Chapter 202 - 201 The Kiss
( EMILY )
The silk sheets feel cool against my bare legs. The warm glow of the bedside reading lamp spills across the dark hardwood floor, guiding a path to the heavy oak doors of the master suite. I pull the thick white duvet up to my chin. The estate is completely silent.
A soft, rhythmic knocking breaks the quiet.
I sit up. The clock reads almost three in the morning. A servant wouldn’t dare approach the master suite at this hour. I push the covers aside and swing my feet onto the plush wool rug. My bare soles pad softly against the floorboards as I approach the door.
I grasp the brass handle and pull the heavy wood inward.
Jackson stands in the dim hallway. The usually immaculate personal assistant looks entirely disheveled. His tie hangs loose. His suit jacket is crumpled. He supports the massive, slumping frame of Alistair Wolfe against his right side.
Alistair is entirely unconscious. His head lolls forward, his chin resting heavily against Jackson’s shoulder. His long arms dangle uselessly toward the floor. The sharp, overwhelming scent of vintage red wine, expensive bergamot cologne, and stale street air rolls off his body in thick waves.
"Miss Vance," Jackson says. His voice is a strained, ragged whisper. He shifts his stance, his polished shoes slipping slightly against the carpet under the sheer dead weight of his employer. "I apologize for the severe intrusion. Mr. Wolfe is completely incapacitated."
I stare at the terrifying CEO of the Wolfe Empire. He looks like a broken puppet. "What happened to him?"
"He consumed a lethal amount of alcohol at Bordeaux 101," Jackson explains, his chest heaving with exertion. "I can’t manage his weight alone. I need your assistance to get him into the bed."
"Bring him inside," I instruct, stepping backward to open the door wider.
Jackson navigates the threshold with agonizing slowness. Alistair drags his expensive leather shoes across the plush rug, the sound a dull, heavy scrape in the quiet room. We move toward the center of the suite. I step to Alistair’s left side. I grab his thick forearm, draping his arm over my own shoulder.
The dense, heavy muscle of his bicep presses uncomfortably against my neck. His skin radiates a startling, intense heat, burning right through the fabric of my silk nightgown. He’s incredibly heavy. The physical strain pulls tight across my lower back.
"On three," Jackson grunts, his face pale with effort. "One. Two. Three."
Together, we haul him forward and lower him onto the mattress. The heavy springs groan loudly in protest. Alistair rolls onto his back. His arms fall limply to his sides, his hands resting open against the white sheets.
Jackson takes a massive step backward, rubbing his aching shoulder joint. He pulls a crisp white handkerchief from his pocket and wipes a layer of sweat from his forehead.
"Thank you, Jackson," I say, massaging the sore muscles in my own neck. "You’re dismissed. I’ll take care of him from here."
"Goodnight, Madam," Jackson replies with a quick, exhausted bow. He turns on his heel and walks out of the suite. The heavy oak doors close behind him, the brass latch clicking securely into place.
I stand entirely alone at the edge of the bed. The warm yellow light from the bedside reading lamp illuminates the center of the mattress.
I look down at the man I’m contracted to marry.
The icy, impenetrable armor he wears to terrify corporate executives is completely gone. He’s stripped of all his terrifying authority. I take a step closer, my eyes tracing the sharp angles of his face.
A cold shock hits the center of my chest.
He’s visibly lost a severe amount of weight. The fabric of his tailored charcoal suit, usually a perfect custom fit, hangs loosely around his broad shoulders. His cheekbones protrude with a harsh, skeletal edge, stretching the pale skin tight across his face. Deep purple shadows bruise the delicate areas beneath his closed eyelashes. His lips are pressed together in a tight, unhappy line. A heavy, gloomy crease pulls his dark eyebrows together, painting a mask of profound misery across his features.
The sheer exhaustion radiating from his motionless body is undeniable. He looks entirely broken, eroded from the inside out by days of relentless stress and severe sleep deprivation.
A thick knot forms in the back of my throat. Pure, unfiltered pity washes over my carefully constructed defensive walls. The anger I harbored over his lies and his icy rejections dissolves instantly. I initiated the silent treatment to protect my own pride. I barricaded my senses with foam earplugs and silk masks, ignoring his presence completely. My stubborn refusal to engage contributed directly to this physical deterioration. The guilt acts like corrosive acid, burning a hole straight through my stomach.
I can’t let him sleep in this condition. The stiff wool of his expensive suit will only agitate his exhausted, overheated body.
I move to the foot of the bed. I reach down, grasping the heel of his right leather shoe. I pull firmly, sliding the footwear off his foot. I place it neatly on the hardwood floor. I repeat the exact process with the left shoe. His breathing remains deep and heavy, the sharp scent of red wine filling the space between us with every exhale.
I walk around to his side. I lean over his chest, reaching for the lapels of his charcoal suit jacket. The wool fabric feels rough against my fingertips. I slide my hands underneath his broad shoulders, attempting to lift his heavy torso just enough to pull the sleeves down his arms.
"Alistair," I whisper into the quiet room, guiding the dark fabric over his right shoulder. "You need to take this off. It’s too warm."
The shift is instantaneous. It’s terrifying.
His dark eyes snap open.
The glazed, unfocused fog of heavy intoxication vanishes in a single heartbeat. A burning, predatory intensity replaces the blank stare. The lethargic, unconscious man disappears, replaced by a coiled spring of pure, violent energy.
Before I can pull my hands away, his large fingers wrap around my delicate wrists. His grip feels like solid steel vices. The pressure bites sharply into my bones.
He yanks me forward with terrifying, explosive strength.
The sudden, violent motion throws me completely off balance. The room spins in a dizzying blur of white sheets and yellow light. I crash onto the mattress, the breath leaving my lungs in a loud gasp.
