Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
Silver letters spelled out Mercedes-Benz AMG across the glass walls, every angle gleaming like it had been waxed in money. The display windows showed machines that seemed bred for intimidation.
“You’re buying another car?”
“Yep.”
“Where are you going to park it?”
“In your building.”
She turned so fast her seatbelt cut into her collarbone. “Why would you—wait.”
He got out of the car, slipped the keys to the valet, and rounded to her side, opening the passenger door.
Together they walked straight to an enormous black cube that seemed designed for war zones, with wheels up to her ribs.
Her jaw hinged open. “That’s not a car. That’s a transformer.”
“Reinforced frame,” Rafael said, eyes skimming the spec sheet. He tapped the Perspex with two fingers, calm as if reading a grocery list. “Collision avoidance. Bullet-resistant windows if you want them.”
Her laugh cracked out, disbelieving. “Bullet-resistant? Rafael, I’m not the Queen of England.”
“You need a car for your trip next week.”
“I told you Jaxon offered to drive.”
That earned her his full attention. His green eyes caught hers. “You think I’m letting you sit in a car with Dao for a total of five hours, and be dependent on him for transport?”
Her cheeks flamed. Heat, embarrassment, irritation—pick one, it was all of the above. “This is about Jaxon?”
“You need it; I’m getting it for you,” Rafael corrected. He slipped one hand into his pocket, the other brushing over the hood of the G-Wagon.
“I live, work, socialize, and go to the gym in Northgate. I don’t need it.” She folded her arms across her chest.
He folded his. At his height, it wasn’t a mirror gesture, it was dominance by default. “You’re mine to provide for.”
Her heart gave an undignified lurch. This man’s words, so casually claiming, did things to her. She had to keep reminding herself that they’d been dating less than the time it took to grow out a bad set of bangs.
She gestured at the car. “Rafael, I’d need a ladder to get into this thing.”
“Then you’ll see everything coming before it ever gets close.”
She threw her head back and spoke up to the floor-room lights. “Be reasonable.”
He crowded her space without touching her. Bea noticed no salesmen had approached. Her boyfriend was already doing all their work for them. “Then choose one.”
She looked at him, brows drawn in. “What?”
“Today. We’re taking something in this showroom home. So either you choose, or I will.”
Bea considered the muscle that ticked above his brow, the hand that flexed once before going still.
The warning to all of Northgate. The bodyguard. The car.
His brain and nervous system were wired to act, not marinate. He couldn’t be easy if he sensed protection he wasn’t providing. She understood that. It was his way of loving—guarding every perimeter and letting her play within the walls.
Still, she wasn’t going to let him steamroll her into driving a bank vault on wheels.
She exhaled. Squared her shoulders. Spoke clearly, kept eye contact. “Not this one.”
Her gaze swept the showroom—too small, too massive, too suburban. Then she caught on one that hummed with possibility. Sleek lines, four doors, solid but not overblown.
“That one,” she said, chin lifting, eyes bright.
Rafael’s head turned. He studied the car, then her. “You like it, little Bea?”
It was pretty.
“I reckon it would roar.” The beginnings of a smile gathered as she imagined herself in it. She did have a thing for machines that answered back.
His tongue pressed briefly to the inside of his cheek. “Tell me exactly how you want it.”
“In red.”
RAFAEL
Garlic and butter curled through the air. Rafael was on the couch, supposedly skimming an investor packet, but his mind and gaze were elsewhere.
Bea moved in the kitchen, his shirt hem so long it erased her shorts, leaving only slim, bare legs.
He should’ve been satisfied: dinner cooking, the car in her name, her moving through his space as if she belonged. Instead, he felt restless. Like he’d only just started winning ground he had no intention of giving back.
She paused by the island, glanced at the timer, then folded forward—stretching like she was alone in a studio. Oblivious to him and the danger she was in.
He’d spent his life using discipline to tame fire. But he’d never seen Bea bend over his counter.
Rafael stilled. The arch of her back, the rise of material up her hamstrings. His focus narrowed. He knew that skin. She breathed into the pose, finding her center, unaware she’d triggered the opposite of calm in him.
The packet dropped to the couch, forgotten, as he crossed the room without a sound.
“Two years of Pilates, little Bea,” he said from behind her, voice thick with need. “Bend deeper.”
She glanced over her shoulder, smiling, impish. Then she saw his face. Faltered.
“Keep your hands there.” His tone cut like a command. “Don’t move.”
Her breath hitched. A tremor rolled through her body. Good—she felt it too. “I was just stretching.”
His hands closed on her hips, sliding beneath the hem of his shirt. “Not anymore.” His fingers traced her curves.
She shivered.
He smiled against the base of her spine before sinking his teeth lightly into the dip of her waist. “Think you can keep that pose?” His voice was rough, almost reverent. “If I take you here.”
Her fingers curled against the counter. “Yes.”
His voice was sheer gravel. “Stay exactly where you are.”
Her shorts hit the floor and he spread her, fingers sliding forward to find what he knew was waiting. She was already wet. It was as though her body was designed to answer when he called.
His thumb dragged side to side over that swollen spot, while his other hand unfastened his shorts. She was panting now.
It would be one of the greatest pleasures of his life, learning all the broken sounds she made when she forgot to hold back. The ones she hadn’t even learned to make yet.
“That’s it,” he murmured, rough and dark. “Give it up for me. Don’t hide what you need.”
She tipped forward, moaning, thighs trembling from just his hand. Her hips rocked back, seeking more.
“You want it, baby?” he asked, breath hot at her ear. “Want me to stretch you around me?”
“Please,” she gasped.
He tilted her hips up and drove into her with one long, slow thrust, sinking to the hilt.
She choked on a gasp, her body gripping him, so tight his vision blurred for a moment.
“Taking me so well,” he rasped, rolling his hips. “So deep.”
All those hours spent at his gym, building control. Strength. She’d trained her body and now it could take him.
Her hips rocked back, answering each stroke.
“I can feel it. You’re close. Strung so tight.” His hand slid up her spine, tangling in her hair, gently tugging until her head tipped back, exposing her throat. “Trying to last. Sweet girl…you’re going to lose.”
He explored down again, fingers sliding lower, thumb circling in rhythm.
She screamed his name.
Her core clamped down viciously, and he had to grit his teeth against the need to spill into her. He buried himself deeper, not stopping.
She shuddered, half laughing, half crying. “Can’t—it’s too—Raf—”
But she kept taking it. Let him wring every last tremor from her. She sobbed something unintelligible and her knees gave out. He caught her, one arm locking around her waist.
“I’ve got you. Just a little more,” he gritted. “I won’t let you fall.”
She was ruined beneath him, wrecked and perfect. His. And that knowledge—more than the friction—was what broke him. His body went tight. A harsh sound broke from him, animal, overcome, and he emptied himself into her.
She collapsed forward onto the stone.
They stayed there, suspended in aftershock. His chest was pressed to her back, arms wrapped around her middle, both of them shaking. He held her until their breathing calmed.
Eventually, he straightened. Turned and lifted her carefully; set her on the counter.
Bea was flushed, blinking like she couldn’t quite remember where she was. Her eyes found his, then darted away. Too late, the blush was already rising up her neck.
She understood now just how dirty his thoughts ran.
And they both recognized something else, something crucial.
She’d let him take her any way he wanted.
There was sauce on his thumb.
That was the first thing she noticed. Not the biceps or the sandwich the size of her face. Not even the jaw moving like he had a vendetta.
Rafael was hunched slightly over the kitchen island, sleeves pushed up, devouring the steak sandwich like the world might end mid-bite.
Bea leaned against the fridge, barefoot, still nursing the soda she didn’t remember pouring. She couldn’t look away. Not because it was sexy—though it was, disturbingly. But because it was…cute. Unreasonably cute. Like someone should call security.
She sipped her drink and tried to blink the stupid out of her eyes.
He made a soft, satisfied noise in the back of his throat and reached for a third sandwich. Third.
Rafael glanced up, chewing. “What?”
“Nothing. Just observing a marvel of evolution in real time.”
He raised an eyebrow, tugged at a napkin—gave up—and just licked his thumb instead.
“When we’re home you eat like you’re angry at the food,” she said, awed.
Rafael didn’t even pause. “That’s because you keep me on the edge of starvation.”
“We literally had dinner two hours ago.”
“And then we exercised a second time.”
She stared. Her heart did something ridiculous. There was something so unguarded about it. So real. She walked toward him, glass in hand.
“You done?” she asked.
He chewed. Nodded.
“You just ate an entire cow and half the bread in the kitchen.”
“Not a personal best, but a solid effort.”
She grinned. How is he this adorable?
The grin faded as she glanced up at the time. It was late, the mood was cozy. This was the kind of moment that blurred into habit if you let it.
She sighed. “I should probably go home.”
“Why?”
“Because if I stay too many more times this month, we’ll hit Tier Four.”
His brow furrowed. “And?”