Page 19 of Velvet Betrayal (The Dark Prince of Boston #3)

Kieran

I t started the same way it always did: a look, a dare, a line neither of us pretended to draw.

I didn’t wait for permission. I pressed my mouth to hers, hard, and for a second she went stiff—maybe for show, maybe not—but then her hands were in my shirt, dragging me closer, her mouth opening against mine like she was challenging me to back down.

I tasted coffee, adrenaline, and the ghost of whatever perfume she’d used after her shower.

Underneath it, something rawer: resignation, maybe, or just the knowledge we were always going to end up here.

She broke first, gasping into my mouth before pulling away, her hands still knotted in my shirt.

A week ago, I wouldn’t have bet on this—her in my arms, the kid asleep upstairs and down the hall, the kitchen quiet and warm after a day that felt like it had chewed us both up.

I wanted her, needed her, but more than that, I wanted her to hate needing me, to hate that even now, she let me in.

She let go, but not before her teeth caught my lower lip—a warning, maybe, or just a reminder that nothing came easy with us. “If you’re here for the week,” she said, not quite looking at me, “you’re actually going to help. I am not letting a Callahan take up space in my house for free.”

I shrugged, leaning in. “Happy to pay rent. Or vacuum. Or pick up your dry cleaning. Wait—can I pay in orgasms?”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile almost made it to her face. “Don’t say things like that where—” She stopped, glancing at the bedroom door. “Just don’t say things like that. Period.”

“Noted,” I said, lowering my voice. “But I am good with my hands. And I don’t have to use my mouth to talk.”

She laughed, sharp and bright, but didn’t look away. For the first time in days, the tension in her face cracked, just a little, and I saw the real Ruby under it—tired, wired, still ready for a fight.

“You’ve had a hell of a few days, Ruby. Let me help you feel good.”

I eased her back until the counter caught her hips, the cold making her flinch, then laugh again, breathless.

She looked up at me, eyes locked, and in that space there was no room for bullshit.

She wasn’t pretending this was fate, but she wasn’t running from it, either.

That was the thing about Ruby: she never flinched from the truth, even when it hurt.

Her arms around my neck were a hold, not a surrender.

The way a fighter ties up on the inside, ready to take a hit if it means landing one of her own.

She kissed me back, tongue slick and mean, biting at my lip, grinding her hips forward until the need in her was something I could feel, hot and dangerous. I grabbed her by the ass and lifted her onto the counter. Her thighs locked around my waist, and for a minute, breathing was optional.

She finally pulled away, fingers fisted in my hair, eyes searching my face.

“Take your shirt off,” she said, and I did, letting it drop behind me. She watched, cataloging the scars, the tattoos, the body built on a decade of adrenaline and regret.

Her gaze softened when she saw the tattoo—low on my ribs, angry red lines inked into the shape of a gemstone. Not a skull. Not a saint. Just a ruby.

She stared at it, silent. “Is that—”

“Yeah,” I said. “I got it after.”

“After what? I can’t believe I haven’t noticed it.”

“After you, Ruby. I have a lot of tattoos. It makes sense that you hadn’t noticed it.”

I watched her for a reaction—disgust, pity, something—but all I saw was the crack in her armor, the vulnerability she never let anyone see. She touched the outline, running her nails over the raised skin

“You idiot,” she said, soft. “Did it hurt?”

“Not as much as the real thing.” It was the truth. If losing her had left a mark, I’d needed to make it visible, something I could point to and say, see? This is what you did to me.

I kissed her again—slower this time, coaxing her open. She caught my lower lip between her teeth, a threat disguised as a kiss. Then her heels dug into my back, pulling me flush.

“You trying to hold me hostage?” I murmured against her mouth.

She gripped me tighter. “You think I wouldn’t?”

I laughed, low in my throat, and kissed her deeper. “God, I hope you do.”

My hands slid down her sides, hips, thighs—trying to memorize her like I didn’t already know every inch. She arched into me, bold and unashamed, and when I kissed the side of her neck, she made a sound that lit me up.

“You do that again,” she warned, breath catching, “and I’m not responsible for what happens.”

“Good,” I said, teeth grazing the spot under her jaw. “Don’t be.”

She pulled my head to her chest, bralette already half-off. I didn’t bother finishing the job with finesse. Just peeled it down and off, lips following every inch I uncovered.

“Jesus,” I muttered. “You’ll never know what this does to me.”

“I have a guess,” she said, voice tight as I took her nipple into my mouth. She gasped when I sucked, arched higher when I bit.

I moved to the other side. “Tell me.”

“What?”

“Tell me what you think it does to me.” My hand slid down her belly, over the curve of her hip. “Say it.”

She licked her lips, eyes hot. “Makes you lose your goddamn mind.”

I grinned into her skin. “Exactly.”

