Chapter 10
I loitered near Colson’s door, my heart pounding in my chest. Every instinct screamed at me to turn around and leave, but I forced myself to knock, my knuckles rapping lightly against the wood. His voice, deep and commanding, called for me to enter.
As I pushed the door open, I was hit with a sight that made my breath catch in my throat.
Colson stood there, bare-chested, wearing nothing but a pair of black silk lounge pants that clung low on his hips.
The man I had seen only in tailored suits was now a vision of raw, unapologetic masculinity, and I wasn’t prepared for it.
Two deep oblique cuts flanked a set of abs that looked like they’d been carved from stone.
His chest was broad and well-defined, every muscle sculpted with precision.
His arms, thick with muscle, rested casually at his sides, but the power they held was undeniable.
I gulped, trying to draw air into my lungs, but it was as if the room had suddenly become devoid of oxygen.
My eyes betrayed me, drifting downward despite my best efforts.
It was almost impossible to keep my gaze fixed on his face when everything about him demanded attention.
His physique was more than just impressive; it was a testament to the discipline and control he wielded in every aspect of his life.
Colson noticed my struggle, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Josephine, take a seat.”
This was the first time I’d been in his room.
It was almost twice the size of mine, in other words, massive.
The bedroom was a testament to power and opulence.
The walls were a deep, charcoal gray, giving the room a masculine edge that was both commanding and sophisticated.
Rich, dark wood floors stretched out beneath my feet, polished to a mirror-like shine, and a plush, hand-woven rug in deep burgundy and navy tones anchored the space, adding a touch of warmth.
In one corner of the room, a separate sitting area invited relaxation, with two oversized leather armchairs flanking a low, mahogany coffee table.
A floor-to-ceiling bookshelf lined the wall behind them, filled with leather-bound volumes and a few well-placed artifacts that hinted at a life well-traveled.
The soft glow of a fireplace, built into the wall, cast flickering shadows, making the space feel both intimate and grand.
Across from the sitting area, a dressing area was subtly partitioned off by a set of intricately carved wooden screens, offering privacy while still maintaining the flow of the room.
Open double dark wood doors led to a walk-in closet where I could see inside.
A large mirror, framed in sleek black metal, stood beside a wide granite topped island with elegant cufflink boxes and trays for watches.
But it was the bed that truly dominated the room, unlike any I had ever seen. It was custom-made, larger than even a California king, its massive frame constructed from the same rich wood that accented the rest of the room.
The headboard was upholstered in luxurious black leather, tufted with deep-set buttons, and it rose high against the wall, making a statement of both comfort and authority.
The bed was draped in layers of thick, soft bedding—crisp white sheets beneath a charcoal gray duvet, with an assortment of pillows in varying shades of black, gray, and burgundy adding texture and depth. It was the kind of bed that seemed to promise a perfect night's sleep, wrapped in indulgence.
In the far corner, a sleek, modern desk sat beneath a large window, the light filtering through heavy drapes that matched the bedding.
An open laptop rested on the polished surface, alongside a few neatly stacked papers and a black Montblanc pen.
The setup was minimalist, yet everything about it spoke of precision and authority.
On the wall opposite the bed, a huge television was mounted, its screen so large it practically demanded attention. Below it, a low media console held a few high-end electronics, but the room was otherwise free of clutter, every item carefully chosen and perfectly placed.
The entire room exuded a sense of power and authority, a place where decisions were made, and control was absolute. Yet, there was an underlying comfort here too, a subtle nod to the man who inhabited this space—a man who valued both strength and the finer things in life.
He stepped closer, the soft silk of his pants brushing against his skin, drawing my attention again to the way they hung on his hips. Colson cupped my face, drawing circles on my jaw with his thumb.
“You’re a beautiful woman, Josephine.”
I blushed and wanted to look away from his gaze, but his eyes were hypnotic, holding me in place.
“I’d like to touch you,” he whispered.
“You are,” I squeaked.
“In more intimate places.”
His words sent a shiver down my spine, and I could only nod in response. The air between us was thick with unspoken tension, a current that I couldn’t quite name but felt in every fiber of my being.
I closed my eyes. “You said you would wait.”
“I said I would wait to fuck you. I’d like to give you pleasure now.”
His hand slid up my thigh and under my dress. I was too shocked to say anything as his cool fingers cupped me between my legs and he groaned.
“We’ll have to do something about this,” he said, giving my pubic hair a gentle tug.
I kept it trimmed and neat, but I expected a man like him would want it bare and clean.
“I can have someone come here and take care of this tomorrow after your lesson.”
Colson gently stroked between my legs over my lace panties until he worked his way under the panel. I jumped when he slid a finger through my slit and when he pressed my now swollen nub, I gasped. His mouth sealed over mine, swallowing my moans.
I gripped his shoulders, closing my eyes. I’d gotten myself off many times in the privacy of my room, but he was the first man to touch me there. I was falling into a trance because of this man. I disliked Colson Ashworth, but he was making it very hard to maintain that attitude.
