Easy To Color
KIRA
The city was already bleeding Christmas.
Every streetlight was dressed in frosted pine, every storefront dripping in gold and silver like someone had tried to bribe December into behaving. Banners screamed PEACE ON EARTH as if it were something you could swipe a card for.
Inside the car, it was warm—too warm—and it smelled like Roman. Leather. Spice. And that faint metallic bite of magik that clung to him like a second skin.
Outside, snow fell in lazy, indulgent flakes, softening the world into something deceptively gentle. Roman killed the engine, and the sudden silence inside the cabin was somehow louder than the city itself.
“We’re here,” he said, his voice low enough to vibrate straight through me.
I glanced out the window.
No sign.
No neon.
Nothing screaming VIP or PRIVATE ENTRY or PLEASE ABANDON YOUR INHIBITIONS BEFORE ENTERING.
Just a heavy oak door set into an old brick building that looked like it predated the entire block. A single lantern burned above it, unmoved by the wind.
“It looks closed,” I murmured, grabbing my clutch. The parking lot was full, but the building was dark—like it wanted to pretend its secrets weren’t illuminated just behind those walls.
What the hell had I agreed to?
“Trust me,” Roman said, unbuckling his seatbelt. “When we get inside, you’ll see it’s busy.”
My phone buzzed and I reached for it automatically. Roman kept talking—something about his family’s Christmas dinner and where it was being hosted—but my attention was split.
I’d learned a lot about him in the weeks since Duskhaven.
Enough to know he was the black sheep of the McKay family—not because he rebelled, but because of what he carried. Hard to be the golden boy when you’ve dabbled in magik just to bargain for a dead relative… especially when your family has no idea you’re capable of that kind of darkness.
Roman rambled on, as a flick of amber eyes glanced my way.
The first time he mentioned Christmas dinner was days ago and he didn’t invite me. I didn’t ask and neither of us brought it up again.
It hadn’t even been two months since the Halloween event; since the church, the relic, everything.
Snow tapped softly against the windshield.
And in that short time, we’d barely gone a week without seeing each other.
Sometimes it was dinner that ended in his bed or mine.
Sometimes it was a midnight text and his hands on me moments later—teleporting when he could, driving when he said he needed to conserve magik.
Sometimes it was him showing up at my apartment unannounced with that look, the one that meant he’d been thinking about me, and thinking wasn’t enough anymore.
Roman glanced out of his window.
“You’re quiet,” he said, not accusatory—just aware.
My stomach tightened and my hands curled around my phone.
Roman and I hadn’t labeled any of this, and maybe that was the point. My body reacted to him like muscle memory, but that didn’t give me a seat at his family table. We weren’t friends, we weren’t a fling.
We were a pattern—need, heat, ruin—repeating until one of us snapped.
And both times he mentioned his family, he sounded like a man staring down a firing squad instead of a holiday gathering.
I scrolled through notifications—blog comments, print sales—like they could distract me from the sudden heaviness in my throat.
“Are you sure about tonight?” Roman asked, his gaze cutting through the dim interior as he shifted in his seat.
The movement was lazy and fluid, predatory in a way that felt too big for the confined space of the car. His scotch-dark stare caught the parking lot lights, glowing like molten coins.
His hand slid to my bare knee, thumb tracing small circles over the sheer fabric of my stocking.
“I’m fine,” I lied, even as my heart stuttered under his fingers.
Roman tilted his head, the smallest shift of attention that still felt like a spotlight. He always studied me like this—like he’d already solved me but liked watching the pieces come apart anyway.
“Your mind is loud, little sinner.”
I exhaled slowly and leaned back against the leather seat. “Just… thinking about the holidays.”
“You still haven’t told me where you’re going for Christmas.” His thumb brushed a little higher. “Back home?”
Home.
The word slid into my chest like a shard of ice.
“My mother and I don’t “do” Christmas,” I explained to him.
