Midnight Toxicity

45.

The sunlight was barely crossing the bedroom window when Chace slid in behind me, his breath warm against the nape of my neck like he owned the morning and me. His hand pressed low on my belly, slow, claiming the way he knew would turn my spine to static.

"Hellcat..." he murmured, voice all velvet smoke, "you give me one more—just one—and I'll make you breakfast. Whatever you want. Pancakes, waffles, hell, I'll even cut the strawberries into little hearts if that's what gets you to listen."

He nuzzled my jaw, lazy and teasing, as if he had all the time in the world to unravel me.

"Chace," I breathed, half warning, half wanting.

He just smirked against my skin. "C'mon, Char. Let me spoil you a little. You want the food or the finish first?"

His fingers tilted my chin, so I had no choice but to face him. Eyes hot. Dangerous. Too sure of the hold he had on me.

"Say yes," he whispered. "I'll feed you after I ruin you."

The world tilted, heat rising, breath catching, then everything blurred into that familiar, overwhelming gravity of him.

He was so gorgeous, and his voice was all-consuming. He lit me up. It made me feel all the naughty feels. The kind that coils low in your belly and says, you didn't imagine last night —you let him back in.

His breath was on my neck, slow and steady, claiming the space like he built it. His hand splayed across my stomach, thumb tracing lazy half-circles like he was reminding my body who it had answered hours ago.

And the worst part? My body remembered. Instantly Like it had been waiting for him to wake up so it could betray me all over again.

He fucked me sweet and slow. In and out. He held me tight, then gave space to watch as his cock entered slow and deep. It went on like that from hard and deep to slow and sweet until my legs trembled, and my voice strained in a muffled wail into a pillow.

For a second, I just lay there, barely breathing, letting the memories swim back in pieces, his voice against my throat. The way he'd said my name was like a promise and a threat, how I'd believed him for one stupid, starved heartbeat.

Then he shifted behind me, pulling me closer.

"Seriously," he murmured, voice rough with desire and something darker. "I didn't think you'd still be here."

I swallowed. "Where else would I be?"

"Running," he hummed, lips brushing my shoulder. "You're always trying to run from me. You have to let me catch up sometimes."

He said it like the hiding was adorable. Like he loved chasing me.

Like he enjoyed catching me even more.

My pulse tripped over itself because... maybe he wasn't wrong.

"I wasn't skedaddling," I whispered.

"Liar," he said, soft as a kiss. "You disappear the second things get real."

My cheeks burned. "Last night wasn't real."

His fingers tightened. Just a little bit. Just enough for my breath to snag.

"Wicked Hellcat," he said, drawing the word out in that low, velvet way that made my brain short-circuit. "The way you held onto me? The way you said my name? That was real as hell."

It hit me like a blooming bruise—the gaslighting wrapped in romance; the poison dipped in honey. He made me question myself so fast that my thoughts spun.