouth do things that make my back arch and my thoughts scatter.
“Adrian—” I gasp, fingers tangling in his hair.
He looks up at me with a wicked grin. “Say it again.”
“Adrian.”
“Louder.”
I moan his name this time, and he laughs softly, dragging his mouth up my body again until his body is over me, eyes locked with mine.
“Tell me you want this.”
“I do,” I whisper, breathless. “God, I do.”
And then he’s inside me with a hard thrust, my pussy stretching to accommodate him as he fills me completely . .
The world tilts off its axis as the pleasure begins to build.
We move together, wild and urgent and messy. It’s not sweet or careful. It’s raw need. Almost forty eight hours of tension erupting into movement and moans and skin against skin. The headboard slams rhythmically against the wall as he pounds me relentlessly. My nails leave red trails down his back and ass. His teeth graze my shoulder and nibble the top of my boobs . We lose ourselves in each other completely, again and again.
By the time we finally collapse, tangled in sweaty sheets and twisted limbs,hours later. I feel like I’ve been set on fire from the inside out.
He rolls onto his back, chest heaving, pulling me with him until I’m sprawled over his chest, both of us trying to catch our breath.
“Holy shit,” he says.
“That… was not a goodnight kiss .”
He laughs, deep and lazy, and kisses the top of my head. “That was a ‘you’re not going anywhere’ kiss.”
Later, after we’ve both cooled off and cleaned up, he insists on cooking.
Yes—cooking. The man who could order anything from anywhere insists on making grilled steak, asparagus, and some kind of rosemary butter potatoes like he’s been watching food shows just to impress me.
He tosses me one of his tshirts—oversized, soft, and smelling like him—and I sit on the counter watching him move around the kitchen shirtless, hair still damp from the shower, looking like a sin.
“You’re domesticated ,” I tease, sipping a glass of wine. “That’s adorable.”
“Don’t let it fool you. I only do this for special guests.”
I smirk. “Oh, so I’m a guest now?”
“No,” he says, looking up from the skillet. “You’re the guest.”
Dinner is good. Too good. I forget I’m supposed to keep my guard up. He keeps the conversation light, teasing, but between each glass of wine and stolen touch, I feel myself slipping into something dangerous.
Comfort.
After dinner, we take another shower—slower this time. Fewer fireworks. More heat. More teasing. He washes my hair, fingers working gently through the strands while I lean into his touch, wondering how the hell I got here and how I’m supposed to leave.
We finally tumble into bed again, limbs tangled under the covers, bodies still humming.
He runs a hand over my side. “You good?”
“I’m better than good,” I say softly. “But I feel like I should ask… what happens now?”
He’s quiet for a moment.
“I’ve got a packed week,” he admits. “Meetings. A few investor pitches. But I want you with me when you can. We’ll balance it. You’ll have space if you need it. But I want you around, and evenings are ours. I want to fall asleep with you in my arms and wake up the same way."
My heart does a slow, stupid somersault. “You’re serious.”
“I haven’t been this serious in a long time.” He confesses quietly.
He kisses me again—gentler this time—and I let myself believe him.
Until his phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Adrian reaches over, glances at the screen.
His entire expression shifts as his body stills.
I sit up slightly, blinking away the haze. “What is it?”
He hesitates a beat too long before setting the phone down face down.
“No one important,” he says.
Liar.
But I don’t press.
Not until he slips into the bathroom.
Only then do I slide the phone upright and glance at the screen still lit up from the notification.
Text from: Bianca
Miss me yet? Because I’ve got a feeling you will soon… especially when you find out where I’ve been and what I’ve found out. 💋
My blood runs cold.
Bianca.
Who the hell is Bianca? I can feel that unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach .