Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Dax
Sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows, bright and insistent. The sounds of Chicago traffic filter up from the street below—horns, engines, the city coming alive.
I stir, my body heavy with sleep and something else. Satisfaction. Exhaustion. My hand moves across the mattress, reaching for warmth.
Nothing.
My eyes open. The bed beside me is empty. The sheets are cool to the touch, the pillow still holding the indent of her head. But Scarlett is gone.
I push myself up onto my elbows, scanning the bedroom. Her side of the bed is abandoned. No sound from the bathroom. No movement anywhere.
The clock on the nightstand reads 7:45 AM.
I run a hand over my face, trying to shake off the fog of sleep.
Last night crashes back in fragments. The terrace.
The champagne. Her mouth on mine. The wedding dress falling to the floor.
The way she felt beneath me. Around me. The way she came apart, crying and climaxing at the same time.
The way I held her until she fell asleep.
My cock stirs at the memory, a dull throb building low in my belly.
I sit up fully, the sheet falling away. My chest bears evidence of what happened—faint scratches trailing down from my collarbone, marks from her nails when she was clawing at my back.
My muscles ache in the best way. My groin pulses with the memory of being inside her.
I swing my legs out of bed and stand, naked, my body reminding me exactly how thoroughly we fucked last night.
The bedroom door is ajar. I walk through it into the living room, half expecting—hoping—to find her there. Maybe making coffee. Maybe standing at the window looking out at the city. Maybe waiting for me to wake up so we can talk about what happened.
The living room is empty.
The wedding dress—that pile of ivory lace and silk that pooled on the floor near the wall—is gone. Her shoes are gone. Her panties. No trace of her remains except the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the air and the empty champagne bottle still sitting on the credenza by the door.
She left.
I exhale slowly, standing in the middle of my suite in nothing but my skin, alone. I'm not sure what I expected. She was drunk. Devastated. Looking for an escape from the worst day of her life. Of course she left.
I head to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face, studying my reflection in the mirror. The scratches on my chest. The faint bruise on my shoulder where her teeth grazed my skin. Evidence of a night that shouldn't have happened but did.
I don't feel guilt. I search for it—some sense of shame or regret—but it's not there. Just a low simmer of something I can't name. Want, maybe. Or the ghost of satisfaction that hasn't quite faded.
I dry my face and walk to the kitchen area. The coffee maker is exactly where the hotel staff left it yesterday. I start a pot, the ritual giving my hands something to do while my mind tries to process.
My phone is on the desk where I left it last night. I pick it up, scanning the screen. A few work emails. A text from Mark.
Nothing from Miles.
Nothing from Scarlett.
Not that I expected anything from her. I don't even have her number. No way to reach her. No way to check if she's okay or regret leaving or... what? What would I even say?
Sorry I fucked you senseless hours after my brother abandoned you at the altar?
The coffee maker beeps. I pour myself a cup and take a long drink, the heat scalding my throat. A noise in the hallway catches my attention. Movement. Voices. I set my coffee down and walk to the door, opening it just enough to peer out.
Housekeeping. Two staff members with their carts, preparing to clean the suites on this floor.
No Scarlett.
I close the door and lean against it, coffee cup in hand.
She's gone. Really gone.
I walk to the terrace doors and step outside. The October morning is crisp, the air sharp in my lungs. I scan the terrace landing where I found her last night—sitting on that bench, drinking champagne straight from the bottle, mascara streaking her face.
Empty.
I stand there for a long moment, looking out at the city. Traffic moves below. People going about their lives, completely unaware that mine just got infinitely more complicated. I finish my coffee and head back inside. I need a shower. Need to clear my head.
The water is scalding, just the way I like it. Steam fills the bathroom as I step under the spray, letting the heat work into my muscles. I grab the shampoo, lathering my hair, trying to focus on the mundane task. But my mind won't cooperate.
I can’t get her out of my head. The way she looked standing in front of me in that wedding dress before I unzipped it. The way her breath caught when I called her breathtaking. The sounds she made when I was inside her. The way she tasted. The way she felt.
