𝘖𝘉𝘚𝘌𝘚𝘚𝘐𝘖𝘕// dark romance

002|| inncoent touches

     ᥫ᭡ ᥫ᭡ ᥫ᭡

Arielle

The morning sun streamed through the thin curtains of my small apartment, casting a golden glow over everything it touched. I stirred in bed, the soft sheets tangled around my legs, but sleep eluded me.

My mind raced with thoughts that refused to settle, images of the previous night after catching coffee, swirling around like a restless tide.

I lay there, staring at the ceiling, recalling the way Français had leaned against the bar, his presence commanding and cold. The memory of his dark eyes—piercing and enigmatic—sent a shiver through me. There was an undeniable attraction to him, a magnetic pull that left me feeling conflicted. But beneath that allure lay an unsettling chill, a warning I couldn't ignore.

I rolled onto my side, trying to shake the thoughts away. Why was I even thinking about him? I hadn't known him long, yet he occupied my mind like a persistent shadow. The way he had watched me from across the bar, the way his lips had curled into that infuriating smirk, made my heart race and my skin prickle with awareness.

I squeezed my eyes shut, willing myself to focus on something else, anything else. But each time I tried, my thoughts drifted back to him—the way he had spoken, his low, gravelly voice that seemed to wrap around me like a fog. I hated how he made me feel, how his indifference was both infuriating and intoxicating.

As I lay there, I felt a familiar warmth pooling in my belly, a stirring that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with frustration. I huffed a breath, tossing my hair over my shoulder in irritation.

I was tired of being distracted by a man who treated everything like a game, a man who saw me as nothing more than a lower class- worker in his world.

I'd done my research. Francais Laruè.

Although it was not clear on what he does, it states he is wealthy, extremely wealthy.

But as much as I wanted to push him from my mind, my body had other ideas. I turned onto my back and let out a soft sigh, my fingers resting on my stomach. The warmth inside me grew, igniting a spark that made it impossible to ignore. I bit my lip, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks, knowing I was crossing a line.

With a hesitant hand, I let my fingers drift lower, tracing soft patterns over my skin. I closed my eyes, imagining the way he had looked at me—the way his gaze had felt like fire, consuming and intense. I hated how easily I was drawn to him, how his mere presence could set my heart racing and my body responding in ways I couldn't control.

I let my fingers wander, exploring the warmth pooling within me, a soft gasp escaping my lips as sensations washed over me. It was wrong, I knew that. He was cold, distant, and every part of me screamed that I shouldn't be thinking of him this way. But the thrill of it—the danger of wanting someone I shouldn't—sent shivers of excitement racing through me.

How was I supposed to know I can't have him? Maybe I can.

I pictured him, the way he had leaned against the bar with that casual arrogance, the way his lips had almost curled into a smile but never quite reached his eyes. I could almost hear his voice, that low timbre that made my skin tingle. I hated that he lingered in my thoughts, that I was drawn to him like a moth to a flame, knowing full well I would get burned.

With every brush of my fingers, I let the tension build, my breath quickening as I surrendered to the moment. The world around me faded, leaving only the sensation of my skin against my fingertips, the heat pooling deep within me. I let out a soft moan, imagining his hands on me, his cool demeanor contrasting sharply with the warmth of my desire. His large hands that were littered with veins.