Chapter 5

It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t testing.

It was rough, desperate, like years of restraint had finally snapped all at once. His mouth crashed against mine, stealing my breath, pulling a sound from me I didn’t even recognize.

I clutched at his shirt, fingers twisting in the crisp fabric, dragging him closer even as guilt screamed in the back of my mind.

He groaned into the kiss, his hands framing my face, tilting me up to him. The heat of his body pressed me harder into the counter, his chest solid against mine. Every brush of his lips was a fire, every flicker of his tongue a sin I couldn’t stop tasting.

“Marcus,” I gasped when he pulled back just enough to breathe.

His forehead pressed to mine, his breath ragged, his voice raw. “Tell me to stop.”

But I couldn’t.

I wouldn’t.

Instead, I dragged him back to me, my mouth seeking his, hungry, reckless.

His hands slid lower, resting on my hips, fingers flexing like he was holding himself back with every ounce of willpower he had.

The kiss deepened, stealing reason, stealing air, until nothing existed beyond the two of us.

⸻

The sharp sound of the front door opening shattered everything.

I tore away from him, lips swollen, chest heaving.

Dad’s voice floated in, casual, cheerful: “Forgot my wallet!”

Panic slammed into me.

Marcus stepped back instantly, his control snapping into place so fast it made me dizzy. One second he was fire and hunger, the next he was cool marble, expression unreadable.

I stood frozen, heart pounding so loudly I was sure Dad would hear it. My lips still tingled, my body still ached, and I couldn’t wipe the guilt from my face.

But Dad walked into the kitchen, whistling, keys jingling. His eyes skimmed over Marcus, then me, and he smiled like nothing in the world was wrong.

“Don’t mind me,” he said, grabbing his wallet from the counter. “Be back in a bit. Promise this time.”

I nodded mutely, praying he couldn’t see the truth written across my flushed skin.

Marcus didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look at me.

But I knew.

We both knew.

Because the taste of him was still on my lips.

And the terrifying truth was, I didn’t regret it.

Not one bit.

The second Dad’s car pulled out of the driveway for real this time, the house fell into silence again. But this silence wasn’t charged the way it had been moments earlier.

It was suffocating.

I pressed a hand to my lips, still tingling from Marcus’s kiss, still tasting him even though he stood across the kitchen now, calm and collected as if nothing had happened.

How could he do that?

How could he switch it off, bury it so easily, while I felt like my whole body was trembling apart at the seams?

“Go upstairs,” he said finally, his voice flat, controlled.

My head jerked up. “What?”

“Go upstairs. Get out of sight. If your father comes back again—”

“Marcus—”

His gaze cut to mine, sharp and unyielding. “Now.”

The command in his tone sent a shiver down my spine. My feet moved before my brain caught up, carrying me out of the kitchen and up the stairs. I shut my bedroom door behind me and leaned against it, breath coming in uneven gasps.

What had I just done?

I kissed him.

I let him kiss me.

I wanted more.

I dragged my hands down my face, heat pooling low in my stomach just at the memory of the way he’d pressed me against the counter, the way his mouth had claimed mine like he’d been starving for me.

I should feel nothing but shame.

Instead, I crawled onto my bed and replayed it in my mind over and over until the sound of the front door closing again jolted me upright.

Dad was gone.

Which meant Marcus was still downstairs.

And I was trapped in my room, fighting the urge to run to him.

⸻

I didn’t see him again until dinner.

Dad had ordered takeout, cheerful as ever, filling the table with boxes of noodles and fried rice. Marcus sat across from me, chopsticks in hand, expression perfectly polite, perfectly neutral.

If Dad noticed how quiet I was, how I barely touched my food, he didn’t say a word.

But Marcus noticed.

I could feel it in every stolen glance, in the heavy air that clung between us.

I couldn’t taste anything but him.

Couldn’t think about anything but the kiss that burned on my lips.

And when Dad left the table to grab a beer from the fridge, Marcus’s gaze snapped to mine.

One second. Two. Three.

My chopsticks slipped from my fingers and clattered onto the plate.

“Later,” he mouthed.

I almost forgot to breathe.

⸻

That night, sleep didn’t come.

