Nikola
I shove Killian against the wall hard enough that the air leaves his lungs. My mouth crashes onto his rough, open, claiming. He twists and shoves, but I pin one wrist above his head and shove my other hand down his trousers. I stroke him firm and relentless.
“You pathetic idiot,” I growl. “Still pretending you don’t want this.”
“Stop it—” His voice cracks, but his body responds.
I stroke him harder. “Married. With a little girl. And still hard for the man you walked away from ten years ago.”
The past floods back.
We were eighteen. Best friends. I hid how badly I wanted him; he never saw it. Last night of high school I took him home, kissed him, touched him, made him come. The next morning he called me disgusting, cut me out, and stayed in New York while I left for South Korea.
I spent ten years building an empire and watching him. Now I’m back. I took over the company. I watched him with his daughter from my car. I bought his painting for more than the original price. I forced a dinner he couldn’t refuse.
He still has a wife. He still pushes me away. But when forgery accusations destroy his career and his daughter falls ill, he has nowhere left to turn. He comes to me. He begs.
I press my forehead to his.
Nothing will make me leave.
I am back.
This time, Killian is mine.
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