Chapter 6
Alexander
Iwake with her taste still on my lips. The feel of her body pressed against mine.
I've had countless women, yet it's this one—this innocent, untouched one—who infiltrates my dreams and leaves me hard and aching in the morning light.
I should be reviewing contract terms and construction timelines.
Instead, I'm lying here, replaying the feel of her skin beneath my fingers and wondering what she'd sound like if I pushed her past that initial hesitation into pure pleasure.
A cold shower. Work. Distance. That's the prescription for whatever the fuck this is.
But Camille Montclair has other plans.
She finds me on the main terrace, iPad in hand, the morning breeze playing with loose strands of her hair. She's wearing a white dress that clings just enough to remind me of what's underneath.
"Mr. Kingsley, I need your input on the stone selection for the main lobby," she says, her voice steady but her eyes never quite meeting mine.
I maintain my distance, hands in my pockets to prevent them from straying where they shouldn't. "The Antiguan limestone would be my preference. It connects the property to the island."
"That's what I thought too," she nods, making a note. "And for the accent walls in the restaurant?"
"Show me the options."
She steps closer, too close, the scent of her hair drifting up to me. When she hands me her tablet, our fingers brush, and the jolt travels straight to my groin.
I focus on the screen, not the curve of her neck or the way she tucks her bottom lip between her teeth when she's concentrating. "The darker one," I say decisively. "It creates better contrast." I actually don’t really care, I’m just desperate for this interaction to be over.
"I agree." She takes back the tablet, and her fingertips linger against mine for a fraction longer than necessary.
This happens repeatedly throughout the morning. She finds me to ask about light fixtures, about flooring transitions, about cabinet hardware. Each inquiry legitimate. Each interaction pure torture.
At the bar design review, she leans over the blueprints, her body close enough that I can feel her heat. "If we move this wall back just two feet," she says, pointing, "we create a more intimate seating area and improve the sightlines to the ocean."
She's right. The adjustment is perfect. Her design instincts are flawless, which makes this all worse. Because I didn't hire her for her body or her face or the way her voice gets so sexy when she's excited about an idea. I hired her because she's fucking talented.
I step back, putting distance between us. "Make the change," I say curtly. "Send the revised drawings to engineering."
Her eyes flicker with something—hurt? disappointment?—before her professional mask slides back into place. "Of course."
She doesn't deserve my coldness. But cold is safer than what I really want to give her.
By afternoon, I've resorted to hiding in my temporary office, burying myself in paperwork that could wait until I return to New York. Anything to avoid another encounter that leaves me hard and aching.
My phone buzzes with a notification. A group text from Tristan and Julian.
Tristan: How's the project coming along?
Julian: More importantly, how's the view? And I don't mean the ocean.
I stare at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
These are my closest friends. The only two people who know the real me.
Who've seen me build my empire from nothing, who've stood beside me through triumphs and disasters.
They'd laugh themselves sick if they knew I was hiding from a 24-year-old interior designer like a teenager with his first crush.
Julian: How many women, Alex?
I can practically hear his laugh—that booming, uninhibited sound that cuts through any room. Julian has never understood restraint, in business or pleasure.
Alex: None. I'm here to work.
Tristan: Since when has that stopped you?
Julian: Remember Monaco? That redhead AND her friend?
Alex: That was different. I'm not here to get laid. The resort opens in 4 months. I need it perfect.
Tristan: All work and no play makes Alex a grumpy asshole.
Julian: More grumpy than usual, you mean.
I almost put the phone down, but something compels me to add:
Alex: There is one. The designer. But she's too young.
The typing bubbles appear immediately.
Julian: Since when is "too young" in your vocabulary? If she's legal, she's fair game.
Tristan: Is it the designer from the interview? The one with the dildos?
I feel my jaw tighten. Of course I told them about that disaster of an interview. We'd laughed about it over whiskey at Julian's penthouse. But now the memory of her mortification doesn't seem funny. It seems cruel.
I decide not to respond. Tristan and Julian continue to rib me, but I simply put my phone on DND and refocus on work.
