Disgrace

Chapter 14: Aftermath

Katrina

We showered together, the warm water washing away sweat, the scent of sex, but not the way he'd imprinted himself on me. His hands roamed, massaging soap into my skin, his touch lingering on the bruises he left, his mouth following, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses to my shoulder, my collarbone, my neck.

I should've stopped him. Told him that whatever just happened was a mistake. But I didn't.

Instead, I melted into him, letting him take care of me, letting his hands roam, his lips linger—because even if I wasn't saying it, we both knew.

I was his. At least for now.

When we stepped out, he wrapped me in a towel, drying me off like I was something fragile. His touch was careful, reverent, running the soft fabric over my damp skin, his fingers threading through my wet hair, squeezing out the excess water. He didn't rush. He took his time. Like he wanted to memorize every inch of me all over again.

Then, he guided me to my reading chair, his hands firm but gentle as he sat me down. Like I couldn't be trusted to stand on my own yet. And maybe I couldn't.

I watched as he stripped the bed. The scent of us clung to the sheets, mixed with something darker—evidence of what he'd taken from me. The deep red stain stood stark against the white fabric.

Mason stilled.

His jaw flexed, fingers tightening around the sheets before he tossed them aside, grabbing fresh ones without a word. But I saw it. The way his fingers curled, the way his breath slowed like he was forcing himself to stay calm.

He didn't say anything about it. Didn't smirk, didn't gloat. Just cleaned up, changed the bedding like it was part of our nightly routine.

I should feel ashamed.

Instead, I felt something else—something far worse. Something dangerous.

It curled in my stomach, a slow burn creeping up my spine, settling in the space between guilt and desire.

When he took me in his arms, my arms automatically wrapped around his neck. The movement made me wince, a deep, aching soreness settling between my thighs, a dull throb with every shift of my hips. My body felt used, stretched, raw in a way I had never experienced before.

Mason must have noticed because he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to my temple before gently laying me down.

I was so tired that even though I wanted to push him away, I couldn't bring myself to do it.

I fell asleep in his arms, the scent of him warm, musky, intoxicating, seeping into my skin, wrapping around me like a second blanket.

My phone vibrated on the nightstand.

Mason groaned against my skin, his grip tightening around my waist as he reached for it first. He glanced at the screen before holding it out to me.

"Nurse Tanya," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep.

I took it, pressing the phone to my ear, still groggy. My eyes flicked to the clock—6 AM. I had work at 8. I should still have time. The soft glow of early morning filtered through the sheer curtains, casting golden streaks across the room. Outside, the sky shifted from deep navy to soft hues of pink and orange, the distant hum of waves crashing against the shore barely audible through the glass. The air was warm, carrying the faint scent of salt from the ocean, mixing with the lingering traces of Mason—spice, musk, and something undeniably him.

"Hey..." I said.

Mason grunted.

I nudged him, giving him a sharp look, but the asshole only smirked lazily, brushing his lips against my chin.