Chapter 7
Camille
Iblink awake slowly, momentarily disoriented by the weight of an arm draped possessively across my waist. Alexander's arm.
The memories of last night flood back in a rush of sensation—his hands on my body, his mouth against my skin, the delicious stretch and burn as he claimed me.
I'm no longer a virgin. The thought settles in my chest, not with regret but with a strange sort of peace.
I turn my head slightly to look at him, careful not to disturb his sleep.
In slumber, Alexander Kingsley looks almost approachable—the hard lines of his face softened, his mouth relaxed instead of set in that perpetual commanding line.
His salt-and-pepper hair falls across his forehead, and I resist the urge to brush it back.
A smile tugs at my lips as I think about last night.
I've heard so many horror stories about first times—pain, disappointment, awkwardness.
But mine? God, mine was nothing like that.
Alexander knew exactly what to do, exactly how to touch me.
I'd expected discomfort, maybe even pain, but what I hadn't expected was the pleasure that rushed through me, dragging sounds from my throat I didn't know I could make.
I shift slightly and feel a pleasant soreness between my thighs, a physical reminder of what we did. What he did to me. It's not pain, really—more like the satisfying ache after a good workout. My body feels different somehow. Satisfied in a way I've never experienced before.
His breathing is deep and even, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.
My eyes trace the contours of his body—broad shoulders, the dusting of dark hair across his chest, the sheet riding low on his hips.
There's a small scar just below his collarbone, and I wonder about its story.
I think about how I know so little about this man.
The digital clock on the nightstand reads 7:30 AM.
I should get up. Go back to my room. Shower.
Change. I have a meeting with a local craftsman at nine to finalize the textile selections.
I need to be professional, put together, not looking like I just spent the night being thoroughly debauched by my client.
Carefully, I try to slide out from under his arm without waking him. His grip tightens instantly, pulling me back against the solid warmth of his body.
"Where do you think you're going?" His voice is rough with sleep, but the command in it is unmistakable.
"I have a meeting at nine," I explain, my own voice sounding thin and breathless. "I need to shower, change—"
"It's barely seven-thirty." His eyes open, green and intense even in the soft morning light. "You have time."
His hand slides up my side, leaving goosebumps in its wake. "I need you again."
Not "want." Need. The word sends a thrill through me.
"I'm a little sore," I admit, feeling heat creep into my cheeks.
He smiles, a predatory curl of his lips that makes my pulse quicken. "There are other ways to please me."
Before I can respond, he's kissing me—not a gentle good morning kiss, but deep and demanding, his tongue pushing into my mouth like he owns it. Like he owns me. And my body responds instantly, melting against him despite the protests of my rational mind.
His hand tangles in my hair, guiding my head down his body. "I want your mouth on me."
I've done this before—well, attempted it at least, with college boyfriends who were as clueless as I was. But I've never done it with someone like Alexander, someone who knows exactly what he wants and exactly how to ask for it.
"I'm not... I don't have much experience with this," I confess, suddenly shy despite everything we did last night.
His eyes darken. "I'll teach you."
He positions himself against the headboard, the sheet falling away to reveal his erection, already hard and intimidating in the morning light. I move between his spread legs, uncertain where to begin.
"First, just look at my cock," he instructs, his voice dropping to that commanding tone that seems to bypass my brain and speak directly to the heat building between my legs. "Take your time. Get comfortable."
I study him, taking in the size and shape, the way the head is slightly darker than the shaft, the vein running along the underside.
"Now touch me. Wrap your hand around the base."
I do as he says, my fingers barely meeting around his girth. He feels like steel, hot and pulsing against my palm.
"Good girl," he praises, and something warm blooms in my chest at his approval. "Now lick up my shaft. Slowly."
I lean down, my hair falling around my face as I drag my tongue from base to tip in one long, exploratory stroke. He tastes slightly salty.
"Again," he commands. "This time, swirl your tongue around the head when you reach the top."
I comply, gaining confidence with each pass of my tongue. His breathing changes, growing heavier, and I feel a surge of power knowing I'm affecting him this way.
