Chapter 22 The Sound He Heard
Coralyn's POV
.I sit there on the edge of the bed, my hands still tingling from where they’d been pressed against him.
Against the hard, unmistakable shape of him through the heavy denim of his jeans.
My palms feel branded, the heat of his skin through the fabric still radiating in my nerves.
My heart is slamming against my ribs so loud I’m sure he can hear it in the sudden, heavy silence of the room.
Orion lets go of my wrists the second I start to pull back.
He doesn’t step away dramatically, he just creates space between us.
His chest rises and falls in ragged, shallow bursts, like he’s the one who needs to catch his breath.
I can’t look at his face. Not yet. The physical proof of his hunger for me is still etched into my memory, a terrifying and thrilling weight.
“Oh god,” I mumble. The words slip out before I can stop them, sounding small and cracked in the vastness of the suite. I try to laugh or just do something light, something to pretend this isn't the most mortifying moment of my life but it comes out more like a pathetic, shaky hiccup.
He doesn’t laugh back. He doesn’t move to make it easier for me.
Instead, he reaches for the dress that’s still bunched around my waist. His movements are slow, gentle, almost clinical in their restraint. He guides my arms back through the sleeves, his large hands careful as he pulls the silk fabric up over my shoulders. His fingers brush my skin only when they absolutely have to, leaving trails of fire in their wake. The zipper rasps up halfway before he stops, his knuckles grazing the dip of my spine.
“We need to stop,” he says. His voice is rough, like gravel dragged over velvet, vibrating with a tension he’s barely holding back. “I do want you, Cora. More than you know. But not like this.”
I finally force myself to meet his eyes. They’re dark, the pupils blown so wide they nearly swallow the iris, but there’s something steady in them too. A terrifyingly protective clarity.
“Not when you’ve been drinking,” he adds quietly, his gaze dropping to my mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back up. “Not when you might wake up tomorrow and hate me for it.”
I open my mouth to argue—to tell him the wine just gave me the courage to ask for what I already wanted—but the words stick. The room tilts just enough to remind me that the world is still a little soft around the edges.
He stands, his presence looming over me for a heartbeat before he walks to the mini-fridge. He pulls out a bottle of water, the plastic crinkling as he cracks the cap, and hands it to me.
“Drink.”
I take it, my fingers brushing his. I drink until the bottle is half empty.
He watches the line of my throat as I swallow, his jaw tight. He nods toward the bathroom. “You okay to get there on your own?”
“Yeah,” I say, too quick. My pride flares up, shielding the raw vulnerability underneath. “I’m fine. I can handle myself.”
He doesn’t push. He just steps back, retreating into the shadows of the room. “I’ll be out here if you need me.”
I nod, clutching the water bottle like a lifeline, and shuffle into the bathroom. I shut the door and turn the lock.
The click sounds final, a barrier between his restraint and my... Whatever is wrong with me.
I lean against the cool wood, my forehead resting on the door, and let out a long, shuddering breath.
The tiles are icy under my bare feet. I set the water on the vanity, turn on the faucet, and let the tub fill with lukewarm water. I don’t want a full bath, I just need to ground myself.
I don't even take the dress off all the way; I just shrug it around my hips and sink into the porcelain basin, drawing my knees to my chest. The water laps at my thighs, soaking the silk and making it cling to my skin like a second, heavier layer of desire.
My head clears faster than I expect, the steam and the silence working together. I’m not completely sober, but I’m sharp enough that the embarrassment crashes in with full force.
I begged him. I literally begged him to take my dress off. And then. God—when he finally showed me he wanted me, when I felt the sheer, staggering size of his need, I froze.
My hands remember. The heat of him. The way he had jumped under my palms when I pressed harder, the low, guttural sound he made in his throat—a sound of pure, unadulterated want.
I close my eyes, leaning my head back against the edge of the tub.
The memory loops.
His forehead against mine. His voice rasping, “Does this feel like I don’t want you?”
Fuck.
Heat pools low in my belly, thick and insistent. It’s an ache that the water can’t reach. My mind keeps drifting back to the bed, to the way his jeans felt—the hard, heavy ridge of him. I wonder how he would have felt without the denim. I wonder if he’s still out there, pacing, wanting me just as much.
My hand moves without my permission. It slips under the water, the ripples silent, and slides under the hem of the dress. My fingertips find the damp, thin cotton of my underwear. I press against clit, hesitant at first, a slow, tentative circle.
My breath hitches, echoing off the tile walls.
I picture his face in the dim light of the bedroom—jaw tight, eyes burning with a hunger he was trying so hard to kill for my sake. I imagine those rough, calloused hands holding mine there, forcing me to feel every inch of him.
Another circle. Firmer this time. The friction is a sharp contrast to the cool water.
My other hand grips the porcelain edge of the tub so hard my knuckles turn white. Water sloshes softly against my ribs. I bite my lip, trying to stifle the sound of my own mounting desperation.
Faster now. The ache builds, sweet and agonizing. I imagine what it would’ve felt like if he hadn’t been so damned noble. If he’d pushed me back onto the pillows, pinned my wrists above my head, and finished what I’d started. If he’d stripped the dress away and replaced the water with the weight of his body.
A soft, broken moan escapes my lips.
The tension in my body is a wire pulled too tight, vibrating toward a breaking point. I'm right there, at the edge of the cliff, my hips aching slightly out of the water.
Click.
I yelp, yanking my hand out of the water so fast a spray of droplets hits my chest.
Orion stands in the doorway, his hand still on the knob. His eyes are wide, sweeping over the sight of me drenched in the tub, my dress hiked up, my face flushed with a different kind of fever.
"I heard noises," he says, his voice sounding like it’s been torn from his throat. "I thought... Cora?”