62 Not just a body

**Date = 26 June**
*I let her sleep, watching.*
**Place = San Francisco (Black Pit)**
*I don’t want to be here.*

**POV - Enrique**

***WARNING – Sex scene!!!***

I stare through the window. It’s a picturesque view … breathtaking, brooding, and undeniably bold.

But the shadows on the walls still whispered of what had happened in this house.

I force myself to look at the building edged on the horizon.

The stables.

It haunts me like a wounded beast under the dim first rays of the rising sun.

I don’t want to be here. Aria stirs and moans softly. I turn around to look at her, desperately trying to cut through the uncomfortable tension hanging in the air. She stretches comfortably, and her eyes slowly open. A soft smile on her lips. Her hair a curly mess.

“Aria, we need to talk,” I say softly. I’ve been waiting for her to wake up. Why this girl can make me suffer from a chronic tummy ache, for one, I’m not sure … but I have an idea.

I want to explain. I want her to understand. That I did what I did because I … eh … care about her. About Leyla.

I have to make up for all the suffering I’ve caused.

I open my mouth … but the words seem to get stuck in my throat. She’s not sitting on the bed anymore.

She struts forward with slow, sexy strides, and the sensual way her breasts move beneath that flimsy top dries my mouth, and my mind wanders straight down to stiffen things up.

“Okay. Talk.”

The need in me is ancient, animalistic, aching.

Her eyes dart down. Hungrily, to where I’m filling my pants a little too well.

Shit. She must think I’m such a pervert. This is not the way to do it. I need her to take me seriously. I try to focus on her face.

“Aria, I’m really sorry …” I stutter like a horny schoolboy on his first date. She puts her fingers against my lips, keeping me from finishing my lame apology.

“Shh,” she whispers, sliding one finger into my mouth, the other hand traveling down my body. I am already so hot and ready that when she feathers her fingers along my shaft to cup my balls, I almost topple right over the edge.

But I want more. I want to feel myself inside her.

I don’t remember grabbing her, not really. One minute we are standing apart, both pretending the horror outside doesn’t exist, and the next — my mouth finds hers, desperate, rough, trembling.

She doesn’t stop me. She kisses me back like she needs me just as much, like maybe her world started and ended with my name. An unsatisfied hunger between us.

Somehow, within mere seconds, I remove her top, my hand under the band of her panties.

She moans and raises her hips as I work a finger against her slick seam — wet in anticipation. The tips of her nipples rub against my chest.

I watch as they harden. It’s sexy as fuck. Beautiful.

I nuzzle against her, my lips on her neck, nibbling and kissing my way to her earlobe.

“Ooh,” she sighs. Then she hisses like a little kitten.

That’s it. I’ve lost it. I can’t stop even if I wanted to.

Luckily, I don’t want to.

Reaching out, I move my hands to cup her ass and pick her up. Her legs automatically wrap around my hips. I make my way to the bed, but walking with an erection and a girl clinging to me is more difficult than it should be.

Also, Aria is thoroughly distracting with her hand massaging my testicles and her tongue dancing in my mouth.

I drop her on the bed.

Removing my undies in one masterly move, I circle my hand around the base of my length, stroking myself from foot to tip. Aria clenches her thighs together, squirming on the bed, her green eyes watching me with eager expectancy.

Her skin flushes, and she licks her lips. I wonder if she realizes just how adorably sexy she is right now.

I drag in shallow breath after shallow breath. I can’t wait any longer. My need is just too great. I need to fill her, right now.

“Take your panties off,” I command as my heart races to an imminent arrest. She blushes but leans back, lifts her hips, and slips the thin material down her thighs. Each movement hardens my dick in my hand even more. She drops the shred of material on the floor.

My gaze slides over her in a slow perusal that increases my heart rate to a critical state.

“Open up.” Her flush deepens, but she obeys once more, spreading her legs.

Fucking hell. Now that’s a voodoo pussy, for sure. One, I can fuck forever and ever. My hand instinctively slides over my length again.

And I’m ready to do just that.

I put my knees on the bed, cradling her between my thighs. I lean over and take a SKYN from my wallet, ripping it open with my teeth. Aria lies motionless below me, her hands on my hips, a molten gaze on what I’m doing.

I place my hand on the pillow next to her head, lowering myself between her legs.

“Hell,” she cries out when I playfully bite her nipple, running a finger through her groove. She’s wet and ready for me. My stomach turns hollow as my intestines make some crazy swirls. I bring my lips to hers and slip into that wetness.