"Now take me in your mouth. Just the head at first."
I part my lips, taking him in, feeling the smooth skin against my tongue. His hand comes to rest on the back of my head, not pushing, just guiding.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Use your hand on what doesn't fit in your mouth. Work them together."
I follow his instructions, finding a rhythm that has him groaning softly. His praise washes over me—"Perfect," "Just like that," "Such a good girl"—each word making me want to please him more.
"Deeper now," he urges, his hand applying gentle pressure to the back of my head. "Relax your throat."
I try, taking him further into my mouth, fighting against my gag reflex. Tears spring to my eyes when he hits the back of my throat, but the sound he makes—a low, guttural groan—makes it worth it.
"Look at me," he commands.
I raise my eyes to meet his without stopping the movement of my mouth and hand. The naked desire on his face sends a bolt of heat straight to my core.
"Fuck," he breathes. "Keep your eyes on me like that."
His hips begin to move slightly, controlled thrusts into my mouth that make me feel used in the most delicious way. I moan around him, and the vibration makes him curse again.
"I'm close," he warns.
I desperately want to feel him come apart because of me. I redouble my efforts, moving faster, taking him deeper.
When he comes, it's with a strangled version of my name and his hand fisting in my hair. I swallow reflexively, surprised by the bitter taste but determined not to show it.
"Christ," he mutters, pulling me up his body for a bruising kiss. "You're a fast learner."
I smile against his mouth, feeling a strange mix of pride and satisfaction. "I had a good teacher."
He laughs, a sound I've rarely heard from him, and pulls me against his chest. "We have time for a shower before your meeting."
"Together?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.
"Of course together." He smirks. "I'm not done with you yet, Camille."
And despite the soreness, I find I'm not done with him either. Not even close.
I tap my tablet screen to add another note about the spa's lighting design as Alexander reviews the material samples spread across his desk. The makeshift office is small, forcing us to stand closer than professional boundaries would typically allow. But that’s obviously all out the window anyway, right?
His arm brushes mine as he reaches for a stone sample, and electricity shoots through me. Six hours ago, that hand was between my legs, making me feel things I’ve never felt. Now we're discussing ambient lighting like nothing happened. Except I can still feel him inside me when I shift in my chair.
"The local quarry can provide enough limestone for the main features," Alexander says, his voice all business. "But I'm concerned about the timeline for delivery."
I nod, trying to focus on the swatches and samples instead of the memory of his mouth on my skin. "I've spoken with the supplier. They've assured me they can meet our schedule if we confirm the order by Friday."
He makes a noncommittal sound, leaning closer to examine a particular tile I've selected.
His intoxicating cologne fills my senses.
I wonder if anyone else in the room can feel the invisible current running between us.
The project manager and construction lead seem oblivious, absorbed in their own discussion about structural supports.
"This material for the spa," Alexander says, picking up a sample of volcanic stone. His fingers brush mine as he takes it from me. Not an accident. "It retains heat well?"
"Yes," I answer, my voice steadier than I feel. "It's perfect for the heated benches in the steam room."
He turns the stone over in his hand, his thumb stroking its surface in a way that makes me think of how those same fingers stroked me hours earlier. "Texture's important," he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear. "Don't you think?"
Heat crawls up my neck. "Absolutely. The tactile experience is... crucial."
His eyes meet mine, and the corner of his mouth quirks up in that almost-smile that does stupid things to my insides. He knows exactly what he's doing.
The meeting continues like this—professional words layered with subtext, casual touches that linger just a beat too long. By the time Alexander dismisses the other team members, my skin feels too tight, my body humming with anticipation.
"Stay," he says when I start to gather my materials. Not a request. A command.
I set my tablet back down as the door closes behind the others. For a moment, neither of us moves. The only sound is the distant hum of the air conditioning and the pounding of my heart in my ears.
"Lock the door and come here." His voice has dropped to that register that bypasses my brain and speaks directly to the heat between my legs.
I round the desk slowly, stopping in front of him where he leans against the edge. He reaches out, fingers wrapping around my wrist, pulling me between his spread legs.
