The Kiss

Kane's POV

She hit the bed with a soft bounce, her body weightless, like she didn't belong in the real world. I stood beside her, looking down, watching her.

She looked troubled. Even unconscious, her brows were furrowed, her lashes trembling like she was trapped in a nightmare she couldn't escape. Her fingers clutched the bedsheet in a white-knuckled grip.

I'd seen scenes like this before. More times than I cared to admit.

I was used to women throwing themselves at me. They knew exactly what to do—how to smile, how to moan on cue, when to feign innocence, when to beg. It always felt like a performance.

And frankly, it bored me.

But this one… she was different.

She wasn't putting on a show. She wasn't trying to seduce. Her lipstick was smeared, her makeup ruined, her breath hot with the sting of alcohol. When I reached out to touch her, her body flinched—not in invitation, but in fear.

Genuine fear.

That was new.

I leaned down and gripped her chin gently but firmly, tilting her face toward me. She whimpered and tried to push me away, her arms trembling with the effort. But it wasn't the flirtatious push of a coquette—it was weak, desperate, real.

There was something raw in the way she resisted. Something fragile. Something human.

I should've stopped.

Instead, I traced my thumb along her bottom lip.

"Do you know where you are?" I asked, voice low, almost a whisper against her skin.

Her lips were slightly parted, her breath laced with wine and regret. She didn't answer. Just turned her head as if she could disappear from my touch.

Of course, she couldn't.

I tightened my grip. Her breath hitched, chest rising fast and uneven. Her eyes blinked open—wild, glassy, pleading.

"Let me go…" she whispered.

I leaned closer, our faces inches apart.

"Let go?" I echoed, my voice curling into something dark and teasing. "Sweetheart, it's too late for that."

I knew what I was doing. I knew the pressure in my voice, the weight of those words. I wanted her to understand—this was my room, my rules.

She clearly understood what I meant, her body suddenly tensed up, and she resisted my hands even more forcefully, but this force was not so much resistance as it was an invitation.

And that only made me want her more.

I hadn't felt like this in years.

Her flushed cheeks, her parted lips—I couldn't hold back any longer. I dipped my head and brushed my lips against her ear, catching the sharp little shiver that ran through her body.

Her breath was hot against my neck—sharp and unsteady. It ignited something in me.

She had to be doing this on purpose.

I captured her mouth in a kiss before I could think twice. Her lips were unbelievably soft, like melting sugar, tasting faintly of liquor and something I couldn't name.

I deepened the kiss, forcing her lips apart, tongue sweeping inside, desperate to taste her.

The kiss consumed me. My skin prickled with heat, every nerve ending on fire. I hadn't lost control like this in… I couldn't even remember when.

Was I really that deprived? Or was there something about her—this broken, trembling girl—that made me feel like a teenager again, kissing someone for the first time?

She whimpered when I pulled away for breath. "No… don't…"

But I couldn't stop. I didn't want to.

My hand found her waist, sliding around to her back, holding her against me. My other hand wrapped around her wrist. She smelled clean, like rain or fresh cotton. Untouched.

And I wanted to ruin her.

I wanted her to smell like me.

And just when I thought she was starting to respond—just when her body seemed to soften beneath mine—everything changed.

She jerked.

Hard.

I froze. Pulled back, just enough to see her face—only for her to suddenly roll over, lurching toward the edge of the bed.

And then it happened.

"Ugh—"

She vomited violently, the sound tearing through the room, raw and sudden.

The stench of alcohol and bile hit me like a punch. I looked down and saw the mess—on the floor, on the bedspread… on me.

The carpet was ruined. My shirt was drenched in it.

Any heat, any desire I'd felt—it vanished.

She stayed hunched over the edge of the bed, her hair a tangled curtain hiding her face, her shoulders shaking. She looked wrecked. Broken.

Like someone who didn't belong here. Like someone who had fallen into the wrong life.

I stood there in stunned silence, watching the disaster unfold in slow motion.

The night, my mood, my intentions—it all came crashing down.