We do obligatory phone calls but after Duskhaven—after what I confessed, after what Roman made me face, after what happened to Pastor James—I couldn’t shake the feeling that I needed to go back home.
Whether I wanted to or not.
Roman furthered, “What about you and Hannah?”
“Usually I go to her family dinners but I am thinking about calling my mom,” I admitted, the confession bitter on my tongue. “Maybe going home for a day or two. It’s been… a while.”
Roman’s hand stopped moving and something flickered in his expression. Not quite concern, closer to calculation. Like he was already planning contingencies I hadn’t asked for.
“When?” His voice was quieter… anchored.
“Tomorrow, maybe.” I stared at the snow gathering on the windshield. “Or the day after. But enough about her,” I forced a breath. “Tonight isn’t about my family drama.”
“No,” Roman agreed, his voice dropping an octave—smooth, rich, dangerous. That tone that curled heat low in my belly. “Tonight is about you.”
He lifted his hand, and brushed strands of hair away from my face. “Tonight,” he tucked them behind my ears. “your eyes get to wander… and your choice becomes command.”
A shiver ran through me that had nothing to do with the winter outside.
We climbed out of the car, cold air slicing at my exposed skin. Roman was there instantly, his arm slipping around my waist, pulling me into his heat. The long wool coat he wore framed him like he owned the season itself—dark suit beneath, shadows clinging to him like obedient pets.
“And you can’t say no,” I reminded him quietly—our rules, our conditions—soft enough that only he could hear.
Roman’s mouth curved, the kind of slow, wicked smile that promised ruin. “I gave you my word.”
And he had.
This was his idea, but I was the one who set the boundaries and Roman bringing this up wasn’t shocking, considering what he had made me do back in Duskhaven with the other guy.
What really stunned me was that without the necklace forcing anything… I wasn’t against it.
Not even a little.
Not when it was him, and I gave Roman a genuine smile as he guided me toward the heavy oak door. The lantern above it flickered like it knew exactly what we were walking into.
A night he designed.
A night I governed.
Or at least, that was the illusion he allowed me to hold as we walked through the threshold.
No bouncer.
Just a guest list, no pretense and winter vanished behind us, swallowed by warmth and the sultry thrum of jazz. The lighting was dim and golden, shadows stretching long across velvet walls. Crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling like melted starlight, catching on jeweled wrists and the rims of expensive cocktails.
It looked like a speakeasy resurrected from the 1920s, glamour polished to decadence, exclusivity sharpened to sin.
“Welcome back, Mr. McKay,” a hostess purred, as if appearing out of a dream or a cigarette haze. Her dress was barely a dress at all, more whisper than fabric. “Your usual table?”
My head snapped toward him, studying.
Back? Usual?
Roman didn’t even blink. “Please.”
His hand rested firm on my lower back, guiding me deeper into the room, but my thoughts snagged on that one casual exchange.
Welcome back.
Like this was routine, which was not a bad thing because Roman and I haven’t been talking for too long. He has sex life, a high libido and he’s a sexy ass, rich bachelor and…was he bringing other women here while talking with me?
I narrowed my eyes. “Your usual table?” I repeated under my breath.
Roman glanced down at me, amusement flickering in his gaze. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting,” I lied as I noticed everything.
The high-backed velvet booths that created pockets of privacy. The men in bespoke suits, lounging with ease and the beautiful woman. The soft exhale of laughter that never reached anyone’s eyes.
I furthered, “I’m just… observing.”
“You’re glaring,” he corrected, voice silky and damned pleased with himself.
There was a charge in the air—something richer than alcohol and darker than desire. A tension that hummed under my skin like static before a storm.
“I’m assessing,” I corrected back.
“Jealousy looks beautiful on you.”
Roman brushed a kiss against my right temple. My lips pursed, traitorously, and his hand slid lower along my spine.
Just a quiet promise that he understood every thought stuttering through my head…and that he was enjoying all of them.
