Chapter 331
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Chapter 331:
Gaston drew a sharp breath at her touch. He grabbed her hand and pressed his lips hard against her knuckles.
Then he stood abruptly. The muscles in his jaw were ticking.
“I need a cold shower,” Gaston announced, his voice strained to its limit.
He knew she had just endured a massive psychological shock. If he stayed on this bed for one more second, he would lose all control. He turned and walked straight into the marble bathroom.
The sound of high-pressure water striking the glass shower doors filled the suite.
Jocelyn drew her legs up onto the bed and curled into a tight ball beneath the thick duvet, her mind spinning.
𝗜ոѕ𝘁𝗮ո𝘁 𝖺𝖼с𝖾𝘀𝘀 oո
The contract marriage had been a fabrication. The rumors had been a fabrication. The only real thing was a billionaire who had built an invisible cage around her for years — just to keep her safe.
Half an hour later, the bathroom door opened.
Gaston walked out wearing nothing but a low-slung white towel around his waist. Drops of cold water traced slow paths down his chest, following the deep lines of his abdomen.
He walked around to the other side of the bed, pulled back the covers, and slid in beside her. Without a word, he reached out and pulled Jocelyn — blankets and all — firmly against his side. He rested his chin on the top of her head and let out a long, exhausted breath.
Jocelyn shifted against his hard body and found a comfortable place against his ribs.
Then she did something she had never done before.
She slowly slid her arm out from beneath the covers and wrapped it securely around his waist, holding him back.
Gaston’s entire body went rigid.
A moment later, a low, deeply satisfied sound vibrated in his chest. He tightened his arms around her and buried her against him.
“Goodnight, Mrs. Collins,” Gaston whispered into her hair.
Jocelyn closed her eyes. A profound sense of absolute safety washed over her, and she drifted off almost instantly.
Because her eyes were closed, she missed entirely the horrific, jagged surgical scars carved deep into the flesh just above Gaston’s right knee.
Sunday morning sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the Newport suite, flooding the pristine white sheets with warmth.
Jocelyn slowly opened her eyes. Her body felt incredibly warm and heavy. She was tangled completely around Gaston — her leg thrown over his hips, her face buried in his neck.
A hot flush of embarrassment hit her cheeks. She carefully tried to pull her leg back.
As she shifted the duvet, her gaze fell on Gaston’s exposed right leg.
She froze. The breath caught in her throat.
Above his knee, trailing down the side of his calf, were thick, brutal scars. They were not clean surgical lines. They were jagged, starburst patterns of ruined tissue — as though the bone underneath had been shattered into pieces and painstakingly reassembled.
A sharp pain squeezed Jocelyn’s heart. She reached out with a trembling finger and gently touched the uneven, raised skin.