Kiss The Villain: Chapter 20

“You made this?”

I stroll out of the bedroom, rolling the cuff of my denim jacket.

So, yeah, I shouldn’t be here. In hindsight, stepping into Kayden’s house the first time was mistake number one. Pretty sure he had a witch cast a spell on me, because ever since, I keep coming back.

It’s a valid theory for this disaster of a situation. Because, seriously, what the fuck was I doing just now?

Let’s say yesterday was about being stuck and pretending I had no way out—literally—thanks to those damn ropes. But there were no ropes in the shower, and I still practically begged him to fuck me.

I came because he called me the most beautiful person he’d ever seen.

And I kissed him.

I claimed him.

I couldn’t stop.

Pretty sure I only snapped out of it when he tried to help with, well, the cum in my ass, and I managed to kick him out. I think he caught the wide-eyed “holy fuck, I’m so fucking screwed” look before he left, though.

He also left me ointment on the bed, next to my folded clothes.

And I took some time to get dressed. One, because my ass is sore. Two, I needed time to think. To sort through this clusterfuck and reach a logical conclusion.

If my so-called genius brain could deliver one, that’d be great. He sure is useless lately.

For now, I considered running away, and I needed a change of clothes before school anyway. Then I walked in on this scene, and, well, now I’m frozen.

Again.

There’s that weird tight feeling in my chest.

Again.

Kayden’s at the table, setting down plates of eggs, the smell of fresh coffee mingling with the sweet tang of strawberries. The red fruit glistens, perfectly sliced, ripeness on point.

He’s changed into navy blue slacks, tailored so well, they practically worship his legs. The sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up, snug around his forearms, and showing off veins and muscle.

“I only cut the strawberries and brewed the coffee,” he says, glancing at me with a small smirk. “The rest is from a nearby restaurant.”

I glare, and he laughs—a rich, distracting sound.

The soft morning light catches in his styled hair, giving it a faint blue sheen. I’m watching every flick of his long fingers on the dish towel, the stretch of his shirt across his chest as he sits down.

The chest that pressed me against the mattress, the glass as he fucked and pounded and rearranged my fucking insides.

I have to stop myself from thinking of those images so that I don’t get hard. Again.

This isn’t normal.

Why am I hyperaware of him?

“Don’t just stand there gawking,” he says, motioning to the chair opposite him. “Sit down.”

“I’m not gawking.”

“Drooling, then?”

“Ugh. Get over yourself.”

He grabs me by the waist and yanks me down, and I hiss when my bruised ass lands on his thighs.

His minty breath ghosts over my jaw as he murmurs, “Don’t be a brat, or I’ll bend you over my knee and give you a good spanking.”

I purse my lips because, why the fuck would I find that…interesting?

“Like fuck you will,” I whisper.

“Language.” His grip tightens, and his scent floods my senses and I discreetly sniff him.

“You don’t mind the language when you’re—” I cut myself off.

“When I’m fucking your brains out? It’s fine then. I love seeing you lose control because you love my cock so much.”

“I do not,” I snap, shoving off his lap and stalking to the chair. My cheeks burn like hellfire, and the bastard knows it.

He smiles as I sit. My ass throbs, and I make a mental note to cover every hickey and mark he left on my neck and collarbone. Might have to wear turtlenecks or something. What a hassle.

I clear my throat. “Why do you always brew coffee?”

“It’s calming and I like the smell.”

“But you always throw away the full bag of beans after.”

“I’m particular about my coffee. It needs to be roasted just right.”

“You’re particular about a lot of things. Your coffee, your whiskey, your music. Even how things are organized around your house.”

“My. The stalkerish habits are showing.”

“I’m just observant.” I swallow a piece of strawberry. “Do you ever cook?”

He sips his coffee, that infuriating smirk back. “Why? Want me to cook for you?”

“I never said that.”

The smirk widens. “I don’t cook. No passion for it.”

“Me neither.”

“See?” He lifts his cup in a mock toast. “We have so much in common, baby.”

I stab a strawberry with my fork. “Would you stop calling me that?”

“Baby? But you loved it last night. Your cock got hard every time I said it.”

I nearly choke but manage to swallow. “That’s different.”

“Different how?”

“It feels gay, okay? Stop it.”

“So me coming deep inside you isn’t gay, but ‘baby’ is?”

“That’s…a physical reaction. It means nothing.”

He sets his cup down, calm but with tension crowding his shoulders.

“I would’ve found your attempts to find excuses adorable under different circumstances, but you need to stop that line of thinking. Is being gay the end of the world? Do you have something against people like my moms?”

“Of course not. I don’t care what others do. More power to them.”

“Then why is it the end of your world?”

“I don’t know. It feels weird.”

“Weird how?”

I shrug, munching another strawberry. “I’m not used to the idea of being fucked. You’re not the one giving up control, so it might have been easier for you to accept the sudden shift in your sexuality, but…”

His gaze softens slightly. “Being fucked is vulnerable, and you’re still uncomfortable with that.”

I lift a shoulder, avoiding his eyes. “Would you identify as gay?”

“For security reasons, I wouldn’t do it publicly. But personally? Sure. I still find women attractive, though, so I’m probably bisexual.”

“Women like Jessica?”

He sighs. “Yes, women like Jessica.”

I stand up and grab the knife, but he slams my hand down. “Sit the fuck down, Carson. Enough.”

“I’m going to fucking stab you.”

