Love Rents A Room
Chapter 121: The War In His Heart

Chapter 121: The War In His Heart

The dimly lit room pulsed with the sounds of pleasure—soft gasps, whispered names, the rustle of tangled sheets. The curtain was drawn, shielding the young lovers from the silver glow of the moon and the chorus of night birds singing from the oak trees outside. The only illumination came from the sliver of golden light spilling in from the hallway, casting faint shadows that danced along their entwined bodies.

It was more than enough for Joanne to admire him—the man above her, bathed in a sheen of sweat, his muscles flexing under her touch. Her fingers, hungry and desperate, traced the taut sinews of his back, savoring the way his body trembled beneath her caress.

Jeffrey’s eyes, dark with raw desire, locked onto hers as he dipped down, capturing her lips in a kiss that sent a shiver down her spine. His mouth was insistent, devouring her breath, tasting the soft moans that escaped her lips. His hands—large, calloused, yet achingly gentle—trailed down her body, cupping her breasts with a reverence that made her toes curl.

Her back arched, her fingers tightening in his thick hair as his lips wandered lower, leaving a searing path of kisses along her heated skin. Each touch, each flick of his tongue, each teasing nip sent waves of pleasure coursing through her veins.

And when he finally reached the apex of her desire, his mouth worshipping her with deliberate, intoxicating strokes, she shattered—completely and utterly undone.

He knew exactly what he was doing. And God help her, he was so damn good at it.

And she knew—this was going to be a long night.

Jeffrey found a primal satisfaction in the way her body reacted to his touch—the way her breath hitched, how her thighs trembled, how her moans filled the air like a melody meant only for him. It was intoxicating, the way she surrendered to the pleasure he gave, the way she whispered his name like a prayer.

He didn’t understand it, this desperate need to unravel her, to pull every last sound from her lips, to feel her writhe beneath him in bliss. He had never felt this way with anyone before—never been consumed by this raw, aching hunger to please.

And her—Joanne—the pinnacle of everything a woman could be, beautiful in ways that went beyond the flesh, strong in ways that humbled him—was beneath him, clutching onto him as if he were the only thing anchoring her to the world.

Without thinking, he was guided by her—by the flutter of her lashes, the tremor in her breath, the way her fingers dug into his shoulders, urging him closer. Every arch of her body, every quiver of her lips, every sigh, was a silent plea he was determined to answer.

And he would answer them all.

Because tonight, and for every night after, he would worship her in every way she deserved.

His lips trailed along the soft skin of her thighs, lingering, teasing, reveling in every shiver he drew from her. He wanted to hear more of those sweet, breathless sounds—to feel her body quiver beneath his touch, to know he could unravel her completely.

But then—his breath caught.

His fingers halted over a dark, mottled bruise just above her thigh, and in that instant, it felt like someone had slammed a fist into his gut.

His mind reeled, trying to place it—when did she get hurt there? It was large, the edges deepened into a sickening purple, the shape eerily familiar, like—

A bootprint.

A memory crashed into him like a tidal wave.

Caruso. Kicking her. Again and again. Right there.

Jeffrey’s fingers trembled as they ghosted over the bruise. His chest tightened, his stomach twisted into knots.

He had done this.

No—he hadn’t laid a hand on her, but it was his mistake, his failure that had led her to that moment. His weakness that had let Caruso get to her in the first place.

And now here he was, touching her like he had the right.

Like he hadn’t been the reason for her pain.

His heart plummeted, the fire in his veins snuffed out in an instant. Even his body mirrored his torment, the raw desire fading into something hollow and cold.

What kind of man was he?

What kind of man let the woman he loved suffer because of his own failures—then had the audacity to take from her like this?

Did he even have the right to be here, to hold her, to love her?

She enjoyed his touches, unaware he had nearly killed her. He caused her physical pain and put her life in danger.

Would she still love him if she truly knew the weight of what he had done?

"Jeffrey...?"

Joanne’s voice was soft, but laced with confusion. She had been lost in the heat of the moment, the fire between them burning uncontrollably—until he stopped.

She squinted at him, her breathing still uneven. He was kneeling between her legs, his palm resting motionless on her thigh, lost in thought. His entire body had gone rigid. And... he was no longer excited.

A pang of disappointment hit her—not just from the interruption, but from the sheer bewilderment of why he had stopped.

She sat up, placing her hands gently on his cheeks. "Jeffrey?"

He flinched slightly, as if she had pulled him from a dark, distant place. His gaze flickered back to hers, but it was haunted—burdened. His fingers unconsciously tightened on her thigh, right over the bruise.

"You didn’t tell me..." His voice was tight, but he stopped himself. Don’t make this about you. He swallowed hard and exhaled. "Does it hurt?"

Joanne followed his gaze and finally realized what had stolen him away from the moment.

The bruise.

Understanding dawned, and her heart clenched. He had stopped because he was worried for her? That thought alone sent warmth unfurling in her chest, only intensifying the need simmering deep in her belly.

She leaned forward, her lips brushing his in an attempt to rekindle the passion. "It doesn’t, really..." she murmured, kissing him, coaxing him back to her.

But he didn’t kiss her back.

Instead, his arms wrapped around her, pulling her into a crushing embrace. She felt it then—the faint tremor in his body.

Joanne frowned. Why is he shaking?

"Jeffrey?" she whispered, hugging him back. She didn’t understand. It was just a bruise. It didn’t even hurt that much anymore. Why did he look like he was the one in pain?

"I’m sorry, Jo..." His voice cracked, the words raw and broken.

Joanne’s arms tightened around him. "You saved my life that day, Jeffrey," she whispered against his skin. "Don’t feel sorry for that..."

She wanted him to understand. He had fought for her. Without him, she would have been more seriously hurt—or worse.

But Jeffrey only shook his head. "I didn’t... I truly didn’t...I almost lost you because I—" His voice failed him.

The truth clawed at his throat, demanding to be spoken—to beg for her forgiveness. But he couldn’t. His selfish desire to keep her, to not let her look at him differently, kept the confession caged inside him.

"You did, Jeffrey. You saved me," she insisted softly. "And you’re here with me now. That’s all I want."

He pulled back, cradling her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the unshed tears clinging to her lashes. His gaze burned into hers, filled with a desperate, unspoken vow.

"I’m not leaving your side, you hear me? I am not losing you," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "From now on, I will only protect you. I won’t let anything or anyone hurt you again. I promise you."

Joanne’s throat tightened, her vision blurring.

She had spent her life getting scratched, bruised, clawing her way forward with no one to shield her.

But now...

Can I finally rest?

Did I finally find someone who will be my shield?