Chapter 4: A very good girl

I know what that black thing is.

A gun.

In an instant, the faint tipsiness swirling in my veins vanishes. My eyes dart to him—Handsome Devil—just as he catches my stare and quickly tucks the weapon beneath his bed.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, his tone awkward, like he just spilled coffee and not revealed something dangerous.

I blink, unsure how to respond. Who apologizes for being seen with a firearm?

This man baffles me.

A yawn escapes me, and I rub at my face. My stomach twists in protest—hunger clawing at my insides. I haven’t eaten anything since that miserable piece of toast and lemon tea in the morning. My knees tremble beneath me.

“Are you planning to stand there all night?” he asks, a teasing curl lifting the corner of his lips. “Come sit.” He pats the space beside him on the bed.

I shake my head immediately. “No, I’ll stay here.”

His brows lift. “Why?”

“Because…” My chest heaves. “Because I don’t trust a man like you.”

He chuckles, low and amused, as if I just told him a secret. “I never asked you to.”

“Yes, but I can’t,” I murmur, eyes flicking over the tattoos etched across his chest. “You look like trouble.”

“Dangerous, you mean?” he smirks. “Sweetheart, I just saved your life.”

“That doesn’t make you harmless," I say before I could hold back my tongue.

He rises from the bed, and I instinctively press my back against the wall. Every step he takes toward me is unhurried, deliberate—his gaze steady, unreadable.

When he stops in front of me, the air thickens. He lifts his arms, placing both hands against the wall above my head, trapping me there without touching me.

His scent—coffee, cedarwood, and something darkly masculine—wraps around me like smoke.

God, he smells divine.

His breath brushes my ear when he speaks. “You’re right,” he whispers, voice husky. “I’m a bad man. And I’m about to do very bad things to you, little bird… if you let me.”

He tilts my chin up with a single finger, his touch featherlight but commanding. My pulse leaps. His gaze traces the curve of my neck, then returns to meet my eyes.

“Stop,” I breathe, though my voice trembles with uncertainty rather than fear. “Don’t go further.”

He stops.

“I’m not the kind of girl you can just touch the way that pleases you,” I say, my voice shaking slightly, but I hold his gaze.

He leans back and chuckles, low and deep. “Really?”

“Yes,” I shoot back, though my heartbeat drums against my ribs. I don’t even know what this man is up to, or why his voice feels like silk against my skin.

“I’m a good girl,” the words slip out before I can stop them.

His lips curve into a smirk that could melt ice. “Good girls don’t go to clubs or wear this kind of dress, darling,” he murmurs, his tone dripping with mockery and sin.

Wait—this gangster is seriously judging me?

“I was there because we were celebrating my bachelorette,” I say quickly, defensive, like I need him to believe me for reasons I can’t explain.

“Interesting.” His smile deepens, and I catch it again—that wickedly perfect dimple cutting into his cheek. His left eye, the amber one, glows a little brighter under the dim light.

“Since it’s your bachelorette night, why don’t you have fun instead of punishing yourself by standing here?”

My brow arches. “I was having fun—with my best friend and my cousin. At least until the shootout.”

He chuckles, low and husky. “That’s not the kind of fun I’m talking about, sweetheart.”

Before I can react, his hand slides to my waist. My back leaves the cold wall, and suddenly there’s barely a breath between us.

My pulse jumps. “What kind of fun are you talking about?” I whisper, trembling with curiosity I don’t want to admit.

His mismatched eyes travel down to my mouth. The blue isn’t cold anymore; it softens, warms, burns with something unspoken.

And the way he looks at me… God. I feel like I’m his favorite dessert—something dark, forbidden, and meant to be devoured.

He stills, the tension in his arms softening. He strokes my arm. “I want to teach you what real fun is, little bird.”

Shivers run down my spine. Not from fear. But from excitement. From curiosity.

“You should have a memorable night, something good enough to blur the memory of that shootout,” he trails his fingers to my neck.

I feel his pulse against my neck. I’ve never been touched like this before. I close my eyes, enjoying the feel of his hand on my skin.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he says.

“I don’t want to stop,” I confess softly.

He smiles—slow, wicked, beautiful. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

When his lips brush my skin, I gasp. His kiss is gentle at first, a whisper of heat against my throat. My eyes flutter shut as his mouth moves lower, tasting me like something he’s craved for far too long. Every breath I take seems to dissolve in the air between us.

My hands, unsure at first, lift to his bare chest. His skin is warm, his heartbeat fierce beneath my palms. He catches my wrists and guides them to stay there, pressed against him, as if he wants me to feel what he’s feeling—every wild thud, every restrained urge.

“Do you trust me now?” he whispers against my neck.

“I don’t know,” I breathe. “But I don’t want you to stop.”

He draws back slightly, studying my face as though searching for hesitation. Finding none, he kisses me—slowly, deeply. It’s not rushed; it’s not desperate. It’s the kind of kiss that leaves me trembling from the inside out, like I’m being unmade and remade in his arms.

He tastes of chocolate and coffee, dark and addictive.

The world blurs. The air conditioner hums somewhere in the background, but all I feel is his warmth, his breath, the rough edge of his voice when he moans.

Every motion, every sigh, feels like a confession.

When he finally pulls away, I can barely breathe. He rests his forehead against mine, eyes closed, his chest rising and falling against my own.

“You should tell me to stop now,” he says softly, though his tone carries a thread of longing.

But I can’t. My voice is gone, lost to the storm he’s set loose inside me.

I’m not afraid anymore. Not of him. Not of what I feel.

Because for the first time in a very long time, I don’t feel empty—I feel alive.