Chapter 14 Chapter Fourteen
Kian.
It was already past midnight, and exhaustion clawed at me like an old enemy, seeping into my bones from the long day and the endless pile of paperwork on my desk.
The office was dim, lit only by the soft glow of my desk lamp and the faint neon bleed from the club below filtering through the blinds. I swiped another report across the desk. Shipment manifests, risk assessments, the usual grind that kept the empire humming, and couldn’t help sneaking a glance at Fianna.
She was passed out on the couch, her chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. Even in sleep, she looked uncomfortable, that tank top twisted awkwardly around her torso, jeans hugging her legs like they were painted on.
I had been trying to shove it out of my mind all night, focusing on the numbers instead of the curve of her body, but it was a losing battle.
I was losing my mind.
I leaned back in my chair, the leather creaking under my weight, and picked up my phone. My thumb hovered over Finn’s contact before I hit the call. It rang twice, then his gruff voice came through, sounding as worn as I felt.
“Hey.”
I sighed, rubbing my temple with my free hand. “How much is Ron’s pack willing to offer for the weapons? It’s a hell of a risk shipping that much weapons through my territory. I don’t approve of it, Finn. Not this volume.”
He paused, the line crackling faintly with whatever background noise he had, probably the hum of the upstairs ops room. “They’re talking a few million. Solid offer. Cover the heat.”
“A few million,” I echoed, my voice flat. I glanced at the clock on the wall and it was 1:15 AM. “I just hope nothing goes to shit. I’m not in the mood to clean up messes right now.”
“We will be careful,” Finn said, his tone clipped, like he was already moving on to the next crisis. “You know the drill.”
“Yeah.” I ended the call without another word, tossing the phone back on the desk. I picked up a bottle of water, unscrewed the cap, and took a long drink, the cool liquid doing nothing to ease the tightness in my chest.
I capped it and set it aside, then stood up, stretching my arms overhead until my shoulders popped. The office felt too small suddenly, the air thick with her perfume, lingering like a ghost.
I walked over to the couch, my boots soft on the carpet, and bent down in front of her. She looked so damn peaceful, only in her drunken stupor.
I gently tapped her cheek with the back of my fingers, my voice a low whisper. “Fianna. Wake up.”
She whined softly, a small, pitiful sound that twisted something in my gut, but her eyes stayed shut, lashes fluttering against her cheeks. I stared at her for a minute, too long, and taking in those gorgeous long lashes, thick and dark, framing eyes that could cut like glass when she was pissed.
Her plump pink lips were parted just a bit, soft and inviting in a way that made my mind wander to places it shouldn’t. Her cheeks, flushed from the alcohol, looked so damn touchable, and her whole face… small, delicate, but with that fierce edge even in sleep.
She was pretty as fuck, no debate about it. And her long auburn hair, spilling over the couch cushion like a cascade of fire, caught the dim light, making me want to run my fingers through it.
A few days ago, if someone had told me I would be this close to Fianna without knives drawn or insults flying, I would have laughed, or shot them. Our history was a battlefield.
But here we were, in this weird situation, her under my roof, me playing reluctant guardian. It was a feeling I couldn’t shake, one I would never get used to. Unsettling.
I sighed, my breath stirring a strand of her hair, and glanced down at her boots. They looked uncomfortable as hell, zipped up tight over her calves. Without thinking too hard about it, I reached for one, gently tugging the zipper down and easing it off her foot. I pried her socks off and her bare foot… fuck.
Painted nails in red, bold and unapologetic, just like her. They were gorgeous, small and perfectly arched, the skin smooth and pale. I couldn’t resist the urge surging through me. I knelt down closer, my heart picking up pace like I had just run a sprint, and lifted her foot slightly. What the hell was I doing? I leaned in, inhaling subtly, clean, a hint of lotion, something floral.
Fuck. Was I developing a foot fetish out of nowhere? The thought hit me like a punch, ridiculous and raw. Suddenly, my mind flooded with images: her laid out naked on a bed, those feet pressing against my chest, her eyes locked on mine.
I groaned low in my throat, the sound echoing in the quiet room, and forced myself to let go, setting her foot down gently before repeating the process with the other boot.
She didn’t stir, thank God. I stood up, shaking my head at my own stupidity, and scooped her up from the couch again in bridal style. Her head was against my shoulder, her breath tickling my neck.