My cock hardens, throbbing insistently. I brace one hand against the tile wall, water streaming over my head and shoulders. I shouldn't be thinking about this—but I am. I wrap my other hand around my cock, stroking slowly. Just a few touches. Just enough to take the edge off.
I close my eyes and let myself remember. The heat of her body. The tight grip of her pussy around me. The way she cried out when she came. The way she looked at me with those devastated blue eyes and begged me to make her forget.
My strokes quicken. My breathing grows ragged. The sensation builds low in my belly, coiling tighter.
I remember being inside her. The way she felt. The way she sounded. The way her walls clenched around me when she came. The orgasm hits fast and hard. I groan, my hand working my cock as I come, spurting against the tile wall, the water washing it away down the drain.
I stand there for a long moment, forehead pressed against the cool tile, breathing hard. The release I needed. Nothing more. I reach for the body soap and finish my shower quickly, turning off the water and stepping out. I dry off, wrap the towel around my waist, and return to the bedroom.
An hour later, I'm dressed and packing. Suits folded into my garment bag. Toiletries back in their case. Laptop secured. Everything exactly as it was when I arrived three days ago. Except nothing is the same.
My phone buzzes. A text from my mother.
Barbara: Have you heard from Miles?
I stare at the message. I haven't thought about Miles since I found Scarlett on that terrace last night.
I type back:
Dax: No. Nothing.
Her response comes immediately:
Barbara: I'm staying another day. Maybe he'll call. I need to talk to him.
Dax: When's your flight back?
Barbara: Tomorrow afternoon. I can't just leave without knowing he's okay.
Of course she can't. She's his mother. She's worried about him, even though he's the one who destroyed someone's life yesterday.
Dax: I'll come say goodbye before I leave.
Barbara: Thank you, sweetheart. Safe travels.
I pocket my phone and finish packing. My flight leaves in two hours.
The car service will be here any minute.
I take one last look around the suite. The bed where Scarlett slept in my arms. The terrace where we first talked.
The living room where her wedding dress fell to the floor.
I close the door behind me and head to the elevator.
The lobby is busy with checkout traffic. Business travelers. Families. People going about their normal lives. I stop by my mother's room on the fifth floor. She opens the door looking exhausted, her eyes red-rimmed.
"Dax." She pulls me into a hug.
"How are you holding up?" I ask.
"I don't know." She steps back, gesturing for me to come in.
"I keep trying to call Miles. He won't answer. I don't understand how he could do this."
I don't have an answer for her. Miles has always been impulsive, always run from commitment. But this? This is beyond anything I thought even he was capable of.
"He'll call eventually," I tell her, though I'm not sure I believe it.
"When he's ready to face what he did."
"And that poor girl." Barbara's voice breaks.
"Scarlett. She must be devastated."
An image of Scarlett flashes through my mind. Not devastated on the terrace, but beneath me in bed. Coming apart. Crying and releasing her orgasm on my cock. Falling asleep in my arms.
I push the thought away.
"She'll be okay. Eventually."
My mother studies me for a moment, something searching in her gaze. Then she nods.
"I hope so."
We talk for a few more minutes. I promise to call when I land in New York. She promises to let me know if Miles contacts her. I hug her goodbye and head downstairs.
The car is waiting at the curb. A sleek black sedan, the driver already loading my bags into the trunk.
"Airport, Mr. Blackwell?"
"Yes. Private terminal."
The drive through Chicago feels surreal. The city looks the same as it did three days ago when I arrived. But everything has changed.
We reach the airport. My jet is fueled and ready on the tarmac, the crew waiting. I board, settling into my usual seat. My laptop is already out, emails queued up, work waiting. The engines roar to life. The plane taxis down the runway.
As we lift off, I look out the window at Chicago shrinking below. The skyline. The lake. Somewhere down there, Scarlett is picking up the pieces of her shattered life—and I'm flying away.
My mind should be on work—on the meetings waiting for me tomorrow. On the acquisition deals and quarterly reports and strategic decisions that comprise my life. But as the plane climbs higher, leaving Chicago behind, there's only one thought in my head.
Will I ever see her again?