CHAPTER 170: "BEDROOM?"

"No." The word shot out, surprising even her. "That’s the problem. I should be calling you an Uber. Instead, I’m debating if offering water makes my intentions too obvious."

"Hydration’s important. Medical professional like yourself should know that."

She laughed, breathless. "Right. Medical necessity."

The apartment swallowed us whole. Organized elegance, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the city like it belonged to her, bookshelves sagging under the weight of medical texts and crushed dreams. Even the couch looked like it came with its own tax bracket.

"Nice place," I said, setting her bag down like I’d been doing this for years.

"Thanks. Water’s in the kitchen. Unless you want something stronger? Though that’s definitely contributing to delinquency." She removed her sweater revealing the shirt underneath.

"Water’s fine. I’m already buzzed on pharmaceutical foreplay."

She rolled her eyes but smiled, moving toward the kitchen. I followed, definitely checking out how her jeans performed miracles normally reserved for scripture. When she stretched for glasses from a high cabinet, her shirt lifted just enough to reveal a strip of skin that made Nobel Prizes look like participation trophies.

"Here." She handed me a glass, fingers brushing mine with all the subtlety of a defibrillator.

We stood there drinking water like Olympians, the silence so thick it could’ve been cut with one of her scalpels.

"This is insane," she finally muttered.

"Which part? The age gap, the professional suicide, or the fact we’re pretending water was the mission objective?"

"Yes." She abandoned her glass, dragging her fingers through hair that probably had a maintenance budget. "All of it. What the fuck am I doing?"

"Whatever you want as you said. Or nothing. Entirely your call."

She looked at me like I was a medical mystery—something dangerous but fascinating. "Want to know the really fucked up part?"

"Tell me."

"I haven’t felt this alive in months. Maybe years." She stepped closer, close enough that her body heat rewired mine. "One coffee with a delinquent, and suddenly I remember what wanting feels like."

"What do you want?"

"Dangerous question." Her hand pressed to my chest, like checking for arrhythmia. "Because what I want and what I should want are currently in a cage match."

"Who’s winning?"

"Guess."

And then she kissed me.

Not a collision of mouths. A detonation.

Her fingers sank into my hair like daggers seeking purchase in stone, the other hand clawing at my shirt—not grabbing, rending fabric like she aimed to peel it from my skin along with my restraint. Our noses crushed, teeth clicking in a near-painful impact as her lips claimed mine with the force of a verdict.

This wasn’t tenderness; it was a confession sealed with pressure; a bargain struck in breathless seconds. My back hit the counter with enough force to rattle the glasses, her body following, pinning me there with surprising strength.

She made a sound—a guttural moan that vibrated from her chest into mine, equal parts triumph and terror—that short-circuited every thought except more.

When we broke, gasping like survivors pulled from wreckage, her lipstick was a smear of crimson violence across my mouth, my jaw, like war paint applied by a conqueror. I probably looked like I’d been mauled by desire.

"Fuck," she whispered, forehead pressed hard against mine. Her breath came in ragged bursts, fanning my lips. "That was..."

"Yeah." My voice was gravel, scraped raw.

"I’m going to hell." The words were a tremor against my skin.

"I’ll save you a seat." My hands, previously braced on the counter, slid around her waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh just above her hips, dragging her impossibly closer.

"VIP section."

She barked a laugh—short, sharp, entirely devoid of joy. Sinful. Dark. "Promises, promises." But she didn’t retreat. Her grip in my hair tightened painfully, knuckles bone-white against my shirt, anchoring herself to the precipice.

"This is such a monumentally bad idea."

"The worst," I agreed, my thumbs tracing circles on the burning skin above her waistband. Each brush made her shudder, a full-body ripple against mine.

Leaning in, I didn’t kiss her mouth. I dotted kisses down the column of her throat—feeling the frantic pulse hammering beneath her skin, tasting salt and the faint, expensive perfume clinging there.

A shiver wracked her, deep and visceral.

My lips found the desperate pulse point below her jaw, sucking just hard enough to make her gasp, her hips jerking against mine.

"We should stop," she breathed, the words a ragged plea against my neck—while simultaneously arching into me, pressing her breasts against my chest, her hand abandoning my hair to slip under my shirt, nails raking down my spine.

The dual sensations—her blunt nails scraping skin, the heat of her palm searing my back—were electric shocks.

"Probably," I rumbled, biting down lightly on her earlobe. The sharp intake of breath was addictive. "Probably should have stopped before..." I nipped the sensitive skin just below. "...before this."

My hands slid lower, cupping the firm swell of her ass through the thin fabric of her soft jeans, lifting her effortlessly onto the counter. The position spread her thighs, and she instinctively wrapped her legs around my waist, locking me in.

The counter edge dug into my back, but she didn’t seem to notice. Or care. I loved that.

Her eyes, dark and fathomless, locked onto mine. Pupil swallowed iris. "Then why aren’t you?"

The question hung in the charged air, thick with unspoken truths. I answered by crushing my mouth back to hers.

This kiss wasn’t slow. It was a slow-motion catastrophe. Not exploratory. Possessive. My tongue swept into her mouth like an invasion, meeting hers in a slick, heated duel that tasted of coffee, desperation, and the bitter tang of surrender.

My hands roamed her body—palming her back, sliding up to tangle in her hair again, tilting her head to deepen the kiss until we were both breathless, dizzy, drowning in the sheer, reckless intensity of it.

She tasted like coffee laced with arsenic, and I couldn’t get enough. Her hands were everywhere—fisting my hair again, raking my back under my shirt, kneading the muscles of my shoulders like she needed to convince herself this was real, this ruin was real.

We broke apart only when air became a desperate necessity, foreheads pressed together, sharing ragged breaths, sharing the same dangerous, intoxicating air. Her lipstick was a catastrophic mess, smeared across both our faces like evidence of a beautiful, terrible crime.

The counter edge was a hard, unyielding line beneath her.

Her legs were still locked around me, a silent, desperate plea.

The silence stretched, thick and heavy—filled only by the sound of our ragged breathing and the frantic drumming of her heart against my chest. The worst idea. The only idea. And we were already plummeting.

"Peter..." My name came out half warning, half prayer—a choked confession trapped in the space between her lips and mine.

"Tell me to leave." I pulled back just enough to pin her with my gaze, my thumb stroking the frantic pulse at her throat. "Say the word and I’m gone. No questions. No guilt trips." She slid off me.

Her eyes searched mine—dilated pupils swallowing the warm honey of her irises. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid bursts like she’d unlearned breathing. "I can’t." The words were raw. Torn.

"Then don’t."

The next kiss was a collision of inevitability—a crash wave breaking against granite. Decision made.

Consequences incinerated. She launched herself upward again, legs locking around my waist like a drowning woman gripping a life raft. I caught her effortlessly, enhanced strength no longer just for violence but for this—cradling the forbidden in my arms.

The counter edge bit into my lower back, a sharp counterpoint to the soft heat of Valentina Luna pressed against me. Worth it.

"Bedroom?" I managed to grind out against her lips, my voice raw.

"Down the hall," she gasped, then sank her teeth into my earlobe—hard. A white-hot jolt sizzled down my spine, short-circuiting rational thought. "Last door."

***

A/N:Some of you might have seen that there is a lot of her questioning what she’s doing... its not a mistake, she’s trying to rationalize what she wants and what is actually right, cuz this can even end her career. Really.

Other wise guys, thanks for reading and supporting me.