WebNovels

Chapter 7 - Chapter 7

The data on the screen was a blur. Mark's movements, his pathetic attempts at disruption – it was all textbook. Predictable. Except the unpredictable variable was sitting right there, wrapped in my oversized shirt, her auburn hair a fiery halo in the pale morning light. Sofia.

My mind was a battlefield. On one side, the strategist, cold and calculating, already sketching out the moves to neutralize Mark, using every piece on the board, even the ones that made my gut clench. Her trauma. My father's bitterness. The decades-old score that suddenly felt within reach.

On the other side, a raw, almost primitive instinct. The Max who had felt her body convulse under his touch, who had tasted her desperation and given his own. The one who had sworn, just hours ago, that she was safe. Always. How could I reconcile those two truths? How could I protect her while simultaneously planning to use her as leverage?

Guilt, a foreign sensation, pricked at me, sharper this time. It was an unwelcome intrusion, a soft spot I couldn't afford. My world didn't allow for such weaknesses. But Sofia was quickly eroding the foundations of that world. The only way I knew to silence the noise, to assert some control over this burgeoning chaos, was through the physical. Through her. If I could just lose myself in her, perhaps the gnawing sense of betrayal would quiet.

I walked back to her, my movements deliberate. Every muscle in my body thrummed with a restless energy that had nothing to do with Mark and everything to do with the woman in front of me. She looked up, her green eyes wide, a mix of apprehension and lingering desire swirling in their depths. She still hadn't moved from the chair, the mugs of cooling tea on the table between us like an unspoken barrier.

"The presentation can wait," I said, my voice rougher than I intended, the words torn from a place deeper than logic. The academic pretense was a flimsy lie now, barely holding.

Her breath hitched. She knew. She understood the unspoken shift, the new current that surged between us. I reached for her, my hand going to her chin, tilting her face up. Her skin was warm, soft beneath my thumb. Her lips were slightly parted, still swollen from our earlier embrace, an unspoken invitation.

I leaned down, claiming her mouth in a kiss that was neither slow nor soft like the last. This was a kiss of desperation, of trying to drown out the strategic calculations and the phantom echoes of my father's bitter voice. It was a bid for oblivion, a desperate attempt to lose myself in her, to quiet the internal storm.

Her hands found my chest, gripping the fabric of my t-shirt. I could feel the tension in her, the slight hesitation before she gave in, her lips parting further, allowing my tongue deeper access. It was a hungry kiss, a seeking, a craving. My hands tangled in her auburn hair, pulling her closer until there was no space left between us, her body pressed against mine, hot and yielding.

I broke the kiss, dragging my lips from hers, my gaze dropping to the oversized shirt she wore. It was a constant reminder of the morning, of the intimacy, and of the raw confession she'd laid bare. It felt like a barrier now, a symbol of the very secrets I was wrestling with.

With a swift, decisive motion, I reached for the hem of the shirt and pulled it up over her head. She gasped softly as it came away, exposing her again to the stark morning light, to my hungry gaze. Her bare skin, pale and flushed, was exquisite. The lingering marks on her neck, where my lips had trailed, were a testament to our earlier abandon. My eyes lingered on them, a possessive ache in my chest. Mine.

"Max…" she whispered, her voice a shaky plea, a question.

I didn't answer with words. I couldn't. My mouth found the pulse point in her neck, tasting her skin, feeling the frantic beat of her heart against my lips. Her scent, a dizzying mix of lingering sleep and aroused female, filled my senses, overriding the cold calculations of strategy.

This was a different kind of control. The only control I seemed capable of exerting over this chaotic new variable in my life. By pulling her closer, by possessing her, perhaps I could silence the conflicting voices in my head. Perhaps I could convince myself that this was simply a strategic move, a way to bind her to me, to keep her safe while I wielded her secret. But deep down, a part of me knew it was a lie. It was need. Raw, unadulterated need.

My hands skimmed down her back, drawing her impossibly close. She arched into my touch, a low moan escaping her lips as my fingers found the sensitive skin of her waist. I lifted her, guiding her to sit on the polished table, the cool surface a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from her. Her legs wrapped around my waist, pulling me even tighter against her.

Her fingers went to my t-shirt, fumbling with the fabric, mimicking my earlier urgency. I let her, needing to feel her skin against mine, needing to erase the lingering distance. In a blur of motion, my own shirt was discarded, hitting the floor with a soft thud. Skin met skin, and a wave of heat, intense and undeniable, washed over me.

Her breath hitched as she pressed her bare chest against mine, her nipples hardening against my skin. I groaned, a deep, primal sound, and plunged my hands into her hair, tilting her head back to capture her mouth again. This kiss was deeper, more desperate, a silent plea for absolution, a futile attempt to burn away the guilt that clung to me like a shroud.

This is about control, I told myself, even as her soft whimpers turned into gasps, even as my body responded with an urgency that defied all reason. This is about protecting her. This is about ensuring she's mine, so Mark can't touch her. But the words felt hollow, a fragile defense against the torrent of sensation, the overwhelming awareness of her vulnerability, and my own profound, unexpected desire.

My gaze flickered to her face, those trusting green eyes, and the knot of guilt tightened. I couldn't meet her gaze, not with what I knew, not with what I was planning. Not with the phantom echo of my father's voice ringing in my ears. I needed her, but looking at her directly felt like looking at my own fractured soul.

With a sudden, rough shift, I pivoted, pulling her with me. My hands gripped her hips, guiding her until she was no longer facing me, but turned away, her back pressing against my front. This position, this angle, allowed me to possess her without having to confront the vulnerability in her eyes, without having to face the silent accusation of my own conscience.

I thrust into her from behind, a little harder than before, the raw friction a desperate attempt to drown out the gnawing guilt. Her gasp was sharp, a mix of surprise and pleasure, and it fueled a primal urgency in me. My hands fisted in her hair, pulling gently, tilting her head back against my shoulder as I pushed deeper, faster.

"God, Sofia," I gritted out, the words ripped from my chest, barely audible against the sounds of our bodies colliding. It wasn't a question, but a plea, an acknowledgement of the fierce, uncontainable desire she ignited in me, a desire I was using to temporarily silence the louder, more unsettling truths. Each thrust was an attempt to expel the guilt, to dominate the confusing tangle of my own emotions.

The sharp tang of her arousal, the frantic beat of her heart against my chest—it was a potent cocktail, silencing the relentless hum of guilt, replacing it with something even more consuming. In this moment, with her body pressed so intimately against mine, I could almost believe that I was simply protecting her, that this was the only way to keep her safe, to keep her. The sharp tang of her arousal, the frantic beat of her heart against my chest—it was a potent cocktail, silencing the relentless hum of guilt, replacing it with something even more consuming.

This revision explores Max's guilt and the shift in his actions to reflect that internal struggle.

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