Ruthless Regret (Ruthless Games Duology #2)

Chapter 49

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

ZAIN

Ashley's grip on my hand tightens, her thumb brushing gently back and forth over my knuckles. The simple gesture sends a jolt through me, equal parts comforting and unsettling.

"You'll figure it out," she whispers. "It'll take time, but you will."

I want to believe her. I desperately want to trust in the certainty of her words. But years of anger and suspicion are hard to let go of.

We lapse into silence, the darkness of the room wrapping around us like a cocoon. I'm acutely aware of her presence beside me, of the warmth of her body so close to mine. Her breathing gradually slows and evens out as she drifts off to sleep, and I lie still, listening to the soft sounds of her inhales and exhales. For once, the quiet doesn't feel dangerous. It's almost ... peaceful.

I turn my head slightly, able to make out the outline of her face in the faint moonlight filtering through the curtains. She looks relaxed now, the worry lines smoothed away, and my mind drifts back to our conversation earlier. I've never talked about my time in prison like that before, never let anyone see how deeply it affected me. But with Ashley, the words just came pouring out.

I flex my fingers, and discover they're still intertwined with hers. I should pull away, put some distance between us. But I can't bring myself to let go.

She shifts in her sleep, mumbling something incoherent, and her body turns toward me. I freeze, unsure what to do. Part of me wants to wrap my arms around her, to offer comfort. Another part screams at me to get up and leave before I do something I'll regret.

So, I try to focus on why we're here—to uncover the truth about Jason and Louisa's murders. To clear my name once and for all. Ashley is just a means to an end. Nothing more.

But as she nestles closer, her head coming to rest on my shoulder and her arm slides over my waist, I can't ignore the way my heart rate picks up. I close my eyes, willing my body not to react. But it's a losing battle.

Memories of our encounter a couple of days ago in the living room flash through my mind—her skin under my hands, the taste of her lips, the sounds she made when I ...

No. I can't go there. Not now. Not ever again.

But my traitorous body has other ideas. Ashley's leg brushes against mine, and even with the sheets between us, the contact sends sparks racing along my nerves.

I grit my teeth, trying to think of anything else.

Cold showers.

Baseball statistics.

The mind-numbing boredom of my prison cell.

It's no use. With every soft breath that ghosts across my neck, my resolve weakens. I'm hyper aware of every point where our bodies touch, of the curves pressed against my side.

I should leave. Go back to the bathroom, and sleep in the tub where it's safe. Where I can't do anything stupid.

But I don't move. I lie there, torn between desire and common sense, as the night stretches on.

Ashley stirs. Her breathing changes, becoming more rapid, and a small whimper escapes her lips, her body tensing.

"No. Please, no." Her soft whimper breaks the silence.

She's dreaming. Another nightmare, by the sound of it, and I lift a hand to wake her, then hesitate. I’m not sure whether I should wake her or let it run its course.

Don’t they say not to disturb people who are having a nightmare? No, wait, that’s sleepwalking.

Her grip on my hand tightens.

"Jason," she whispers. "No. No, please. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

That decides it. I give her shoulder a gentle shake.

"Ashley, wake up. You’re having a nightmare."

Her eyes fly open, and she stares at me, eyes blank. Then awareness floods back, and she bolts upright, breathing hard.

"Zain? What ... Where ..."

"You were having a nightmare." I sit up. "You're safe. It wasn't real."

She nods, running a hand through her hair.

"It felt so real," she whispers.

Without thinking, I reach out and cup her cheek, turning her face toward mine.

"But it wasn't.” My voice is firm. “You're here. With me."

Our eyes lock, and I'm acutely aware of how close we are. Of my hand on her skin. Of the way her lips part slightly as she draws in a shaky breath.

The air between us is charged, electric . I should pull away. I know I should. But I can't seem to make myself move.

Ashley's gaze drops to my mouth, then flicks back up to meet mine, and I can’t stop myself from leaning in, and closing the distance between us. Our lips meet, softly at first, then with increasing urgency. I pull her closer, one hand tangling in her hair as the other slides down her back. Her arms lift, loop around my neck, and any last remaining thoughts of walking away disappear.

The taste of her is intoxicating, a drug I can't get enough of.

I shouldn't be doing this. Everything in me screams that this is a mistake, that I'm setting myself up for more pain, that I’ve already lost too much control since I was released.

Control.

It's all I've had to cling to since getting out. And now, with Ramsey dead and our leads disappearing, I feel like I'm spiraling.

I break the kiss abruptly, pulling back. Ashley's eyes open, confusion flashing across her face.

"Zain?" Her voice is soft, questioning.

I take a deep breath, trying to center myself. "We need to slow down."

She starts to pull away, but I shake my head.

"I need ..." I frown, unsure how to express what I'm feeling.

"You need control.”

How does this woman know me this well already?

"Take it," she says, her gaze steady on mine. "I trust you."

Her words shock me.

After everything I've done to her, she trusts me?

“Are you sure?”

She gives a small nod, her eyes never leaving me.

"Then don't move." Slowly, deliberately, I take her hands in mine and pin them above her head. “Hold onto the headboard.”

I trail my fingers down her arms, along her sides, and then over her stomach. My fingers open each button of her top, and I slowly pull it apart to bare the soft, warm skin beneath. She squirms slightly as my fingers stroke up from her navel to the valley between her breasts.

Lowering my head, I press a string of kisses along her throat, across her shoulder, and down until my lips meet the lacy edge of her bra. Her breasts rise and fall with every breath she takes.

My hand smooths up her spine and finds the clasp on her bra. A quick flick of my fingers, and it’s undone. I nose the material away and lift my head to look down at what I’ve uncovered.

Her nipples are a dark pink, hard, and tilted up slightly. The temptation is too much, and I flick my tongue across one tip. She makes a soft sound, and her back arches a little. My lips close over one, and I roll it between my teeth, while I reach down to find the waistband of her pants, and slowly push them down over her hips. At the same time, I shift position, lowering her onto her back and coming down above her.

I take my time exploring her body, learning every curve and dip. Each gasp, each shiver I elicit from her is a victory. A reminder that I’m in control, and when I finally claim her lips again, it’s on my terms.

Slow, deep, thorough .

I pour every ounce of pent-up emotion into the kiss—the anger, the frustration, the desire .

Her hands stay where I’ve placed them, fingers clinging to the headboard while the rest of her writhes beneath my lips as I feast on her breasts.

It's intoxicating, this power she's given me.

For the first time since walking out of prison, I feel grounded.

Centered.

In control.

But it’s not enough. I need more.