Page 17

TWELVE

Killian

I arrived home to find an alert waiting on my phone before I reached the penthouse. Jamie was in the corridor outside on my floor.

Not inside. Not breaking in this time. Just sitting there, back pressed to the wall next to my apartment door, arms crossed over his chest, head tipped back as if he might’ve been asleep. But I knew better—his jaw was too tight, his posture coiled.

I stopped short. How the hell had he gotten past front desk security?

“What are you doing here?” I asked as soon as the elevator doors opened.

Jamie opened one eye. “We need to talk.”

I glanced back at the elevator door, nerves tightening in my gut. I had the penthouse—if anyone saw him up here… “How in the hell did you get up here?”

“I have my ways,” he said, not moving.

“You can’t be here.

“Let me inside.”

“Jesus, what if someone saw you?” I snapped, voice low but sharp. “Do you have any idea?—”

“Well to be fair, you wouldn’t be happy if I broke in again,” he cut in, standing now. His tone was clipped, tension rolling off him in waves. “Thought I’d try the front door like a normal person.”

I stared at him for a beat too long. Then, I cursed under my breath and yanked the door open. “Get the fuck inside.”

He stepped past me, buzzing with something I couldn’t name, and I followed him in, slamming the door behind us.

The silence inside stretched taut, brittle enough to snap.

I turned on him the second the door clicked shut. “What are you doing here, Jamie?”

He didn’t hesitate. “You’re in my head,” he said, voice raw, barely held together. “I can’t get you out. And I liked being on my knees for you.”

There was no shame in the way he said it—just quiet intensity, as though it had meant something more than sex.

As if he’d found a moment of silence in the chaos when I’d had my hands on him.

Maybe it wasn’t about submission or giving up control—maybe it was about choosing to hand it over, for a breath, and trusting someone not to hurt him with it.

That hit like a punch. Not only the words, but the honesty of them. His eyes were wild with something that looked too much like need.

I dragged a hand through my hair, pacing once before facing him again. “Jamie, you have a record, you can’t come here. Jesus, you killed your parents.”

“Accidentally,” he said and narrowed his gaze at me.

“There was a suspicion that the son they’d tortured and abused might or might not have set a fire to kill them, but hey, the electrics were bad and it was a happy accident.

” He leaned into me. “And it was fucking amazing to know they weren’t going to hurt me anymore. ”

“And then your uncle.”

“Oh yeah, torturer number three. I definitely planned that one.”

“Fuck!”

“I’d like to.”

“Jesus, what we did… that wasn’t a thing. That was you desperate and me losing my goddamn mind.”

He flinched as if I’d struck him, then squared his shoulders. “You didn’t look like it wasn’t a thing when you were shaking above me.”

I breathed out hard. “Don’t.”

“You don’t get to tell me it didn’t mean anything when you fucked my mouth and enjoyed it.”

I pressed my hands to my hips, trying to find steady ground.

Was this what he thought he wanted? For me to shove him down, get rough, force my cock down his throat as if that act alone could patch up all the cracks inside him?

Was it punishment he was chasing? Validation?

A moment where he didn’t have to think, just feel?

I couldn’t tell, and that terrified me. I wasn’t a mind reader, and I wasn’t about to use him as a means to feel needed if I didn’t understand what I was walking into.

The Dom/sub thing wasn’t even my lane. Yeah, I liked it rough.

Yeah, I was a top. But I wasn’t some magic cure-all for someone chasing subspace like it was his salvation.

“Whatever you think you need—I’m not that guy. ”

“You don’t know what I need,” he said evenly, but there was a flicker in his voice—something brittle.

He stepped toward me slowly, deliberately, and I felt the shift in the air.

He looked calm, too calm, as if he’d stuffed all the chaos down where I couldn’t reach it.

“It’s just sex, and you liked it last time. ”

“You were insane, you?— ”

“Just sex,” he whispered.

But I didn’t believe him—not really. His voice sounded too careful, too level, as if he were trying to make it easy for me to walk away or maybe, not scare me off.

Where was his fire? The snarl? The sharp edge of him that refused to bend? It was gone, buried beneath a mask I couldn’t see through. And that scared the hell out of me because I didn’t know if he was holding back to protect me, or to protect himself.

“You’re very tall,” he observed as if we weren’t talking about sex at all.

“What are you—six-five?” I didn’t answer.

I was too caught up in figuring out how to get him to back off.