She was panting now, hands in my hair. “You always were cocky.”

“You love it.”

“Unfortunately.”

I knelt between her legs, dragged her underwear down with slow reverence. “Say that again.”

“Unfortunately,” she repeated, breathless.

I kissed the scar on her thigh, the freckle by her hipbone, her navel. “Not unfortunate for me.”

When I went down on her, she tried to laugh—nerves, disbelief, need—but it broke on a moan. Her thighs clamped around me. I didn’t stop. I licked her slow and deep, fingers curling inside her, drawing sounds from her that made my blood boil.

“You always—” she choked out, “—do this like it’s the last time.”

“Could be,” I said into her. “So let me.”

Her head fell back. She swore, reached for anything to hold—my shoulders, the couch, herself. I pushed her higher, stayed with her until she broke. When she came, it was full-body—quiet, hard, trembling like she’d caught fire and forgot how to breathe.

When I pulled back, she was flushed, lips parted. Her fingers dragged me up by the hair. She kissed me like she didn’t care who she was or what she’d promised herself not to feel.

“You’re a menace,” she said against my mouth, dazed.

“I can stop,” I whispered, even though I wouldn’t.

“You fucking better not.”

She pulled me in, arms tight around my shoulders, sweat and skin and the pulse of her heart beating wild. I lined up, slow, because this was her kitchen and her rules, but the second she felt my cock slide against her, she bucked, grinding into me like she wanted to break us both.

I didn’t tease. I pressed in, and she gasped, already ready, tight and slick and perfect.

Her legs locked around my waist, heels digging in, fingernails raking down my shoulders like she wanted to peel me open.

I set a rhythm—slow, then harder—building until the slap of skin and the creak of the counter were the only sounds in the world.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I worried we’d wake the kid, but neither of us cared.

This was need, pure and ugly and honest.

She bit my ear, hard. “Don’t you dare stop.”

So I didn’t.

I fucked her harder, the counter rattling, her hands braced on the edge, knuckles white.

I slid a hand up her front, cupping her neck, thumb tracing her jaw.

She arched into it, lips parted, a sound escaping from deep inside, something molten she’d never show anyone else.

I watched her come apart, beautiful even at the edge of breaking, and I wanted to hold her there forever.

But she got herself there, like she always did—absolute will, total focus. She came with a full-body shudder, legs locked, hauling me deeper, voice low and furious: “I hate you. I hate you so much.”

I grinned. “I know.”

I fucked her until we both seized, until she broke again, hands at the back of my neck, holding on like she could drag me back from the brink. When I came, I filled her, every part of me, and stood there, her cheek pressed to the cold counter, her toes curled hard.

For a while, we just breathed. It was enough.

The quiet after a fight, when both sides lean in, just to see if they can go on.

I knew Ruby was already thinking ahead, counting consequences, but I didn’t care.

For the first time in years, our pulses lined up, desperate but alive.

She touched the ruby on my ribs, tracing it like she needed to remember.

“Still a dumbass,” she said.

“Always.”

I kissed her forehead, gentle. She slid off the counter, legs shaky.

She steadied herself, piecing her composure together like she could glue herself back by sheer will.

She found her shirt and bralette, quick hands moving like a thief hiding evidence before the alarms went off.

The more she covered up, the harder it was to remember her naked, sweat shining on her skin.

I didn’t get dressed right away. It felt wrong to pretend nothing had happened, not after a decade of wanting and not having. I let her breathe, then followed, pulling on my shirt but leaving it open. If this was purgatory, I was making myself comfortable.

“If you have to parade around shirtless, at least check if anyone’s looking first,” she muttered, buttoning up.

“I like being looked at.”

She shot me a glare. “You have no idea what you look like, do you?”

Funny, coming from her: the most dangerous, beautiful thing I’d ever seen, and never convinced she was either.

We ended up at the sink. She mumbled something about “not wanting to smell like sex” before the kid woke up, and scrubbed her hands, wrists, even her neck. I watched, until she caught me in the reflection, then shrugged on my shirt. If she wanted me here, I’d stay.

“Are you going to hover, or—?”

“I’m not leaving you alone.” I tried to make it softer. “Not for a second. Also, if you don’t want to smell like sex, you could just have a shower.”

“There’s no guarantee you wouldn’t follow me in.”

“Oh, I would definitely follow you in.”

She laughed, short and sharp, flicking water at my chest. “Maybe later.” She dried her hands, turning to face me, eyes wary even in the half-light.

“If I go now, and you sleep on the couch, what guarantee is there that you’ll be here in the morning?” The question surprised us both—her most of all, I think, because she barely looked to see if I’d caught the plea under the challenge.

“Ruby. I would never leave you. Not again.”

She looked at me, searching for a lie. “Yeah,” she said. “Okay.”

But I could tell she didn’t quite believe it. Not yet.