She gasps into my mouth. I lift myself to look into her eyes, shifting my weight onto one arm, I move forward.

She whimpers and digs her nails into my back, tilting her hips, and we both groan.

“Fuck, Aria, you’re so perfect,” I growl against her ear. She moves again, and I let her set the pace even though it feels as if I’m going to combust.

And then my restraint breaks.

“You’re driving me crazy, Batnip,” I rasp, “I need to go deeper.” And I do.

I thrust deeper, harder, feeling how I’m losing control ― like every time I’m with her.

Each plunge drives up the potency until I’m working her at a feverish pace, her breathing like music in my ear.

She wraps her legs around me, taking me to the hilt. I move faster, grinding my hips against hers. I’m close. She’s close.

I put my mouth on hers and smother the cry I generate from deep inside her as she releases. She spasms under me, her legs tightening around me as waves of pleasure roll through her. Her eyes burn like jewels.

I lift onto my knees and take her hips, powering into her, heightening her sensation … and mine. My muscles flex as I take her once more. Her head boots back and she screams.

“Sport!”

I bite my lip. This is too much. I thrust once, twice. My body shudders.

“Yessss!” I cum quickly, losing all reason as I explode inside her ― marking her as mine.

This is more than sex. This is real. This is … that word. I can now almost think it. Almost.

I fall forward onto her. I can’t move. My body is limp and useless.

My hand curls around her back, cradling her against me. She feels small, but not fragile. Fierce. Brave. And still she has the softness to touch me like I am worth something.

I swallow. My throat burns.

Her skin is still flushed, lips swollen. Her head rests on my chest, hair a messy halo against my skin.

She curls herself against me and says, “I missed you!” in a happily surprised voice still laced with the husky traces of satisfying sex.

I remove the condom and drop it on the floor. I’ll discard it later. Properly. I’ve learned my lesson. Even if it was not what happened … it was a possibility.

“I missed you, too,” I say with a big grin. It’s the truth. I swear my face is going to ache from smiling so much. I pull the sheet over us, and for a while we lie like that, enjoying each other’s body heat in silence.

For a moment, everything is quiet.

For a moment, I let myself pretend.

I didn’t mean to make l-o … to have sex with her. Not here. Not like this.

But I couldn’t stop. Not with her. Not with Aria looking at me like I am more than the mess of trauma, blood, and guilt I carry.

She moves slightly, tracing a line along my collarbone.

“Was it hard for you to see Amanda like that?” The question is unexpected. And my answer … not thought through.

“It’s not as if I … eh, liked her.” It’s strange how I can’t even use the word in this context, and definitely not when it comes to expressing my feelings — my body literally rejects the word — my throat tightens and my tongue clots up. It’s strange … but the therapist, my uncle sent us to, gave it a name … one I can’t even pronounce … said it’s because I associate the word with the trauma I experienced.

She lets go, now holding my shoulders while looking straight into my eyes.

“She’s still someone you knew … someone you were intimate with …” she continues, looking confused. Why is she trying to find feelings that were never there?

Yes, I fucked Amanda, and what happened to her is sick … but I never cared about her.

“It was just sex, Aria. I feel slightly guilty that she died because of me, but if she hadn’t lied about the pregnancy or if she had gone to her parents, she might still be alive.” And you might have been the one in that crate. That thought makes me want to gag. I swallow the vomit pushing up my throat.

I’m not the real one at fault here.

“Maybe, but it’s still a woman you’ve spent time with … naked time.” Yeah, not really. We fucked, I left. No talking, no cuddling. Mostly half an hour or less each time. “And then you find her all mangled and raped.”

“So?” It wasn’t the first body I’ve seen. “I didn’t even like her. I never did. She was just another pretty girl … like all the rest I’ve … been intimate with.” I use her words to make it a little less harsh.

“Like I said, just sex. Nothing more.” I’m brutally honest with her. I don’t want any secrets between us anymore. And Mel said girls like sincerity.

Aria seems shocked. She stares at my face for a moment, then jumps out of bed, pulling the sheet with her to cover her nakedness.

What now?

“Am I also just a body to you?” What? Hell no. I lurch up, not even bothering to cover up. How did this go so wrong so suddenly? Can’t she see she means the world to me? Even more.