“I said. Enough. Cut it out and stop with the impulsive actions.” He presses on my hand as his authoritative voice penetrates my skin. “Let go.”

I glare but release the knife, and he removes his hand as I sit back down. I stuff another strawberry in my mouth to keep from exploding.

Because what the fuck? Since when am I this quick to jump to action?

More importantly, why does the mention of someone else turn me murderous?

“Count to ten,” he says in that same austere tone. “Or, better yet, try having a civil conversation instead of stabbing. I will not stand for these types of tantrums again. Got it?”

Something about his tone and the quiet command does something to me. But I tuck that away. “Are you meeting Jessica again?”

“No. We established exclusivity last night, remember? Or is that too gay for you?”

“But you still find Jessica attractive?”

“Don’t you find other people attractive?”

No.

I pause with the fork near my mouth.

Fuck.

I don’t.

Even before him, I picked girls based on vibes, not attraction. I got off, but not like this. Not like now, where I can’t stop staring at his lips.

I shrug, feigning indifference.

“Who do you find attractive, hmm?” His voice darkens. “Morgan? Cherry?”

“You were the one drooling over Jessica. Stop with the mixed signals.”

“I said that to piss you off.”

“Well, I let Morgan touch me to piss you off.”

He narrows his eyes, and I narrow mine back.

“Lose the attitude, Carson.”

“I’m just mirroring yours, Professor.”

“Carson…”

“Yes, Professor?” I grin, and he exhales sharply, clearly torn between anger and amusement.

We eat in silence for a while, until he stands and rummages around in the living room.

When he returns wearing thick-framed black glasses, my brain kind of short-circuits.

He looks hotter. How is that even possible?

Are people supposed to look even more attractive with glasses or am I just tripping?

Soon, though, he starts reading The Financial Times—gag—hiding his face and the glasses.

“Next time,” I say in an attempt to get his attention, “order strawberry cheesecake.”

“Noted.”

“And granola.”

“Sure.”

“And strawberry protein bars.”

“Will do.”

“You should also consider getting a TV. You know, like normal people.”

He lowers the paper, his glasses amplifying the sharpness in his eyes. “Anything else?”

“I’ll make a list.”

“You’ve been a spoiled brat your whole life, haven’t you?”

“Oh, please, you’re spoiled by your moms, too.” And because I can’t stop staring, I say, “Why haven’t I seen you wear glasses at school? Are they just reading glasses?”

“Yes.” He pulls out a cigarette.

Before he can light it, I snatch it away.

“Now what?” he grumbles.

“I hate the smell. It’s also rude to smoke indoors.”

“Didn’t think you cared about what’s considered rude.”

“I do sometimes.”

Not really. I also don’t care about the smell, but I noticed he doesn’t smoke much. I’ve only seen him do it once in his bath and never on campus, so it’s better he quits.

He folds the newspaper and, unfortunately, removes the glasses. “Anything else you hate? Let’s hear it.”

“You, for instance.”

“I’m well aware. Next?”

“Dogs.”

“Why?”

“I was attacked once. Rabid.”

“Did it scare you?”

“No, it disgusted me.”

“Anything else?”

“French.”

“French?”

“Learned it as a kid, but I hate it now.”

“Fair. It’s overrated.”

“You speak it?”

“Yes.”

“Wow. Korean and French. What other languages do you speak?” I know—German and Chinese, but talking to him is different than reading the cold information Nadine sends.

“Some German and Mandarin Chinese.”

“Why did you learn those languages?”

“German and Chinese for business. Korean for Mom Jina, because she prefers speaking it instead of English, and French because my moms live in Lausanne, which is on the French-speaking side of Switzerland.”

“Have you lived there?”

“Not for long.”

“Because you chose to live with your dad?”

“How do you know that?”

Fuck. Shit.

I got that from Nadine. He shouldn’t know I hired a PI to stalk him for me.

“Rachel mentioned it,” I say with a shrug. “Why did you choose your dad over your moms?”

He stills, his gaze getting lost in the distance. “Sometimes the choice is made for you.”

“In what sense?”

“Like when I gave you no way out. You don’t have a choice in being with me, baby.”

“I can still choose to stab you. Don’t test me.”

He chuckles. “Always a little menace, Carson.”

“Why do you call me that?” My eyes widen. “Do you even know my first name?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then say it.”

He remains quiet and I narrow my eyes. “You really don’t!”

“Gareth Carson, son of Asher and Reina Carson. The older brother of Killian Carson. Grandson of Alexander Carson. Is that enough for you?”

“You didn’t have to go full stalker mode.”

He strokes the rim of his glasses, his long fingers sliding up and down, and it’s so distracting, I barely hear him. “Do you like being a Carson?”

“I guess. I like being born into my family.”

“Of course you do.” He scoffs, the sound so unlike him, it makes me frown.

But I can’t read him, because he slowly stands, takes his newspaper and the glasses, then retrieves his briefcase.

“You’re leaving for school this early?” I ask.

“Unlike some students with supercars, I’m walking.”

“You can just get a car. Surely you can afford it.” I swallow the last bit of strawberry and stand up. “I can drive you if you ask nicely.”

“I prefer to walk.”

“Whatever, not that I was dying to drive you.”

“Suits us both then. Great.”

“Awesome.”

He puts on his coat and scarf, and then he’s out the door before I can call him names.

Hope he breaks his legs on his walk.

Why was I trying to do something nice for him anyway? As if I wanted to take care of him or something equally ridiculous.

Fuck him.