Kingston hands me a shirt, but that’s all I have. My dress is in scraps, my underwear in much the same state.
When the shirt covers me, he gently places his suit jacket around my shoulders.
I don’t meet his eyes or thank him for it.
I want to feel guilty, to feel ashamed of what just happened, but I don’t and that’s the problem.
This isn’t me.
And while Tate is out there suffering, I’m doing this. That I do feel guilty for.
I follow Kingston through the house, blocking out the sounds of everyone’s pleasure. I’m sure they heard mine too.
I’ve never had an orgasm like the ones Kingston drew from my body, never felt a man go so deep or so hard. He was feral, precise. He knew how to work my body, like I was an instrument, and he’d been learning how to play me his entire life.
My muscles are weak, my stomach in knots. My feet are bare, my shoes somewhere downstairs, and I wasn’t about to go back down to get them. I feel Kingston’s presence looming over me from behind, but for once he’s quiet, no taunting or teasing, no bringing out shit I’d much rather keep buried, if only for my sanity – and my safety.
No one guards the door now and the cold air hits me, raising goosebumps across my bare skin. The ground is cold under my feet.
Before I can take a step down my legs are swooped out from under me.
“Put me down,” I keep my emotions in check, no anger, no desire and certainly no fear. He feeds off it like some fucked up incubus. He holds me bridal style, but ignores me completely.
“Take her home,” he says to a guy I haven’t seen before, dressed like the rest in a suit. When the door is opened, he deposits me in the backseat and closes the door, but I don’t miss the threat he throws the guy, “I expect her home in twenty minutes, a minute more I’ll have your head.”
The guy just nods. I cross my arms and stare out the opposite window even though I can feel Kingston watching me through the window. They’re tinted so it’s likely he can’t see me, but I’m not risking it.
Not one word is spoken as the guy drives me home, the car is silent, not even the radio to drown out my thoughts.
What the fuck have I done, and most importantly, how do I forget it ever happened?
I run a hand over my face, forgetting I’m even wearing the mask still as my fingers bump up against.
Anger, hot and raging has me ripping the thing from my face.
How dare he!? How fucking dare he trick me into going to that damn party!? For using my own body against me!?
I mean, I wasn’t exactly complaining at the time and even if it was the best sex I’ve ever had, he tricked me. And I don’t even want to think about the fact that he didn’t wear a condom or that he knows personal details about me like my sexual health and birth control!
“Hey, do you have a pen?” I ask the driver, unable to take the bite out of my words even if my anger isn’t directed at him.
He meets my eyes in the mirror, frowns but leans over and takes a biro from the glove compartment and then hands it back to me. I recognize the street we’re driving down, and I’ll be home and safe soon.
It does nothing to dissipate my absolute rage at Kingston.
Holding the mask against my bare leg, I put the nib against the front and write in big angry letters, FUCK YOU.
When the car pulls up to the curb the driver makes to get out, “I can get my own door, don’t worry about it.” I push Kingston’s jacket from my shoulders, leaving it on the seat as I slide across the leather, the backs of my legs chaffing against the material. I lean between the front seats, “Can you make sure this gets back to Kingston please?”
The driver takes it from me, looks down at it and hardly contains his amusement, even if nothing about it is funny.
“Sure, miss.”
I climb from the car and slam the door hard.
That was a bad idea. I’m just provoking him. I turn to ask for it back, the regret instant, but the driver is already away from the curb and disappearing down the street.
I groan loudly and stomp towards the building, thankful I, at least, managed to get my purse before I left that damned place. My hands shake when I unlock the door and my legs are heavy carrying me up the stairs.
Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and all of this would have been a dream. Tate would be there, Kingston wouldn’t exist, and my life would be back to the normal, mundane routine I’m used to.
That’s what was safe.
Easy.
My apartment is a warm embrace when I finally drag my arse through the door, but the silence is deafening. It’s late, I’m tired and sleeping is better than thinking about what I was doing with Kingston only an hour ago.
I don’t bother changing as I fall into my bed, tuck myself under the blankets and go to sleep.