"Do you have any idea," he says, his other hand coming up to grip my chin, "how fucking hard it is to talk about stone textures when all I can think about is being inside you again?"
My breath catches. "I think I have some idea."
"I've been half-hard since you walked in." His hand slides from my wrist up my arm, across my shoulder, down to cup my breast through my blouse. "This project is obviously important. But right now, all I care about is bending you over this desk."
The words send a jolt of pure want through me. I should resist—this is my client, and we're in his office in the middle of a workday. But all I can think is yes, please, now.
"What are you waiting for?" The words slip out before I can stop them, bolder than I knew I could be.
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. In one fluid motion, he spins me around, pressing me forward until my palms flatten against the cool surface of the desk. His body covers mine from behind, his erection evident against my ass even through our clothes.
"Such an eager little thing," he growls against my ear, his hands already working at the button of my pants. "So ready for me."
I don't resist as he tugs my pants and underwear down in one swift movement, leaving them bunched around my knees. The cool air hits my exposed skin, making me shiver—or maybe that's from the way his hand slides between my legs, finding me already wet.
"Look at you," he murmurs, approval evident in his voice. "Soaking for me in the middle of a business meeting."
I hear the rustle of fabric, then the hot, hard length of him pressing against me. A moment of clarity breaks through the haze of desire.
"Condom?" I ask.
He pauses. "I don't have one here."
For a second, I think he might stop. Should stop. But then his hand slides up my back, between my shoulder blades, pressing me more firmly against the desk.
"I'll pull out," he promises, his voice rough with need. "Tell me you want this."
"Yes," I breathe, past caring about anything but the feeling of him against me. "I want this. I want you."
He pushes into me with one smooth thrust, filling me completely. The stretch burns slightly—I'm still new to this, still adjusting to his size—but the discomfort melts quickly into pleasure as he begins to move.
This is different from last night. Different from this morning in the shower. This is raw, primal, his hands gripping my hips hard enough to bruise as he slams into me. The desk creaks beneath us, papers and samples sliding to the floor, but neither of us cares.
"You feel so fucking good," he grunts, one hand snaking around to rub my clit in time with his thrusts. "So tight around my cock."
"Oh god," I moan, pushing back against him, matching his rhythm.
"You like this, don’t you?" His voice is a growl against my ear. "Being taken like this? Bent over my desk like my personal toy?"
I should be offended. Should be embarrassed. Instead, I'm impossibly turned on, clenching around him as his words send sparks of pleasure through me.
"Yes," I admit, the confession torn from me. "Yes, I like it."
"Of course you do." His pace increases, his thrusts harder, deeper. "Because you're mine. Say it."
"I'm yours," I gasp, not even sure what I'm agreeing to, only knowing in this moment it feels true.
"Good girl," he praises, and those two simple words send me careening toward the edge. "Such a good girl, taking my cock so well."
My orgasm hits without warning, a white-hot burst of pleasure that makes me moan. My inner muscles clamp down around him, and he curses, his rhythm faltering.
"Fuck, I'm going to come," he warns, pulling out suddenly.
I feel the hot splash of his release across my lower back, hear his harsh breathing as his hand strokes the last pulses from his length. For a moment, we stay frozen like that—me bent over his desk, him standing behind me, both of us breathing hard.
Then he's reaching for tissues, cleaning his release from my skin with surprising gentleness. He helps me straighten, turns me to face him. His thumb brushes across my cheekbone, the tenderness of the gesture at odds with the roughness of what just happened.
"You okay?" he asks, something like concern flickering in his eyes.
I nod, not trusting my voice yet. I should feel used, maybe even a little degraded, but instead, I feel... powerful. Wanted. Needed, even, by a man who seems like he's never needed anyone in his life.
"We should get back to work," he says, but he doesn't move away. Instead, he kisses me—a surprisingly gentle press of lips that contrasts sharply with the animalistic way he just took me.
"Yes," I agree, my voice finally returning. "Back to work."
But as I bend to retrieve the fallen samples from the floor, I catch him watching me with an unnerving intensity and I wonder if either of us has any idea what we've started—or how it might end.