I carried her through the door to the private bedroom attached to the office. This place was basically my home as I crashed here more nights than I did at the apartment. The bed was king-sized, sheets rumpled from the last time I had slept on it. I laid her down carefully, propping her head on a pillow.
Now what? I stood there, my arms crossed, staring down at her. Should I undress her? Wipe her down? I knew she was a neat freak and always had been.
She would wake up tomorrow, hungover and sticky from the club, and be pissed as hell. But it wasn’t my business, right? We weren’t anything. I wasn’t her boyfriend, or her husband and hell, we could barely stand each other on good days.
Frustration boiled up, and I pulled at my hair, tugging hard enough to sting. “Fuck,” I muttered under my breath. But I couldn’t just leave her like that. It felt wrong, like abandoning a duty I hadn’t signed up for but couldn’t shake.
I went back to the bed, my hands hesitant as I reached for the hem of her tank top. Gently, I started easing it up over her head, careful not to snag her hair or wake her.
She whined softly, shifting. “Ouch.”
Fuck. That sound, almost beautiful, sent a shiver down my spine. I froze for a second, but she settled, and I finished pulling the top off, folding it neatly and setting it on the nightstand.
My eyes… they almost fell out of my goddamn head. Her boobs, spilling slightly from a red bra, the color popping against her milky skin. Smooth, perfect curves that made my dick harden instantly, the piercings in it grazing against my pants in a way that was pure torture.
She loved red now? It suited her, fiery and unyielding. Fuck. I shouldn’t be doing this. I was a complete asshole, invading her space like this, but I couldn’t look away. My throat went dry, pulse thundering in my ears.
I stood up abruptly, turning off the light. The room plunged into near-darkness, except for the thin sliver of moonlight sneaking through the curtains. Better. Safer.
My hands shook, actually fucking shook as I went back to her, my fingers fumbling with the button on her jeans. I slid them down her legs, inch by inch, trying like hell to avoid touching her skin, but it was impossible.
Her flesh was warm and soft under my fingertips, and when the jeans came off, her matching red panties stared back at me.
Thong? Lace edges? I didn’t let my eyes linger, but my body reacted anyway. My throat was tight, my dick throbbing so bad it hurt, I stepped back, breathing heavy.
I bolted to the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind me. Leaning against the sink, I palmed my dick through my pants, groaning out loud as sweat beading on my forehead.
How many times had she gotten me hard just by existing? Too many. I couldn’t count anymore. Splashing cold water on my face did nothing. Fuck. I grabbed a small towel, wetting it under the faucet, and took deep breaths, trying to steady myself. In… out. Focus on the task. Wipe her down, cover her up, get the hell out.
But then I heard a soft, muffled sound from the bedroom. Was she awake? I pushed the door open, towel in hand, and stepped back in. Her eyes were still closed, but she was tossing on the bed now, brows furrowed, tears slipping down her cheeks. Crying? In her sleep?
I moved quickly, dropping the towel on the nightstand and sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Hey,” I whispered, patting her back gently, my hand large against her small frame. “Fianna, you’re fine. You’re okay. It’s just a nightmare.”
She whimpered again, but after a few minutes of my awkward soothing, rubbing circles on her back, and murmuring nonsense, the tension eased from her body. She went quiet. I picked up the towel, damp and cool, and started wiping her down. I started with her hands, gentle strokes over her fingers, up her arms. Down to her tummy, the skin there was soft and warm under the cloth.
I kept my touches clinical, or tried to, using the faint light to guide me. When I was done, I stepped back, tossing the towel in the hamper.
This was abnormal. All of it. My reaction to her, the protectiveness, the goddamn arousal.
it had to be because I hadn’t fucked anyone for a while. The grind of work had me buried too deep. Yeah, that was it. I needed a release.
I gritted my teeth, pulling the duvet up over her, tucking it around her shoulders. She sighed in her sleep, nestling deeper, and I had to turn away before I did something stupid.
I marched back into the office, I grabbed my phone, scrolling through contacts until I landed on one.
Sasha. I typed out the message, thumbs flying.
“Hey. Up for a fuck?”
Her response pinged back almost immediately.
“Not even a bit romantic?”
I scrunched my forehead, annoyance flickering. What was this, a date? I typed back: “I will take that as a NO.”
She replied. “Can’t take a joke? See you in your office in ten minutes.”
I stared at the screen, then glanced back at the open bedroom door. Fianna’s form was visible in the shadows, peaceful now.
No way. Not here. Not with her in the next room.
I typed. “Let’s use your condo.”