Chapter Four

My fingers hover over the knob and I feel his heat radiating through the wood, like the door itself is alive and waiting. I turn it slowly, slip inside, and ease it shut behind me without a sound.

Vincent was standing in the middle of the small room, sleeves rolled to his elbows, top two buttons of his shirt undone. The overhead light is off, only the vanity bulbs glow, throwing shadows under his jaw and along the sharp edge of his collarbone. He looks like he’s been waiting an eternity and five seconds at once, with the same calm, ravenous hunger in his eyes.

“You came,” he says, voice low and rough.

“I said I would.”

He takes one step forward and his mouth crashes into mine before I can speak, before guilt can catch up. The kiss is hard and desperate, tasting faintly of the scotch he must have finished downstairs after everyone went to bed. My hands slide up his chest, fingers twisting into his shirt, pulling him closer even as my brain screams to stop.

He backs me against the sink, hips pinning mine, one hand cradling the back of my neck like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. The other slips under the hem of my thin sleep shirt, palm searing against my bare stomach. I gasp into his mouth when his thumb brushes the underside of my breast.

“Quiet,” he murmurs against my lips. “She’s right down the hall.”

The reminder should kill the heat but instead it adds to it.

I arch into him, thighs pressing together as his hand moves higher, cupping me fully, thumb circling my nipple until it tightens and aches. My head falls back against the mirror as he kisses down my throat, teeth grazing that spot that always makes my knees buckle.

“God, I’ve missed this,” he breathes against my skin. “Missed you.”

I want to say I miss him too. I want to say I hate him. I want to say anything that makes sense. Instead I just moan softly when he tugs my shirt up and over my head, leaving me in nothing but tiny cotton shorts.

He steps back just enough to really look at me like he’s memorizing every curve and freckle.

“Turn around,” he says, and I just simply obey, unaware of the tragedy about to strike.

He presses me forward until my hips meet the cool edge of the sink, hands bracing on either side of the basin. In the mirror I see us both, my flushed cheeks, parted lips, his dark eyes burning behind me. He gathers my hair in one hand, pulls it gently aside so he can kiss the nape of my neck.

“Tell me you want this,” he whispers.

“I want this.”

“Again.”

“I want this,” I say a but louder.

His free hand slides down my spine, slow and deliberate, until it disappears beneath my shorts. He finds me already soaked, already aching, and makes a low, satisfied sound against my ear.

“Fuck, Linda. Always so ready for me.”

Two fingers slide inside, curling just right. I bite my lip to keep quiet. He works me slowly at first, then faster, thumb circling my clit in lazy, maddening loops that make my thighs tremble. I watch in the mirror as my mouth falls open on silent gasps, as his jaw clenches with restraint.

He pulls his hand free, brings his fingers to my lips. “Taste.”

I suck them clean while he watches, eyes black with want.

Then he’s undoing his belt, the soft clink of metal loud in the quiet room. I feel the blunt head of him nudge against me through my shorts, teasing.

“Pull them down,” he orders.

I hook my thumbs in the waistband and slide shorts and panties down my thighs, letting them pool at my feet. Cool air hits my skin, then his heat as he steps close again.

He rubs himself against me, slick and hard, coating himself. “One last time,” he says, almost to himself. “Then we stop. We have to stop.”

I nod, even though we both know it’s a lie.

He lines up, pushes in slow inch by torturous inch until he’s buried deep. We both groan, low and broken. He holds still for a heartbeat, letting me adjust, letting the fullness settle.

Then he starts to move.

The sink rattles beneath my palms and I watch in the mirror as his hand slides around to cover my mouth, muffling the sounds I can’t hold back. His other arm bands around my waist, holding me in place as he fucks me like he’s trying to carve himself into my bones.

I’m close... dangerously close when his rhythm stutters, hips snapping harder, more desperate.

“Come for me,” he growls against my ear. “One last time. Let me feel you.”

I’m right there, and then the door opens in a soft click, then the rush of hallway air.

We freeze, Vincent still buried inside me, my hands braced on the sink, my shorts around my ankles.

Then a quiet voice slices the silence. “Linda?”

It was Alex standing in the doorway, eyes wide, face draining of colour.

His hair is messy like he’s been dragging his hands through it. Behind him the hallway light spills in, harsh and accusing.

For one endless second, nothing moves.

Then Vincent pulls out slowly like he’s trying not to make it worse. He steps back, tucking himself away with shaking hands. I yank my shorts up, legs trembling so hard I nearly collapse. My shirt lies crumpled on the floor and I snatch it, clutch it to my chest.

Alex’s gaze bounces between us, then when it locks on Vincent, he immediately recognises.

“You,” he says, voice cracking. “You’re… you’re the fiancé.”

Vincent says nothing. Just stands there, breathing hard, jaw locked tight.

Alex looks back at me. “This is why? This is why you ended it? You said you weren’t ready...”

“Don’t,” I whisper. “Alex, please...”

He lets out a short and broken laugh. “My parents flew in tonight. Business partners with yours. They’re all downstairs tomorrow for the rehearsal dinner. And you...” He gestures at me, then at Vincent. “You’re fucking your sister’s fiancé two days before the wedding.”

The words land like punches to the ribs and I open my mouth but nothing comes out.

Vincent finally speaks, voice rough. “This isn’t what it looks like.”

Alex stares at him hard. “It looks exactly like what it is.”

He takes one step back into the hall, then stops. Looks at me one last time.

“I thought you were different,” he says quietly.

Then he turns and walks away leaving the door open.

Vincent reaches past me and pushes it shut as I slide down the wall until I hit the tile, knees to my chest, shirt still clutched. My body still hums and aches where he was... but at what cost?

Vincent crouches in front of me. “Linda.”

“Don’t,” I whisper, tears stinging my eyes.

“We’ll figure this out.”

“How?” My voice cracks. “He knows. He’s going to tell someone. He’s going to tell his parents. They’ll tell mine. They’ll tell Laura,” my voice progressively increases.

Vincent drags a hand over his face. “He won’t.”

“You don’t know him.”

“I know people. I’ll talk to him.”

“You think you can talk your way out? He saw you inside me, Vincent. There’s no talking.”

Silence stretches, thick with three years of ignored consequences.

He reaches for me but I flinch.

“Don’t touch me.”

He drops his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re always sorry... after.”

He looks like I’ve slapped him.

I stare at the floor. “We’re done. This time we’re really done.”

He doesn’t argue, just stands there, watching me fall apart in the same bathroom where it all began.

Down the hall, Laura’s door creaks open as I hear soft footsteps and a sleepy voice.

“Linda? You okay?”

Panic floods me and Vincent moves fast, grabs my shirt, helps me pull it on. Then he cracks the window, letting cold night air rush in, trying to cover the scent of sex and guilt.

I wipe my face, force my voice steady. “Yeah… just stomach thing. I’m fine.”

She yawns from the hallway. “Okay. Come get me if you need anything.”

Her door clicks shut.

Vincent looks at me. “We have to go downstairs now. Act normal.”

I stare at him like he’s lost his mind but he’s right, though. We have no choice.

I stand on shaking legs, smooth my hair and try to breathe but somewhere in the house, Alex is deciding whether or not to burn everything down.