Built His Empire Then Watched It Burn When He Cheated novel Chapter 569

Anneliese's hand felt the relentless thrum beneath Jonathan's chest, a storm that shook the air around them. His voice cut through it—slow, certain, impossible to ignore. "I'm not confused about this," he said, each word weighted like a vow. "I know exactly what it means to want someone so deeply it carves itself into your bones."

He claimed it without flinching—what he felt for her wasn't courtesy, wasn't obligation, wasn't even kindness. It was desire etched so sharply that it hurt to name.

Anneliese's breath stuttered, her chest rising and falling as though her own ribs were trying to keep pace with that violent rhythm. She couldn't separate his pulse from her own; it was impossible to tell who was trembling harder, his body or hers.

Her eyes locked on his, stunned and uncomprehending, voice caught somewhere in her throat. Jonathan didn't demand a response. He simply leaned in, letting his lips trace soft, lingering paths along her forehead, the bridge of her brow, the corner of her eye.

His voice softened, warm and coaxing. "Baby, just feel it. Let it wash over you, alright?"

She swallowed, throat dry, her voice tentative as it slipped out. "Feel… how? I… I don't know how."

His eyes darkened, a flash of frustrated longing crossing them. His lips had wandered to her ear, and hearing her flustered, confused reply, he couldn't resist. Without warning, he nipped at her earlobe, a firm, sharp bite that sent a jolt of heat through her.

"Ah!" she gasped, startled, her hands tensing. Finally, he lifted his head, eyes locking onto hers, a smoldering mix of playfulness and intensity swirling in his gaze.

Her hair tumbled across the pillow like dark waves, framing that delicate, pale face that had been drained of color all evening. Now, under the soft light, her cheeks bloomed with a shy, rosy flush—whether from his gentle touch or the weight of his words, she couldn't tell.

Those almond-shaped eyes, wide and uncertain, carried a vulnerability that made his chest tighten with a tenderness he hadn't expected. "You want to know how to feel it?" he murmured, low and steady. "My heart's right here. You're not really going to pretend you can't find it, are you?"

"Okay, okay! I get it!" she blurted, flustered.

Jonathan had no intention of letting go. Not ever. They hadn't touched like this in days, and his body ached for her far more than he'd expected. And now, with her lying just beneath him, stepping back wasn't an option. Every inch of him burned with the need to hold her close.

But even with desire clawing through him, he wasn't stupid. If he kept cornering her, this would end with slammed doors, tears, maybe even a furious kick to his ribs. What was he going to do, sulk into a pillow like a wronged teenager?

"Alright," he said under his breath, low and stubborn, like a debt being recorded, "I'll hold you to this." Not tonight, but there would be a night. He planned on collecting every overdue second.

Anneliese lay frozen under the covers, but her lashes wouldn't stop trembling, quivering like wings before a summer storm. He stared at her for a long moment, heat and frustration simmering low in his chest.

Then—finally—he peeled himself away from her warmth. With a single step, he swung those long legs over the edge of the bed, planting his feet on the floor.

Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. It was just him confessing. She'd heard declarations before, nothing earth-shattering about them. And his speech wasn't even romantic. No flowers. No sweeping vows. Not even a plain "I love you." Just blunt honesty, messy and raw.

Yet here she was—heart buzzing, tongue useless, brain reduced to fog. What was I panicking for? What was I stuttering for? Irritated at her own reaction, she slapped her palms over her flaming cheeks, as if she could smother the heat back into her bones.

Time dragged before the bathroom door finally opened. Cold steam spilled out with Jonathan, like he'd showered in a winter storm. Wrapped in nothing but a towel, he automatically checked the bed.

A small mound hid under the blanket—a certain girl hadn't tried to escape. A quiet, smug curl tugged at his mouth. Satisfied, he disappeared into the wardrobe, moving with the confidence of a man who already knew she'd stay.

By the time he stepped out in a set of silk nightwear, Anneliese had already staked her claim. She lay curled on her side, practically glued to the mattress' cliff edge, bundled in a blanket fortress that surrendered not even a corner to the enemy. She gave the performance of deep sleep: breathing steady, back turned, utterly motionless.

Only then did he spot the real trick: at some point she'd sneaked out a second quilt, folded with ridiculous precision and spread on his half of the bed. Between them stretched an empty gulf so wide it could have hosted a cavalry charge.

His gaze flickered with quiet mischief. One clean pull, and the extra quilt tumbled to the floor without ceremony. He slipped under the covers, stretched out a long arm, and wrenched the stubborn little hedgehog—blankets and all—straight into his arms. "Already asleep?"

Anneliese kept her lashes lowered, stubbornly clinging to the charade. No response, not even a twitch. That silence lasted exactly one second—until he dipped down, brushing a kiss against her cheek, cool and damp, like a drop of night rain against overly warmed skin.