I should have hated it.
The way Roman read me so easily. The way he seemed amused by my jealousy instead of threatened by it. The way his honesty—brutal and unapologetic—only made me want him more.
“So?” I pressed, even as I silently scolded myself for caring—for pushing. “By yourself? With women? How many times?”
Roman’s smirk deepened, subtle and wicked. “Sometimes by myself. You don’t want the answer to the second or third question.”
Heat crawled up my throat and I hated that it stung but most men would have lied. Would have soothed. Would have made themselves smaller to make me feel safer and I hated it all.
And God help me, that was exactly why I kept coming back.
“I do want to know,” I argued.
Roman leaned in, voice dark and unhurried. “Tonight, the only reason anyone in this room is looking at me… is because of you.”
He stilled as the hostess stopped beside a secluded booth near the back and it was elevated just enough for guests on it to survey the floor.
“Enjoy your evening, Mr. McKay,” she said, before slipping back into the shadows.
Roman barely acknowledged her as he turned fully toward me. His fingers slid under my chin, tilting my face up to meet his golden eyes.
Eyes that lingered with recognition and something dangerously close to reverence.
Not hunger for the room.
Not appraisal for the crowd.
Just me.
Like he was reminding me that even after weeks of fucking, he still wasn’t done learning me. Still wasn’t done wanting me and then Roman kissed me.
He didn’t rush it.
He never rushed anything.
Roman’s mouth pressed to mine with that quiet, devastating certainty he always carried—like he knew exactly how fast I’d fall apart for him.
And he wasn’t wrong.
I’d been doing it since the first moment, I laid eyes on him and from the second I left Duskhaven.
Roman’s hand stayed under my chin, holding me just where he wanted me, his thumb brushing the edge of my jaw in a stroke that felt more like a command than a touch.
Heat unfurled low in my stomach as his lips moved against mine—slow at first, coaxing, then deeper. His tongue swept in, claiming space and he kissed me the way he looked at me: focused, unblinking, like everything else in the room ceased to exist.
My hands reached up, holding onto his suite jacket, like a life line. Every part of me wanted to stay angry that he had a past before me, women before me which was insane but it all melted away as Roman angled my face up a little more.
He deepened the kiss, and I let out a quiet, humiliating sound that only made his mouth curve against mine—pleased, smug, sinful.
And when he finally pulled back, barely an inch, I was breathing harder than I should’ve, his breath still on my lips, his thumb still hooked under my chin like he wasn’t done.
He never was.
Roman’s gaze dropped to my mouth, to the heat blooming across my cheeks. His thumb swept along my chin.
“You’re flushed,” he murmured. “Beautifully so.”
And his eyes traveled over my face like he was cataloging every shade of ruin he’d just painted there. Not pretending, or softening his edges or hiding his hunger or apologizing for what he wanted.
“This is… where you take your women?” My voice sounded wrecked, not sharp—closer to a gasp than a challenge.
“This is where I take women,” he said, not denying it. “Women who want a night.” His eyes darkened, and I swallowed down emotions that were eclipsed with the arousal soaking my panties. “You my little sinner, should know by now, you are not a night. You have never been forgettable, not when I first saw you in my family cemetery. Not when you’re so easy to color,” he added softly, wickedly. “One kiss, and you come apart for me.”
A shiver shot down my spine so sharply it almost buckled my knees, and Roman’s mouth brushed the corner of mine—barely a touch, barely a threat.
“Keep looking like that,” he whispered, “and I’ll forget the rules we set for tonight.”
My thoughts short-circuited, swallowed whole by heat and want and Roman.
My skin buzzed, pulse stuttering, thighs trembling—my silence the loudest confession of how completely he ruined me.
🩸 This is an early draft, so if you spot anything or feel something, I’d love to hear it. Doesn’t have to be long, a few words. Your comments and feedback help shape the final version.
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