Page 88 of Cruel When He Smiles
“You’re gonna sleep now, okay?” I say, keeping that same soft cadence. “No running and no overthinking. Just sleep.”
His lashes flutter, but he nods faintly, his body already too exhausted to fight me.
I lean in, kissing his cheek. “And in the morning,” I breathe, “you’re not gonna tell anyone that you belong to me.”
Nate’s breath is slow and uneven as his brows furrow slightly, his voice rough, whispering, “Why?”
I tilt my head. “Why what, Nathaniel?”
“Why can’t I tell?” he asks on a swallow.
I hum, dragging my fingers over his throat, tracing the marks I left behind, feeling his pulse jump beneath my touch. “Because I want you to be my perfect little secret for a while.”
That’s the answer he expects. The one that makes sense, the one that keeps him compliant, the one that makes him feel like this is something special.
But the truth?
The truth is, I don’t want Sage anywhere near him.
Sage is the only person who sees Nate the way I do, the only person who pulls him back when he gets too close to the edge, the only person who could undo everything I’ve done. I can’t fucking have that, not when I’ve already got him. Not when he’s mine now.
I lean down, pressing my lips against his, slow this time, gentle. Nothing like before. Nothing like the rough, desperate way we just tore each other apart. This kiss isn’t about claiming, about possession, or about proving a point. This is reinforcement.
His breath stutters, his fingers twitch against the sheets as if he’s thinking about reaching for me, but he doesn’t. He just lets me kiss him, lets me own this moment, lets me settle something inside him.
When I pull back, I let my fingers ghost along his cheek, watching his lashes flutter, his body still soft beneath me. “Go to sleep, Pup.”
He tries to keep his eyes open, but they drift closed as he nods faintly, too fucked out to question it.
I watch him for a beat, then I swing my legs off the bed, reaching for my pants. The room is dim, the air thick with heat and sweat and sex; the only sound is our quiet, unsteady breathing. I pull my pants on, buttoning them up, and smoothing down my shirt.
I never took it off; I never do. Not in front of people, not in moments like this. I don’t like the way eyes linger when I’m exposed, I don’t like the feeling of someone’s gaze on my skin. I can handle hands—can handle touch on certain parts of my body, control it, turn it into something I dictate—but eyes? No.
I won’t allow it.
I run a hand through my hair, glancing at him one last time before I stand up, adjusting my belt, my fingers lingering against the buckle for just a second longer than necessary. This is the moment that matters, when he realizes I’m leaving, and when he realizes he doesn’t want me to.
He won’t say it because he’s still trying to convince himself that he doesn’t need me to stay.
But we both know he does.
Nate
ThefirstthingInotice when I wake up is the silence.
It’s the kind of quiet that sinks into your bones, the kind that feels too thick, too still, too much. Sunlight bleeds in through the edge of the blackout curtain, casting a golden line across the sheets tangled around my waist. My arm’s flung above my head, the other resting low on my stomach, and everything in me feels heavy. I’m sore in a way I haven’t been in a long time, but not from pain—it’s satiation.
I feel completely fucking sated.
I stretch, a deep exhale dragging out of me, my muscles loose and lazy. For the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t feel like I’m about to splinter apart at the seams. There’s no vise squeezing around my chest, no thoughts dragging me under the second my eyes open. There’s only stillness, a soft hum of contentment, and the ache deep in my hips and thighs that reminds me exactly why.
I drag a hand down my face, squinting at the clock on my nightstand, and blink when I register the numbers.
9:06 a.m.
What the fuck?
I sit up too fast, the sheet slipping down my stomach, and then it hits me. Not just the soreness, or the fact that I’m late for my first class, but the flood of memories. The sound of Liam’s voice in my ear. The weight of his body pressed into mine. My own voice, breathless and desperate, begging for more—for worse. His praise, his hands, the way he told me I was his, and how I didn’t say no.
