Ravished Heart

The passionate lovemaking was in full swing, their silhouettes rising and falling beneath the dim light, movements wild and the atmosphere blazing hot.

That's exactly when Quinley Elikin's phone rang.

The buzzing was jarring and intrusive. Usually during these moments, she'd set her phone to silent, but tonight she'd forgotten.

She arched her back, kneeling on the bed in an awkward position, trying to maintain rhythm with Zachary Jennings while simultaneously reaching for her phone.

The caller was Zachary's mother, Sylvia Parker.

Quinley's heart lurched. Her hand trembled, and the phone slipped to the floor.

The buzzing continued.

Zachary's mood soured instantly. He was known for his stamina, never stopping until she begged for mercy.

But now, thrown off his rhythm, he gripped her lower back with one hand, his movements turning rough and quick—punishing her for the distraction.

The encounter ended abruptly. Zachary got up and headed to the bathroom. He always showered after.

Soon, the sound of running water filled the silence.

Quinley scrambled off the bed, dropping to her knees to retrieve her still-ringing phone.

She quickly answered, and Sylvia's voice came through immediately.

"He's getting married. You know what to do, right?"

Quinley's grip on the phone tightened, but her voice remained perfectly calm. "Please don't worry; I understand."

From the beginning, she'd known she was just a pawn in Sylvia's game.

Being someone's pawn meant understanding your value—when useful, you were sent across enemy lines; when your usefulness ended, you were simply discarded, expected to gracefully retreat to your place.

She just hadn't expected that day to come so suddenly.

After hanging up, Quinley grabbed Zachary's cigarettes and lighter and stepped onto the balcony.

Her fingers fumbled several times before finally producing a flame.

His cigarettes were custom-made, impossible to find in stores. The tobacco was golden, the taste clean and crisp on her tongue.

She leaned languidly against the railing, her long, slender fingers holding the cigarette as her crimson lips parted to inhale, then released a perfect smoke ring that lingered before drifting away.

Three years with Zachary had taught Quinley to mask her emotions perfectly. Even with a storm raging inside, her exterior remained serene.

She heard the soft rustle of footsteps behind her and quickly flicked the half-smoked cigarette into the night sky.

She turned slightly, resting her chin on one hand, gazing out at the darkness as if admiring the view.

"Who called at this hour?" Zachary padded toward her barefoot.

He was tall and powerfully built, with a narrow waist, firm backside, and clearly defined muscles. A single towel hung low around his hips, his impressive V-line just barely visible.

Fresh from the shower, water droplets traced paths down his honey-colored chest, sliding toward his abdomen. Raw masculinity, barely contained.

Passing by the bed, he casually picked up a thin blanket and handed it to Quinley.

Though April wasn't particularly cold, Quinley felt a chill the moment Zachary approached.

She took the blanket, wrapping it tightly around herself.

"A client. Work stuff."

Quinley lied. Or perhaps she hadn't. After all, Sylvia was indeed her client—just not in a way Zachary knew about.

She kept her gaze lowered, avoiding direct eye contact.

Fortunately, Zachary didn't question her further. He reached over to tuck the blanket more securely around her. "Work can wait until office hours. It's late—you should get some rest."

With that, he turned toward the bedroom to retrieve his clothes from the hanger.

Quinley knew the routine. He was leaving. He never spent the night. It was the unspoken rule she'd followed for three years.

He was used to it. So was she.

Never asking too many questions—that was her sense of boundaries.

Never demanding too much—that was her understanding of her place.

She'd mastered these lessons instinctively, winning his approval.

He slipped on his dress shirt and began buttoning it methodically in front of the mirror. From top to bottom, one by one.

In the reflection, his handsome face was sharply defined.

He rarely smiled, his brow perpetually furrowed—his default expression.

Those deep, cool eyes held determination and mystery, like an unfathomable pool too deep to see the bottom, yet irresistibly alluring, drawing people in despite themselves.

