𝐔𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐬

15 - Tenderness and Frenzy

Theme: Velvet Black-Smooth Yet Dark.

───※ ·❆· ※───
However, to my surprise, his mood shifted. He suddenly ceased, seemingly calculating his next move. He swiftly called for his driver to join him, and in a moment, his car showed up with surprising speed. I knew the direction this was heading.

"I have my car; I can..." I was ready to jump in, Before I could finish my sentence, "Not now," he murmured. His response came promptly, cutting through the air like a velvet blade. His tone, lower with a shade of frustration, shot firing on my bone. 

As I naturally took a step back, creating a small space between us. But his touch found its way to my elbow, drawing me closer with a tenderness that belied the displeasure in his voice. The fervor of his hand against my skin kindled a stream of emotions. The conflict of its  left me breathless.

"And stop testing my patience," he went on, his voice softer yet swollen with a a claim. "And stop being so hard on me."

In that moment, time meant to slow, and the world faded into insignificance, leaving only the two of us pressed in an intimate proximity.

His piercing gaze owned mine slave, his eyes like windows into his soul, revealing a countless of emotions and intricacies. It was a tacit remark that spoke volumes. And as he leaned in, I could feel his whiff, hot and tender, lightly brushing against my face, provoking phenomena of some kind.

I couldn't gather the grit to meet his eyes. My eyes finding home in the safety of looking down. The situation weighed heavily on me, grown by the presence of his imposing security team, even though their attention was not on us. But the closeness, the storm raging within him, and his touch offered a blunt variation. Utterly surprising to the heaviness of his voice.

It was as if he cradled me, feeble in his grasp. As though I were the most precious person he had ever touched. A nameless emotion mounted within me, catching me off guard. How could I dare to entertain the idea of being precious to him? It felt impossible, and yet the gentle touch of his hand and the fever in his gaze spoke a different story.

It was as if he had seen the pain flash through my eyes. The episode of the club reemerging with an overwhelming force. In that weak point, tears moistened my cheeks. He took a step back, a color of violence widespread across his face.

The darkness in his voice crackled with force as he blurted, "That bastard... How dare he?"

He turned around, breaking the tension. "Did he hurt you?"

But before I could grapple with his sudden disturbing concern, a change swept over him. His features melted.

I met his gaze. Shaking my head in return. He understood my silence. And in that understanding, he gently guided me towards the awaiting car and opened the door for me.

Inside the car, a noticeable change came over him. Just moments ago, he had been gentle and tender, but now his hand tightened around the steering wheel, declaring his growing anger. I caught a glimpse of his side profile; his features were writhing.

His face drifted from me to my wrists, and there was a sharp edge in his voice. "When I asked you, why didn't you say he hurt you?" His words sting me like a bee, and I felt panic. I had chosen not to accept the pain, perhaps out of fear or a misguided attempt to protect him from the ugliness of it all. But now, facing his direct inquiry.

Anarchic anger rinsed over me as I watched him open the car's trunk and taking out something. His actions were speedy and deliberate. With a limited look, he returned to the car and sat back inside.

"Give me your hand," he said without looking at me, his tone dominating yet gentle.

I hesitated, no longer willing to bow to his authoritative attitude. How dare he think he could control me with his words alone?

It was within those confined spaces that our emotions shot, colliding and meshing in ways I could never fully understand. It was as if he had an inborn talent to undo the depths of my soul and see beyond the carefully composed face I presented to the world.

"Please," he recited softly, his voice a vigor that made my heart race.

Time seemed to slow as the solemnity of the moment sat upon us, crushing my senses. And then, in a tender sign, he delicately touched my wrist, his fingers tracing the curves of my skin. I couldn't tear my eyes away from him. Compeletly dazzled by his skill. When he wasn't looking directly at me, it felt easier to see the soft details of his face and study the emotions.

As I watched him, it became clear that he was still consumed by anger over what had happened.

He reached for a hankie, with an embroidery that bore his initials. "AO" From within, he took out a small quantity, wrapped securely in the cloth. I soon realized it was an ice pack. He then placed the icy pack on my injured wrist. The coolness oozed through the fabric, soothing the throbbing ache. It was as if his touch held the power to heal-not just the physical pain but the emotional one that was raging through me.

As the coldness of the ice wrapped my wrist, the pain began to recede.

His fingers drifted for a bit as I gently pulled my hand away, their touch leaving a faint imprint on my skin. I could feel the hesitation in his actions, as if he didn't want to let go just yet. It was a bittersweet moment, levied with lurking words.

"I am fine now," I whispered, my voice less likely to be heard.

I sat in silence, not aware of his emotions, but I couldn't help but feel disappointment deriving from him. However, to my relief, he nodded, as if coming to terms with something.

Without further undo, he started the car, and we were ready to go home.

WC:1108