THIRTY

THIRTY

We barely made it through the front door before I turned on him.

“What the hell was that, Wesley?”

My voice echoed off the marble floors, louder than I expected, but I didn’t care. My heart was still pounding from the club. From the glass. From the gun. From him.

He didn’t answer. He kept walking. Calm, like I hadn’t said a thing.

I followed. “Seriously? That’s it? You’re just gonna walk around like that wasn’t a complete disaster?”

Still nothing.

I stopped near the bottom of the stairs. “We could’ve left,” I snapped. “We didn’t have to taunt them. We didn’t have to—whatever that was—we didn’t have to make it worse!”

Wesley slowed a little, shoulders tight under his shirt. But he still didn’t speak.

I kept going.

“This thing between us, this game you keep playing, using me like a prop one second and then kissing me like it means something the next—” I shook my head, voice rising. “You won’t even put a fucking name to it!”

He stopped at the top of the stairs.

I could see the way his jaw shifted from down here. The little tick it made when he was holding something back.

Then—he waved his hand. Like he was brushing me off.

Like I was a tantrum he didn’t have time for.

I nearly saw red.

“Don’t you dare walk away from me right now.”

He did.

Didn’t say a word.

Just turned and disappeared down the hall toward his room.

And of course, like an idiot, I followed.

I wasn’t done.

My shoes tapped fast over the wood floor as I chased after him, every word I hadn’t said in days boiling over.

“Wesley—”

He pushed open his bedroom door and walked straight in. I didn’t wait for an invite.

“You’re not going to silence me with another smirk or another kiss or whatever the hell that stunt was. You don’t get to use me and then go cold the second it’s convenient—”

I stopped.

He was undoing the buttons on his shirt, jacket already on the bed. His movements were slow, steady. And with each button that fell open, more of that bruised, still-damp skin came into view.

I blinked.

But I didn’t stop talking.

He turned toward me, shirt hanging open. “I didn’t use you,” he said calmly.

My laugh was sharp. “You didn’t use me? Then what would you call dragging me into the middle of a mafia club brawl and kissing me like I’m part of the act?”

He stepped closer.

And I didn’t move.

He kept undressing as I kept talking.

Jacket tossed. Shirt halfway unbuttoned now. And I didn’t even notice at first—not really. I was pacing near the foot of his bed, words spilling from me like I’d been holding them in too long.

“—and you don’t even ask. You just decide we’re doing this little mafia performance, and I’m expected to play along without question. Again.”

His shirt hit the floor.

He stepped toward me, but I didn’t stop.

“I’m not your puppet, Wesley. I’m not your warning sign, or your chess piece, or your—whatever the hell you think I am in this twisted game you’re playing with Marco.”

He was closer now. Close enough that I could feel the heat coming off his skin.

“And for the love of God—” I spun toward him fully, breathing hard. “Stop fucking with me in public!”

The words echoed a second longer than they should’ve. The air in the room stilled.

Wesley didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch.

He just stared at me. Dead in the eye.

Then he said, low and rough, “How’s this for public?”

Before I could respond—before I could even think—he stepped forward, gripped my waist, and kissed me.

Hard.

No audience. No one to convince. No cover. Just heat.

The kind that hits you in your knees.

I froze. Shock punched the air from my lungs.

This wasn’t like the others. Not the kiss at the club. Not the act at dinner.

This one had nothing to do with anyone else.

He wasn’t showing off.

He was claiming.

And God help me—I kissed him back.

His hands were on my lower back now, pulling me closer until there was no space between us. My fingers, completely betraying me, slid up his chest. His bare chest. Warm and tense under my palms.

I barely registered when he walked me backward until my knees hit the edge of the bed.

I sat. He followed.

There were no words.

No planning.

Only skin and motion and breath.

My hands tugged at his belt, his fingers already under my shirt, pulling fabric away like it offended him.

My voice caught when he paused—mouth at my jaw, breath hot.

“Just tell me to stop,” he whispered.

I didn’t.

I couldn’t.

And he didn’t wait long.

Wesley didn’t stop.

And neither did I.

We moved like two people finally giving in to something that had been building since the moment we met—slow, then fast, then nothing short of desperate.

My back hit the sheets and his body followed. Warm skin, hard muscle, the weight of him pressing into me, grounding me. His mouth trailed down my neck, unhurried, like he was mapping it with his lips. Every touch set something off inside me—each glide of his hand, each graze of his fingers along the inside of my thigh, making it harder to breathe.

He wasn’t gentle.

But he wasn’t rough, either.

He was just… real. Focused. Like every movement had intention behind it. Like he wasn’t just taking—he was giving.

There was a moment—right before everything blurred—when he looked down at me, his thumb brushing the edge of my jaw, his mouth inches from mine.

“Still not telling me to stop,” he whispered.

I swallowed hard. “No.”

And then he kissed me again—slow this time, like he had all the time in the world. His hand slid behind my knee, guiding my leg up, and the feel of him against me made everything tilt.

I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath until he was fully there—fully inside me—and I exhaled like it knocked the wind out of my chest.

Everything after that was sensation.

The way his hips moved against mine. The low sound he made when I pulled him closer. My name, muttered against my skin like a warning and a promise.

And God, I matched him. Every motion. Every sound.

The room was quiet except for us—the way we breathed, the way we moved, the way the bed creaked beneath us. I wasn’t thinking anymore. I wasn’t hiding. There was no control, no performance.

Only heat. Pressure. Release.

And when it came, it hit me like a wave. Sudden and dizzying. I gasped his name before I could stop myself, fingers digging into his back as the world came undone around me.

He wasn’t far behind.

His body tensed, breath catching, a deep groan pressed into the side of my neck as he gave in—completely.

Then stillness.

Heavy and hot and tangled.

He rolled off me slowly, onto his side of the bed, not saying a word. His breathing was still ragged. So was mine.

I stared at the ceiling, chest rising and falling, trying to remember how to exist in a world that made sense.

My skin still tingled. My lips were sore. My legs were useless.

And my heart?

It was somewhere else entirely.

I blinked once. Twice.

Then whispered to the empty room, mostly to myself.

“What the fuck just happened?”