Even Quinley, clear-headed as she was, knowing from the start that she and Zachary had no future, had fallen in helplessly.

"Let me help with your tie." Quinley moved closer, taking the tie from the hanger and rising on her tiptoes to loop it around Zachary's neck.

Her cool fingers accidentally brushed against his warm Adam's apple.

This was Zachary's most sensitive spot. During their most passionate moments, she'd deliberately tease it with the tip of her tongue, making his blood instantly boil.

In those moments, he became like a wild stallion—untamed, primal.

"What are you thinking about?" Zachary asked, tapping her forehead lightly when he noticed her lost in thought.

"You," she replied with a gentle smile, her eyes curving into crescents. Half truth, half lie.

She was becoming just like the female version of him.

"I haven't even left yet." The corner of his mouth twitched into the faintest smile before instantly vanishing.

Zachary excelled at hiding emotions. Anger, joy, sorrow—they were nearly impossible to detect on his face.

Instead, his natural air of authority, aloofness, and aristocratic bearing kept people at a distance without effort.

"I was thinking about you staying tonight." Quinley held both ends of the tie without tying it, looking directly into Zachary's eyes with a captivating gaze.

Zachary didn't answer immediately. Instead, he studied Quinley intensely.

This wasn't the first time she'd made such a request, but he typically chose to ignore it.

Zachary had a streak of traditional masculinity—he didn't particularly like women making demands.

Quinley knew his temperament all too well. Knowing the outcome and still asking—the result was predictable.

"Just kidding," she said, giving herself an easy exit. She knew all too well that someone determined to leave couldn't be kept.

With a playful smile, she looked away and skillfully twisted the tie ends into a perfect Windsor knot.

Before she could admire her handiwork, Zachary undid it.

"Okay," he said simply.

Lights off. Bedtime.

The scent of passion still lingered in the air. She wanted to sleep but couldn't.

Zachary lay flat on his back, hands folded over his stomach, eyes closed, brow still furrowed.

Quinley curled up beside him like a small cat, secretly stealing glances at him. She was certain he was only pretending to sleep.

When it came to intimacy, Zachary was disciplined—skilled but never indulgent. He didn't chase quantity, but his intensity and endurance were exceptional—premium quality.

Quinley rarely dared to provoke him deliberately. After all, she wasn't sure she could handle the consequences.

She tossed and turned, restless. Just as she was about to roll away from him, he reached out and pulled her into his embrace.

"Still hungry?" he teased, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly, his eyes gleaming with a hint of mockery.

In the darkness, he was a different person than in daylight.

Daytime Zachary was like an imposing monument—too formal, too dignified. To be admired from afar, never approached too closely.

But at night, he wore another face. Informal, even roguish. This version of Zachary felt real to Quinley, authentic, like an actual living person.

Since he'd initiated the suggestive banter, she dropped her pretense. "I could handle a midnight snack."

Quinley propped herself up on one elbow, her other hand reaching toward Zachary's chest, fingertips tracing lazy circles on his massive pectoral muscles.

Years of working out had made his chest round and firm. Both visually and tactilely impressive.

"Serve yourself, or should I feed you?" he asked bluntly.

Quinley's response was equally direct. "I'll feed you."

She initiated the kiss. Her arms wrapped around his neck like vines, their lips and tongues intertwining, shadows dancing.

Him beneath, her above. Rising, falling.

She moved like a deer galloping across the plains—passionate, uninhibited, tireless. Like a flame, not burning to survive, but burning to consume completely.

Deep into the night, when silence reigned, Quinley lay collapsed against Zachary's chest, utterly spent.

She'd done what she wanted to do, but hadn't yet said what she needed to say.

She pressed against his chest, greedily listening to his strong, steady heartbeat. Her fingers traced every inch of his face.

After a long pause, Quinley finally gathered her courage.

"Mr. Jennings, we should end this."