“No!” I almost shout. “You’re different!” Way different. “I … eh …” I start, but can’t say it out loud. Not in that exact order. I can say each word separately — you and I. It’s the other word that clots my throat. I can’t put it together in a concrete manner. Not even in my thoughts.

She waits for me to continue. I can’t. I fucking can’t say it.

“I … I like you …” I say instead.

“You LIKE me.” When she says it like that, it just sounds all wrong. Fuck.

“A lot,” I add.

“Good to know.” She struts into the bathroom and slams the door. The soft spray of water from the shower fills the room. I put on my jock, grab some coffee from the machine, and walk out onto the balcony.

I will try and explain it better when she comes out.

A chilly wind blows in from the bottom of the mountain, where the main mansion stands at the heart of the property like a monarch — tall, commanding — carved from old sandstone and shadow. Jackson did a great job revamping the place into his own style.

Now, it’s a grand revival masterpiece, a fusion of elegance and grit, with whitewashed walls framed in ebony-stained timber that traced complex patterns along the exterior like skeletal ribs. Heavy Tudor-style gables jut from steep black slate roofs, and the upper stories are marked by intricate half-timbering and dark wood balconies that look out toward both the sea and the mountain.

Beneath the overhangs, wattle and daub infill gives a soft, aged contrast to the bold frame, lending it the air of something ancient yet meticulously preserved. Ivy claws its way up the sandstone chimneys from where thin ribbons of curly smoke lazily rise into the pale morning sky like a whisper. It moves slowly at first, gray and soft, unraveling in delicate spirals before catching a gust of wind and scattering across the air like ash from an old memory. Against the sharp black of the roofline and the backdrop of sea and stone, the smoke looks almost ghostly — as if the house itself is exhaling after holding its breath too long.

Surrounding the main house is a crescent of smaller cottages, like the one we’re currently inhabiting, clearly renovated with intention. They carry the same sandstone and black-and-white aesthetic, but with more warmth — natural oak beams, wide porches, and copper lanterns, still flickering in the dim light of the early morning.

Though close enough to suggest community, each cottage is spaced with privacy in mind, tucked behind hedges, trellises, or little mossy walls. Little black A-line slate roofs, all of them nestling into the landscape as if they’ve sprouted there like mushrooms. They’re new. They were not here before.

Neither were the orchards, the crops, or the shaggy highland cows, alpacas, sheep, and occasional goat, dotting the vast paddocks that stretch beneath the rolling shadows of the mountain. Granddad Alexander only kept horses. Lots and lots of Thoroughbreds. For racing. Breeding.

That brings us to the stables … big as barns, impeccably maintained, now also decorated with weathered wood and iron gates. You can smell the hay and the salt on the wind, hear the distant neighing, the clatter of hooves on stone. Of course, there are horses. Jackson loves them.

I hate the things.

It’s the eyes, I think. The way they stared when we came crawling up from the hole — like gods looking down at sinners. Calm and clean and pampered, like they understood everything. And I swear they approved.

My phone beeps on the bedside table. I sigh and walk back inside, pick up my phone, and open the message. It’s from Axel.

Axel: Jackson shared his choice.

E-fucking-ventually.

Then he forwards a link. My hands shake as I open the video. It’s grainy. Dim lighting. A white room. And Lee. In a black hoodie. Tied up, sitting on a bed.

He looks straight into the camera. Not crying. Not begging.

Just … steady. Like, he doesn’t want us to see him break.

Then the screen cuts to black.

Words appear, white text on black. The asshole is getting creative.

CHOOSE.

Option A: Throwing a dice. Raped. Left alive.

Option B: Rigged with a bomb that will tear limb from limb.

Your choice will be recorded from start to finish for you to enjoy.

You have 48 hours.

My vision tunnels.

Holy fucking flower bats. His choice is way worse than mine. His person … dead or alive. And knowing my twin, he’s going all out psycho right now.

There really isn’t a choice. Would I be able to make one? Gang-raped or blown up?

I won’t.

Just the thought of it hits me so hard, it stops my heart. I can’t breathe.

Although my choice is done, they could find out that the baby was not mine and retaliate by killing Aria instead. I need to let her go. Again. And I need to make it believable.

I can’t … like her. I can’t let her like me back.

I close my eyes.

But it’s too late. I already do. And it’s killing me.

Aria comes out, wearing one of my T-shirts. The way it clings to her suggests that she’s buck-naked underneath. She grabs her old, discarded clothes and slips on her g-string and pants without removing my shirt.

