Page 75 of Once A Villain

The air is thick with sex and the smell of our sweat and fluids. I untie her wrists, watching as her arms drop limply to her sides. Her eyes stay closed, her body quivering with the aftermath of exhaustion.

“You were such a good girl.”

She mumbles incoherently, her eyes still shut. Leaning in, I kiss her soft lips. She responds, her tongue lazily sliding into my mouth. Pulling back, I rest my forehead against hers, gazing into her blue eyes.

“I thought I was your bad girl,” she whispers.

“Oh, little siren, you’re the best of both,” I reply, rolling onto my back.

“I need a towel.”

“No. My cum stays on you.”

“I’m going to kill you in your sleep,” she groans, her eyes closing again.

“I’ll be looking forward to it,” I reply with a laugh.

Her breathing steadies, and she slowly falls asleep.

The front door slams open, followed by the telltale chaos of Griffen—loud laughter, heavy footsteps, and by the sounds of it, more than one Slut trailing behind. All I want is fucking sleep when a sharp crash and the shatter of glass echo through the whole damn house.

Rory bolts upright. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” I mutter, my irritation barely contained. “Just go to sleep.”

Her eyes dart to the door, wide and glistening with unshed tears. “What if someone’s broken in?”

I almost laugh at the absurdity. “No one’s broken in.”

“How can you be so sure?” She’s shaking now, her breaths coming in quick, shallow bursts.

She’s with me. What the hell is there to be afraid of?

“Come here.” She doesn’t move, her gaze locked on the bedroom door. I sigh and pull her against me. She stiffens, her hands bracing against my chest, but I don’t let go. Her breath is erratic, her tears hot as they soak into my skin.

“It’s just Griffen. No one would be stupid enough to break in here.”

She doesn’t respond, but I can feel her heartbeat start to slow, her breathing evening out. After a long moment, she pulls away, and I let her go, even though I don’t want to. She curls up with her back to me, drawing the blanket up to her chin.

This is the second time I’ve had to calm her down, but this time she can’t wait to get out of my arms.

What irritates me more? That I still want to hold her—or that she’s so quick to push me away? I shouldn’t give a fuck about either.

The morning sun blazes through my eyelids, making my head throb. My eyes burn, and my mouth feels like sandpaper. Last night’s events crash over me—his mouth, his hands, his cock.

I shudder, every muscle aching, my ass throbbing. The guy’s built like an Olympian and has stamina to match. He took what he wanted without a hint of remorse.

I can’t even blame the alcohol. By the time we got home, I was soberenough.

His hands, his fingers, his lips, his tongue, and his cock—it was good. Not just good, it was fucking mind-blowing.

I despise him.

I hate his smug, handsome face and that infuriating smile. His arrogance and that damn laugh of his.

Oh god, is this Stockholm Syndrome?

I bury my face in the pillow, trying to escape the shame and guilt gnawing at me. How the hell am I supposed to face him today after what happened? How can I look him in the eye without feeling his touch or hearing his voice in my ear?

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