I tossed, turned, kicked the blanket off, pulled it back on. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt his hands on me, heard the rough rasp of his voice, remembered the way he’d demanded I tell him to stop.

I didn’t want him to stop.

Not then.

Not now.

Sometime after midnight, I gave up. I padded barefoot down the hall, restless, thirsty, needing something—anything—to calm the fire inside me.

The kitchen light was off, but I wasn’t alone.

Marcus sat at the table, a glass of whiskey in hand, the shadows of the room clinging to the sharp lines of his face.

My breath caught.

He didn’t look surprised to see me. “Can’t sleep?”

I shook my head, my throat too tight for words.

He leaned back in his chair, studying me with eyes that saw far too much. “Me neither.”

The silence between us stretched, heavy and suffocating. I shifted, suddenly aware of how thin my tank top was, how bare my legs looked in my sleep shorts.

His gaze dropped for a split second. Barely. But enough.

My heart lurched.

I should’ve turned around. I should’ve run back to my room.

Instead, I stepped closer.

“Marcus…” I whispered, my voice trembling.

His jaw flexed. He set his glass down slowly, carefully, like he was restraining the urge to throw it across the room.

“You need to go back upstairs,” he said, low and rough.

“I can’t.”

The words slipped out before I could stop them. Honest. Desperate.

He closed his eyes for a moment, like he was fighting a war with himself. When they opened again, they burned straight through me.

“Then you don’t know what you’re asking for.”

My pulse thundered. My breath caught.

But I knew exactly what I was asking for.

Upstairs, after Marcus sent me away, I paced the length of my room like a caged animal. I couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t think straight.

Every corner of the house carried his presence now — his voice still echoing, his scent still clinging to me. Even the shadows seemed heavier, like they were conspiring to remind me of the man I shouldn’t want.

I threw myself on the bed, face pressed into the pillow, but all it did was make me remember the way his mouth had claimed mine, rough and unyielding. I groaned, rolling onto my back, staring at the ceiling as if it might hold answers.

Did he regret it already?

Was he downstairs right now, furious with himself for giving in?

The thought made my chest ache in a way I didn’t understand.

⸻

Dinner only made things worse.

Dad was in rare form, telling story after story, his laughter booming around the table. Normally I’d be charmed. Tonight I barely registered a word.

Marcus sat so still across from me it was maddening. His posture perfect, his expression neutral, every move of his chopsticks precise. He didn’t laugh at Dad’s jokes. He didn’t meet my gaze. He might as well have been carved from stone.

But I felt him.

Every time my knee shifted under the table, I was convinced it would brush against his. Every time my hand reached for a napkin, I swore his eyes flicked to the motion.

The air hummed between us, even while Dad was oblivious.

And the worst part?

I couldn’t eat a bite without imagining the taste of him instead.

⸻

When I crept downstairs later and found him in the darkened kitchen, it was like stepping into another world.

The only light came from the faint glow above the stove, painting him in shadows. He looked older here, more dangerous — his jaw tight, the glass of whiskey catching the dim light as he swirled it slowly.

I hovered by the doorway, my pulse hammering.

He didn’t move, didn’t even look at me at first. But I knew he’d felt me there.

I shifted on bare feet, the cool tile biting against my skin. My tank top clung to me, thin and weightless, and I suddenly became hyperaware of every inch of exposed skin.

When his eyes finally lifted to mine, the air changed.

There was nothing neutral about his expression now. His gaze swept over me, slow, unhurried, but when it snapped back to my face, the warning was clear.

“You should be asleep.” His voice was rough, low, carrying more command than concern.

“I couldn’t,” I admitted, words spilling out like a confession.

His fingers flexed on the glass, tension radiating from his frame.

“You’re playing with fire.”

“Maybe I want to get burned.”

The words tumbled out before I could stop them, reckless and raw.

His eyes darkened. He set the glass down harder than necessary, the soft clink echoing in the still kitchen.

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

And then his jaw clenched, his voice tight. “Go upstairs. Before I forget who I am.”

My breath caught, heat surging through me so violently I thought my knees might give out.

Because even in his restraint, I could feel it — the truth.

He wanted me just as badly as I wanted him.

And if I pushed him even an inch further, we’d both fall.