Eventually I give up on work and head for the shower in my suite, turning the water as cold as it will go.
The spray hits my skin like needles, but it does nothing to wash away thoughts of her.
How she'd felt pressed against me in the darkness.
How easily she'd melted into my kiss. How her inexperienced hands had clutched at my shirt, eager but uncertain.
I close my eyes against the stream, and she's there in my mind—blue eyes wide, lips parted, cheeks flushed with desire. My cock hardens despite the cold water, the ache becoming impossible to ignore.
"Fuck," I mutter, turning the water warmer as my hand slides down to grip myself.
I shouldn't be doing this. Shouldn't be thinking about her while I stroke myself. But I can't stop the images from flooding my mind—her naked beneath me, her voice crying out my name, her body trembling as I push her toward maybe her first orgasm with a man.
My strokes quicken, grip tightening. In my mind, I'm claiming her, teaching her exactly how to please me, watching her learn what her body is capable of. I imagine her tight pussy around me, how I'd have to go slow at first, how I'd watch her face as she takes me fully for the first time.
My release hits me hard. I come with a strangled groan, my release circling down the drain as my chest heaves with exertion.
As the pleasure fades, something else creeps in. Something that feels uncomfortably like a lack of control.
I've built a real estate empire but yet here I am, jerking off in the shower like a teenager because I can't control my desire for a woman I have no business wanting.
I finally shut off the water and grab a towel to dry myself off. This has to stop. I need to remember who I am—what I am. Alexander Kingsley doesn't lose control. Not over business. Not over pleasure. Not over anything.
Especially not over someone like Camille Montclair.
I'm on my second bourbon when the knock comes. Soft, hesitant, but somehow I know exactly who's on the other side of the door.
I consider not answering. Consider pretending I'm not here. But we both know that's a lie—the lights in my suite visible from the beach, the low murmur of a financial news channel providing background noise to my thoughts. My thoughts that, despite my best efforts, keep circling back to her.
I set the glass down, take a breath, and open the door.
Camille stands there in that damn white dress, her hair loose around her shoulders, her eyes clear and determined. No tablet. No fabric samples. No professional pretense.
"May I come in?" she asks.
I should say no. I should make some excuse about an early meeting. I should be the fucking adult here.
Instead, I step aside.
She walks past me, the scent of her perfume lingering in the air. I close the door and turn to find her standing in the middle of the room, hands clasped in front of her. Not nervous, exactly. Resolute.
"I know what you're going to say," she begins, her voice steadier than I expected. "That I'm too young. That I don't know what I want. That you don't do commitment." She takes a step toward me. "But I'm tired of being told what I should want. Who I should be. How I should behave."
"It's not that simple, Camille."
"It is that simple." Another step closer. "I know this is reckless, and I know you probably think I'm naive, but I'm not. I want this. I want you."
My hands ball into fists at my sides. "You have no idea what you're asking for."
"Then show me." She's close enough now that I can see the pulse fluttering in her throat. "I might be a virgin, but I know what I like. And I liked how you kissed me."
The last thread of my restraint snaps. I move forward, backing her against the wall in two long strides. My hand slides into her hair, gripping firmly at the base of her neck.
"Is this what you want?" I ask, my voice rough. "To be used for my pleasure?" I press my body against hers, letting her feel my hardness. "Because that's what this is. That's the kind of man I am."
Her eyes don't waver. "Yes."
That single word undoes me. I crash my mouth against hers, swallowing her gasp of surprise.
There's nothing gentle about this kiss—it's possession, pure and simple.
Her lips part instantly, welcoming the invasion of my tongue.
Her hands clutch at my shoulders, nails digging in through the fabric of my shirt.
I lift her easily, her legs wrapping around my waist as I carry her to the bed. The rational part of my brain—the part still trying to scream warnings—grows quieter with each step. By the time I lay her on the bed, it's silent altogether.
She looks up at me, hair splayed across the pillow, lips swollen from my kiss, eyes dark with desire.
"Last chance to run," I warn, already unbuttoning my shirt.
"I'm not running." She sits up, reaching for the hem of her dress, pulling it over her head in one fluid motion.