“I’m only five-ten, I probably weigh like fifty pounds less than you, because hell, for a lawyer, you’re built.

I bet you could hold me down enough to fuck me hard. ”

I met his gaze. “You need someone who isn’t me.

As much as I want it…” I couldn’t believe I’d admitted that to him, but his eyes widened at the words, and I sighed and put all my wants and needs back in the dark space where I kept them.

“Shit, Pretty, I’m not a safe place. You want someone who can fix you when you lose your shit.

” I gestured between us. “I don’t even know what we’re doing. ”

Jamie’s jaw clenched, then he tugged his T-shirt over his head and met my gaze.

His blond hair fell messily over one eye, his blue gaze locked on me like a challenge. Pillow-soft lips, the kind that had looked so fucking good wrapped around my cock, parted slightly, the hint of a pout still there—and I wanted him. Fiercely.

Then, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a condom and a handful of lube sachets, setting them on the side table like an offering.

I have a perfectly good bottle of lube in my bedroom.

My cock was hard. Obvious in my damn suit pants. I tugged off my jacket and draped it over the back of the chair, loosening my tie as heat prickled at the back of my neck.

Jamie’s eyes widened as if to ask—are we doing this?

And fuck me, I didn’t know. But I wanted to.

I stared at him, throat tight, because the truth was—I did want him again. I wanted to be buried in him, until he didn’t know any broken, brilliant part of himself that I hadn’t touched— But wanting him and being right for him were two very different things.

And I wasn’t sure which one mattered more. “I’m not what you need,” I repeated, but the words felt weak against the way he moved.

He toed off his sneakers, slow, deliberate, then reached for the button on his jeans, popping it with a flick of his fingers. His gaze never left mine. His hips rolled as he pushed the denim down, revealing black boxer briefs stretched tight, and then, those too were gone in one smooth motion.

He was cut. He was perfect. And he knew it. Every action he made was calculated—confident, but not cocky—as if he was letting me watch, not asking for approval, not begging, just offering . A silent dare wrapped in pale skin and defiance.

My breath caught. Every nerve in me lit up. The line between want and need blurred to nothing.

I still wasn’t what he needed.

But damn if he didn’t make me want to be, and that made me angry at myself—I’d promised to keep the darker side of me locked away the moment I’d met my friends in college and we became a team.

I vowed I’d be the good guy, the one who didn’t give in to the hunger that sometimes twisted low in my gut. And fuck… I’d been so good.

But Jamie was sin personified.

He turned, walking past me as if he hadn’t torn me in half with a look.

He climbed onto the sofa, braced his knees on the cushions and leaned over the back, arms trembling slightly as he reached behind himself with lube-slicked fingers.

One hand planted for balance, the other began to work himself open—awkward, determined, deliberate.

And all the while, he stared back at me. Over his shoulder. Blue eyes locked on mine. Daring me. Tempting me.

I saw the lube glistening on the curve of his ass, the way his jaw clenched, and I lost it. A growl tore out of me—low and dangerous—and I was heading to him before I knew it, crossing the room and yanking his hand back, away from himself.

“Mine,” I growled, voice unrecognizable.

What the fuck was that growling for? I wasn’t possessive. I fucked and ran. That was the rule. That had always been the rule. But this… Jamie… , slick and panting and wide-eyed beneath me, wasn’t only sex. And I didn’t know who the hell that made me anymore.

I pressed my palm to the small of his back and watched him arch for me slightly—just enough. “Stay like that,” I rasped. “Fuck, Pretty. You’re already dripping. Is that all for me?”

Jamie bowed his head, his hair falling in a curtain that hid his face, but I caught the flush crawling down the back of his neck. He pushed his ass back toward me in answer, needy and raw.

I slicked my fingers, easing them inside, and he moaned. I felt him trying to muffle it. “Don’t you dare hold back on me,” I said, voice low and tight. “You want to be fucked open, you make those sounds. Let me hear what you need.”

He trembled under my touch, back arching deeper. I pressed in further, curling my fingers, opening him up slow. More lube. More stretch. I wiped the excess on his discarded T-shirt like a man possessed, not even thinking.

I rolled on the condom with shaking hands, reached for another packet, squeezed more slick into my palm, and coated myself with a hiss. My cock ached—hard and desperate—so tight I could barely breathe.

“Look at you,” I muttered, lining myself up and letting the head drag across his hole. “Perfect little mess, bent over and begging with your eyes.”