Chapter 7: Ruination of senses
The silence in the living room was thick, a blanket of shared violation and breathless aftermath. Heath's weight pressed her into the carpet, his body still joined with hers, a warm, intimate anchor in the dark sea of her guilt.
He shifted, withdrawing from her slowly, the sensation a sharp, empty ache. He rolled to his side, lying next to her on the floor, his bare chest gleaming in the lamplight. He didn't look at her for a moment, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.
Alice stayed on her back, feeling exposed, naked on the carpet that belonged to his life. Her skin prickled with cold and shame... and a lingering, deep-seated thrill. She had done it. She had taken his space.
"You're insane," Heath said finally, his voice a low, rough murmur. He turned his head to look at her. The predatory heat was gone, replaced by a weary, fascinated intensity. "Coming here. Using the key."
"You said you wanted 'ours,'" she whispered, her own voice shaky. "This was the only place that wasn't hers or the bistro's."
A slow smile, dark and approving, touched his lips. "It was. And now it's... contaminated." He reached out, his fingers tracing a line from her collarbone down to her stomach. "With you."
The word 'contaminated' sent a shudder through her. It wasn't a sweet word. It was a true one. She had marked this place, just as he had marked her neck.
He stood up, moving with a fluid grace that belied the intensity of what had just happened. He walked to the kitchen, his naked back a powerful silhouette against the dim light. She watched him, her body still humming, as he opened the refrigerator.
The sound was mundane, domestic. It felt like a rupture in the spell.
He returned, not with a drink, but with two things in his hands: a small plastic tub and a sleek, metal kitchen tool. Alice's eyes widened as she recognized them. The tub was from the bistro—a small container of honey, used for the dessert plates. The tool was a long, flat, stainless-steel spatula.
He knelt beside her on the carpet, placing the items next to her hip. "You invaded my home," he said, his tone dropping into that low, controlled register that promised something beyond mere sex. "Now, I'm going to invade every sense you have."
Her breath caught. This wasn't the tender, emotional man from the cellar. This was the teaser, the controller, unleashed in his own domain.
"Close your eyes," he commanded.
She obeyed, shutting her eyes tightly. The darkness made her more aware of the feel of the carpet beneath her, the cool air on her skin, the scent of him and his home.
She felt his hands then, not on her skin, but on her face. He was tying something around her head. A soft, silky material. A blindfold. She recognized it—one of Chloe's scarves, probably from a coat hook by the door. The intimacy of using her thing was a fresh, sharp twist of the knife.