Alistair rolls over instantly. He uses his massive body weight to pin me directly against the mattress. His heavy knees bracket my hips, locking my lower body securely in place. His large hands capture both of my wrists, pressing them firmly into the pillows above my head. The searing heat of his broad chest presses heavily against my own, crushing the silk of my nightgown between us.
I stare up at him, my dark eyes wide with absolute, paralyzing shock.
He looms over me, his face inches from mine. His chest heaves with rapid, harsh breaths. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t ask for permission.
He leans down and captures my lips with his own.
The kiss is aggressive, punishing, and incredibly demanding. It isn’t a gentle exploration. It’s a raw, desperate claiming. The potent taste of heavy vintage wine and dark, bitter liquor invades my senses immediately. His mouth moves against mine with a frantic, starving hunger. The rough stubble along his sharp jawline scrapes harshly against my delicate cheeks, sending bright sparks of friction across my skin.
The sheer, overwhelming force of the physical contact sends a massive jolt of electricity racing straight down my spine. The shock shatters my cognitive functions completely. For five agonizing seconds, I can’t process the reality of the situation.
Then, panic floods my veins.
The sudden intimacy is a terrifying violation of our established boundaries. We don’t touch. We don’t cross this line.
I twist my wrists against his iron grip. I pull with every ounce of strength I possess. The steel bands of his fingers refuse to yield even a fraction of an inch. I thrash my legs, trying to buck his heavy weight off my hips. I arch my spine, fighting the suffocating pressure of his chest.
He shifts his stance effortlessly. He absorbs my frantic struggles, pressing his weight deeper into the mattress and neutralizing my leverage completely.
He breaks the kiss for a fraction of a second. His hot, wet lips drag a burning trail down my jawline. His ragged breath hits the sensitive skin of my neck, sending a violent shiver through my entire body.
"Alistair!" I gasp, turning my face away to avoid his mouth. "Stop. Look at me. I’m Emily."
I scream my name into the quiet bedroom, praying the sound pierces the toxic fog clouding his brain. I need him to recognize his surroundings. I need him to remember the rigid, emotionless parameters of our legal contract. I need him to snap out of this drunken delusion.
He ignores my words completely.
The massive volume of alcohol in his bloodstream and the raw desire completely override his logical mind. He’s operating purely on instinct.
He captures my mouth again. The kiss deepens, becoming infinitely more intimate and terrifyingly thorough. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, demanding absolute entry. He releases my left wrist, sliding his large, incredibly warm hand down the side of my face. His long fingers tangle deep in my dark hair, holding my head perfectly still against the pillows.
His touch is incredibly possessive. It’s heavy and urgent. He caresses the long slope of my neck, his thumb stroking the rapid pulse jumping violently beneath my skin. The rough, aggressive energy of the initial assault begins to shift. It transforms into a slow, deliberate, agonizingly sensual exploration.
The fight begins to drain out of my muscles. It’s a slow, treacherous defeat.
The intoxicating scent of his expensive bergamot cologne mixes with the sharp tang of the wine. The searing heat of his mouth creates a dizzying sensory overload that short-circuits my brain. I close my eyes, unable to look at the dark, burning intensity in his gaze.
The rigid walls of my emotional defense slowly crumble. A terrifying warmth blooms deep in the pit of my stomach, spreading outward like liquid fire. My right hand, still pinned above my head, relaxes its desperate grip against the sheets. My left hand falls limply against his shoulder. I melt into the mattress, my body instinctively responding to the undeniable, magnetic pull of his affection. For a brief, insane moment, I surrender to the heavy, drowning sensation of the kiss.
His hand trails lower.
He traces the delicate line of my collarbone, exposed by the cut of my silk nightgown. His calloused fingers brush against the thin, fragile strap resting on my shoulder.
He hooks his index finger under the silk fabric. He pulls downward with deliberate, undeniable intent.
The freezing air conditioning from the ceiling vents hits the bare skin of my chest.
The sudden physical exposure acts like a bucket of ice water dumped directly over my head. The treacherous warmth in my stomach vanishes instantly, replaced by absolute, blinding terror.
He’s removing my clothes. He’s attempting to cross the final, unforgivable boundary.
The horrible, sickening truth hits me with the force of a physical blow. I’m a contract wife. I’m a highly visible decoy designed specifically to protect Kiki, the woman who saved him from the M-209 neurotoxin in the Blackwood Gorge. I’m not his lover. He doesn’t love me. He’s using my body to satisfy a drunken, desperate craving. In his heavily intoxicated state, he’s mistaking my presence for the phantom he truly desires. He’s closing his eyes and pretending I’m the woman he lost in the mountains.
Shame washes over me in a scalding, agonizing wave. It burns my cheeks with humiliating heat and fills my throat with thick, choking bile. The pity and guilt I felt minutes ago evaporate, replaced by a profound, terrifying sense of helplessness.
I struggle wildly. I kick my legs, my bare heels striking the mattress. I twist my torso with renewed, desperate strength, trying to tear my shoulder away from his probing fingers.
"No!" I shout, my voice cracking with pure fear. Tears of hot humiliation prick the corners of my eyes. "Alistair, get off me!"
He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t hear me.
His mouth trails down my throat, his hot kisses burning branding marks against my pale skin. His large hand moves methodically to the second silk strap of my nightgown.
The helplessness is completely paralyzing. I’m physically trapped beneath the overwhelming, immovable strength of a man completely lost to his own intoxication. The walls of the luxurious master bedroom close in tightly around me, trapping me in a terrifying nightmare of my own making, while the man I thought would protect me systematically strips away my dignity.