I follow her moves, trying to bypass the unwanted erection forming between my legs. Fuck, this woman cursed me … badly.

“Aria,” I say, trying to get my mind out of my pants, to warn her. “These people who kidnapped you … they’re not playing around. I need you to be careful.” I look into her eyes. They are bright and shiny as if she’s been crying. Fuck. I keep on hurting her. I’m such an asshole. And she’s in all this mess because of me.

She shouldn’t have been there. Shouldn’t have been involved in any of this. Should’ve been safe, working her job, dancing around her little sister, painting Leyla’s face with sparkles and lipstick.

Not here. Not mine. Not ruined.

And I dragged her into this.

“Promise me you won’t go anywhere without a bodyguard until this is all over,” I plead. She takes a deep breath and turns her back to me.

“Fine.”

The wind softly blows through her hair. More blood rushes to my dick. Hell, now is not the time. I need a minute.

She pulls my T over her head and puts on her bra. Okay, now I need more than a minute. She puts on one of my hoodies before turning to face me.

“I really like you,” I say. I need her to know.

She bites her lip. It drives me insane, and I have to fight every impulse not to kiss her right now. I think about Amanda … the box …

And the message … Lee’s face … the hidden terror in those yellow eyes … fills my mind. I can’t breathe.

The shadows in the room close in like they remember what had happened here. My breath comes out in a broken sound. A raw, unplanned sob.

Her breath catches. She looks up at me. Her eyes wide, still damp from something too close to hope, turn into worry. “What is it?”

I can’t tell her. I can’t let her know. If Don finds out he killed the wrong person, or how I feel about her — if he even suspects — she won’t get the mercy of a choice.

I look at her. Fully look.

Her lips are parted, her skin still warm from the shower, her eyes too open, too honest.

And I know.

She likes me. Like I like her.

It is just starting. Just becoming real. But it will get her killed.

I push through. My hands are shaking around the now cold coffee cup.

“You should go,” I snap. “I don’t need you here.” Lie. “You’re not part of this.” My boner wilts and my heart stops. This is it. She’s leaving. And I have to let her go.

Her face shatters in slow motion. “Enrique …”

“Don’t,” I rap. “Don’t say it.”

The words hover between us, three syllables she wants to give, and I can’t bear to hear.

“I won’t say it,” she whispers, eyes filling, “but it’s still true.”

“However, I’m tired. I can’t just PRETEND to love you anymore, I’m sorry.” Her words crush my heart with a pain so severe I’ve never experienced anything like it before.

“I understand,” I say after a brief moment of trying to get my shit together.

She waits. I don’t speak. Then she steps forward and places a light kiss on my cheek.

“Bye, Sport,” she says softly, her voice deep, walking to the door.

“Hey, bro,” Axel breaks through the door, and they almost collide. He stops and frowns down at Aria.

“You’re leaving?” he asks, surprised.

“Yeah, I’m meeting Brian at the hospital. We have a surprise for Leyla.” My breath hitches. I bite the inside of my cheek until it bleeds.

“Oh,” he grunts. She walks away, turning at the door to wave, a sad little smile on her beautiful face. I drink it in. It will have to last for a while, maybe an eternity.

Finally, the door clicks shut behind her.

My insides are broken and bruised. I collapse on the bed, staring unseeing into the distance, my mind and heart in serious contradiction. My heart tells me to run after her. Although I’m on his side, I know my mind is right ― I need to let her go.

“Jackson completely lost it,” Axel yells, forcing me to focus on him. “He’s gone.”

“Gone where?”

“Don’t know … he just up and left. And his phone goes straight to voicemail. We need to find him.”

“Yeah.”

The air still smells like sex and Aria. I take a deep whiff and sigh sadly. “Yeah, we must.” I pick up the pillow Aria was sleeping on and sniff it.

“Fuck … who am I talking to!” Axel throws his hands into the air, “You’re in fucking la-la-land.”

He storms out of the room. I slowly get up and put on some clothes. He’s right … we need to find Jackson.

Where? … I don’t know.

What I do know is that whoever kidnapped Lee ― the Old Man, Chloe, Cindy, Graham, someone else ― they pissed off the wrong devil and started a war. Jackson will never back down … not even if he dies.

And this war will have no winners. Only losers. There’s going to be casualties. Losses. Pain. Heartache.

However, I can’t lose Aria. For now, I’ll have to keep up an act. Play a part. While I keep an eye on her from the shadows.