Chapter 4

NORA 

Ivory blinked, caught off guard—but only for a second. She recovered fast, straightened her spine like she was used to taking hits and walking away from them untouched.

Kian turned slowly, face unreadable. “Ivory,” he said, voice low, calm, controlled. Too controlled. “Go home and rest.”

She hesitated. “It’s late. I could just sleep in the guest—”

“No.” His tone dropped lower. “You’ve done enough for today. Go home.”

And then I cleared my throat, “Miss Ivory, your boss is a married man now, you should now learn to adapt.” 

“Go home now.” Kian said firmly with a wide smile.

She gave him a long, unreadable look. Then she nodded once, tight, stiff. “As you wish, Mr. Wilson.”

The door closed behind her without another word.

I didn’t move. I just watched him. Still in his expensive wedding suit, still perfect, still distant.

Kian walked back toward the table. His eyes flicked over the food, then to me. “Did you make this?”

“No,” I deadpanned. “The chef you didn’t employ, whipped it up while I was crying in a five-star bathtub.”

He didn’t smile. He just sat. Picked up a fork. Ate.

I stood there, arms crossed, refusing to be the quiet, grateful contract bride. That role had already suffocated me halfway to death.

“Leave it,” he said when I stepped forward to clean the plates.

I raised a brow. “Excuse me?”

“I’m hungry.”

A beat of silence.

Then I backed off and leaned against the counter, arms folded again. “Thought you already ate.”

“No.”

I smirked.

He didn’t say another word. Just kept eating.

I watched him for a minute. The way his jaw flexed as he chewed, the way he didn’t look up, like I wasn’t even in the room.

And suddenly I couldn’t stand the quiet.

“Are we fucking tonight or not?”

He choked. Literally.

Kian dropped his fork, coughed into his fist, eyes wide as if I’d thrown ice water in his face. “I’m sorry—what?”

“You heard me.” I stepped closer, voice even. “Time’s ticking. It’s a one-year contract. Natural conception. No doctors. Just us. Remember?”

He wiped his mouth, set the napkin down, and met my eyes. “Nora…”

“I’m not drunk,” I said flatly. “Not yet, anyway, so I know what I am saying.”

Then I grabbed the whiskey from the counter, poured myself a glass, and took a shot like it was orange juice. The burn felt good. Real. Like something I could control.

I poured another glass.

“You want one?”

Kian stared at me for a long beat. Then he stood, took the glass from my hand, poured himself a drink, and downed it in one go.

I smirked.

“So that’s a yes?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. Just poured more.

By the time the bottle was half gone, my cheeks were flushed, and my nerves were buzzing just enough to stop shaking.

We didn’t talk. Not really.

He leaned against the counter beside me, one hand in his pocket, the other swirling the amber liquid in his glass.

He stepped closer, close enough for me to smell the expensive cologne and bourbon on his breath.

I didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He raised his hand—slowly, giving me time to stop him—but I didn’t. He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear like he’d done it before, like he knew me.

Then he whispered, “You sure about this?”

I swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

And that was all it took.

**

He carried me to the bedroom without a word.

Not like a groom carrying a bride.

He dropped me onto the bed, but gently. His eyes roamed over me like he couldn’t decide whether to worship me or ruin me.

My breath caught as he pulled off his shirt. I’d seen him in suits. Always perfect. Always put together. But now he was stripped of all that—bare skin, hard muscles, every inch of him looking like temptation itself.

I sat up, pulled my own shirt over my head. His eyes darkened.

“You sure?” he asked again, voice rasping.

I reached down, wrapped my fingers around his cock—thick, hard, pulsing. “You think I’m this wet for no reason?”

And then he pushed in.

One long, deep thrust. I gasped—he was big. I felt every thick inch of him stretching me, filling me.

“Shit,” he hissed. “You’re tight.”

“Don’t stop,” I begged, wrapping my legs around him, locking him in.

He pulled back slow, then thrust again. Deep. Then again. Harder.

Each stroke drove into me, the head of his cock hitting that perfect spot inside me that made my back arch and my breath catch.

He fucked me like he meant it.

Rhythmic. Powerful. My name falling from his lips in a growl every time he bottomed out.

“Nora—Jesus—so fucking good—”

I clawed at his back, nails digging into muscle. I could feel every ridge of him as he slid in and out, wet sounds echoing in the room as he thrust faster, harder, deeper.

I couldn’t hold back.

My orgasm hit like a wave, crashing over me, shattering me. I screamed his name, body trembling around him as he kept moving, relentless.

“Come for me,” he growled, grinding his hips against mine.

“I already—fuck—”

“Again,” he said, slamming into me. “Give me another.”

And I did.

The second orgasm ripped through me harder than the first. My body convulsed, breath ragged, mind blank.

“Fuck—Nora—I’m gonna—”

Don’t come yet,” I said, and he nodded, panting, sweat trickling down his temple.

His cock was buried deep inside me, pulsing, thick, stretching me open. I rode him slowly at first—teasing, grinding, feeling every vein, every inch. He gripped my hips like a man barely holding on.

We fucked in the bathroom—steam fogging the mirror, his hands gripping the sink behind me as he pounded into me from behind. I screamed as the orgasm ripped through me. His cock slammed deep, and I felt him twitch, holding back.

“Inside,” I begged. “I want your cum inside me.”

I collapsed against him, used, aching, dripping, full of him. And still… I wasn’t done.

He pushed me up against the cold tile wall again. “Round two,” he growled.

And I opened my legs for him all over again.

And then he smiled, “That’s enough for you to get pregnant.”

I rolled my eyes and then walked down from the bed to take a shower. 

When I came back into the room, he was already dressed — shirt half-buttoned, belt slung through his pants. His back was to me, but the energy in the room had shifted.

I sat on the edge of the bed, towel wrapped around me, still a little breathless. “You’re not getting in?”

“I’m going to sleep in the guest room,” he said without turning around.

I blinked. “What?”

He picked up his phone from the nightstand. “You can have the master tonight.”

“We just finished having sex,” I said, heart racing. “Why don’t you want to sleep with me?”

He finally turned. His face was unreadable, but his voice was a cold blade. “We had sex. That’s it. I’m not in love with you.”

The words hit me harder than I expected.

“That sex was for a reason,” he continued, calm and cruel. “Bear me a child. I’m still standing by the contract—and the rules.”

I stood there, naked under the towel, heart exposed, throat burning. “You didn’t sound like a man sticking to rules when you were inside me.”

A flicker of something passed through his eyes. But it was gone before I could name it.

He walked to the door, opened it, then paused.

Without looking back, he said, “Don’t mistake pleasure for love, Nora. I never will.”

The door clicked shut.

And in that silence, I realized something far more terrifying than being used.

I was already falling for him.

Hard.

And he just made it very clear, no love.