Chapter eighty three

Chapter eighty three
Alexander pov.
My chest was still heaving like I’d run ten blocks without stopping. Every breath pulled in more of him—sweat, smoke, that faint expensive cologne he always wore that somehow still managed to smell like money and trouble.

Brandon had me so fucking worked up I could barely think straight, and he hadn’t even tried. He just existed there, shirtless now, shorts slung low on his hips, looking at me with those wide, unguarded eyes that made him seem smaller than he actually was. Like a stray dog that had finally found someone who might not kick it and was too scared to believe it.

“What?” I snapped before I could stop myself. For a split second I forgot he was technically my boss. Forgot the entire fucked-up power dynamic we’d been dancing around for months. All I could see was the way his lips were still swollen from earlier, the faint red mark on his throat where I’d bitten too hard, the way his pupils were blown wide even now.

He blinked once, slow, like he was processing the tone. Then he crushed the half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray with more force than necessary. “You’re being very rude.”

I almost laughed. Rude. That was rich coming from the man who’d just had me inside him less than twenty minutes ago, who’d begged in broken whispers, who’d clawed at my back like he was afraid I’d vanish if he let go.

“So what?” I shot back, crossing my arms over my bare chest because I needed something to do with my hands before I did something stupid. Like touch him again. “You gonna fire me?”

He stood up fast. Shorts riding lower. 
I should’ve held my ground. Should’ve stayed rooted where I was, kept the wall of sarcasm and distance between us. But the second he got close—close enough that I could feel the heat rolling off his skin, smell the lingering smoke on his breath—my body betrayed me. I took one step back. Then another. Until my spine hit the cool wall and there was nowhere left to go.

He stopped inches away. Just stood there, chest rising and falling in time with mine. His eyes flicked down to my mouth, then back up. Searching. Like he was trying to read something in my face that I didn’t even know was written there.

“Kingsley…” he said softly.
My name sounded different when he said it like that. 

His hand lifted slow—giving me every chance to dodge, to shove him away, to remind him we had rules about this shit. I didn’t move. Couldn’t. His fingertips brushed my cheek, feather-light, then flattened against my jaw. I closed my eyes without meaning to. Leaned my head back against the wall, fighting the instinct to press into his palm like some touch-starved animal.

He traced the line of my cheekbone. The shell of my ear. The tense muscle at the corner of my jaw. Slow. Careful. Like he was mapping me out, committing every inch to memory in case this disappeared when the sun came up.

“What are you doing?” My voice came out thinner than I wanted. Barely above a whisper.

He didn’t answer. His thumb slid over my bottom lip, pressing just enough to part them. Then one finger slipped inside. I groaned low in my throat before I could stop it. That was all it took.

His other hand curled around the back of my neck, firm, possessive. Then his mouth was on mine.

Jesus fucking Christ. He’s kissing me?!

It started rough—open, desperate, all teeth and tongue and months of everything we’d been holding back. I tasted smoke, salt, the faint copper where I’d bitten his lip earlier. My hands flew to his chest, palms flat, ready to shove him away, to remind us both this was supposed to stay complicated and distant.

But my fingers curled into his skin instead. Slid up over collarbone, around his neck, tangled in his hair. I yanked him closer, angled my head, kissed him back like I was drowning and he was air.

He made a small, wrecked noise against my mouth—half moan, half relief—and pressed his whole body flush against mine. Hip to hip. Chest to chest. One thigh pushed between my legs; I opened for him without hesitation, letting him grind slow and filthy until sparks shot behind my closed lids.

We broke apart gasping. Foreheads pressed together. Breathing ragged.

Then he moved.

His hands slid to my hips, gripping hard. In one smooth push he spun us—my back left the wall, his strength surprising me even now—and walked me backward toward the bed. Oh fuck! I should stop him. 

Open-mouthed kisses trailed across my collarbone—hot, wet. Down the center of my chest. He paused at one nipple, flicked his tongue over it once, teasing, then sucked hard enough to make my back arch off the bed. A curse ripped out of me. He smiled against my skin.

I threaded my fingers through his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan against my chest. “Brandon—”

“I can try”. 

“Try what?” I frown, trying to stop myself from moaning. 

“A relationship. What you want, I can try”.