Colson pulled away from my lips, his breath hot against my collarbone as he trailed kisses up the length of my neck, each touch making my pulse race. When he reached my ear, his voice was a low murmur, sending shivers down my spine.
"Come, sweet Josephine," he coaxed, his breath warm against my skin. "Show me how good I make you feel."
I couldn’t hold back, my head falling back as my body surged with need.
"Yes, yes," I gasped, my breath coming in short, desperate pants.
My fingers dug into his skin, clinging to him as if he were my lifeline.
Every touch, every press of his fingers against my clit, brought me closer to the edge. I was teetering, ready to fall.
“Let go,” he whispered, his teeth grazing my earlobe just before he bit down gently, the sharp sensation pushing me over the precipice.
My world exploded. I shattered into a thousand pieces, my body convulsing in his arms as the orgasm tore through me, wave after wave of overwhelming pleasure.
Colson held me tight, grounding me, his strength the only thing keeping me from floating away.
When the tremors finally subsided, I pressed myself against him, feeling the hard evidence of his arousal.
But he didn’t ask for anything in return. Instead, he placed a soft, lingering kiss on my lips, as if savoring the moment.
"I want you with me every night until we marry," he said, his voice a mixture of command and promise. "I like playing with you, Josephine Shaw. It will be so much sweeter when I can call you my wife."
His words wrapped around me, possessive and seductive, leaving me breathless. But then, his tone shifted, firm and undeniable.
"Now go to bed," he ordered, leaving no room for argument.
I nodded, still dazed, and turned to leave, my legs shaky as I walked away.
As I reached the door, I glanced back, catching the gleam in his eyes—hungry, yet restrained.
It was clear that Colson Ashworth was a man who took what he wanted, but he would wait until the moment was right, savoring every second of the chase.
And I wasn’t sure whether that terrified me or thrilled me.
I was awakened a 2:15 a.m. by moaning. I froze, listening, hearing words spoken. They were distressed, strained and I realized it was Easton in the throes of a nightmare, the ones I didn’t know he had. I expected he would quiet down, but he didn’t, and I felt compelled to go to him.
When I opened his door, his body was full of tension, contorted in whatever nightmare gripped him. His hands clenched the covers so tight that his knuckles were white. A sheen of sweat covered his face, and I called out softly to him. He didn’t wake and I shook him.
His eyes popped opened and he cried out at my presence. “Joey.”
I sat down on the edge of the bed and smoothed his damp hair from his forehead. “You were having a nightmare.”
He nodded. “I have them sometimes…my mother.”
“How come you never told me?”
Easton scrubbed his face. “I - it’s always been something I’ve tucked away. It was my fault.”
“How? You were asleep.”
He sighed, sitting up. “The last place we were going was for me. I nagged her until she promised to take me to the model store. I wanted a plane to replace the one I broke. She wanted to go the next day, but I insisted it had to be that day.”
My heart broke for Easton. He was carrying around a guilty burden that wasn’t his.
“It wasn’t your fault,” I insisted. “Colson told me the brakes were messed up.”
“I keep thinking that maybe we would’ve made it home before the accident.”
“It might’ve happened on the road back, but you can’t feel guilty. The shop fucked up. They made a mistake.”
Easton nodded. “I guess.”
“Do you feel better?” I asked.
He smiled weakly. “I do. I think I can go back to sleep. Thank you.”
I let his hand go and rose. “Sleep well.”
As I headed for the door, he called to me. “Joey?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you stay with me?”
His eyes pleaded with me to stay yes. I had a few hours before I needed to get up, but I would do it because he needed me. It wouldn’t be much different than when we were teenagers and fell asleep while reading, our bodies nestled against each other.
“Sure.”
He folded the covers back on the opposite side of the bed and I slipped inside, snuggling against the pillow. He turned out the light and when he was settled, I reached over to grasp his hand. It was how we fell asleep.
Breakfast was quiet, the kind of quiet that suffocates.
It was just me and Colson, and I could feel the anger radiating off him like heat from a fire.
Whatever was bothering him, it was simmering beneath the surface, waiting to erupt.
We were halfway to Manhattan before he finally broke the silence.
"Did you sleep well?" His voice was cold, and when he turned to look at me, his eyes were like ice—sharp, unyielding, and terrifying.
I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice steady. "I did. The beds are very soft."
Colson carefully folded The Financial Times, his movements deliberate, as if each fold was part of some calculated plan.
He set the newspaper aside, his gaze never leaving me.
My heart pounded in my chest as I waited, sensing the storm that was about to break.
When he reached over and hit the button for the privacy window, sealing us off from the driver, I knew whatever was coming wasn’t good.
"You should know," he began, his tone measured, "that the hallways have hidden cameras, as do other areas of the house."
I instinctively crossed my arms over my chest, a futile attempt to shield myself from the impending confrontation. "Do you want to say something?"
Colson didn’t answer with words. Instead, he moved faster than I could react, lunging across the limo and wrapping his hand around my throat, pulling me under him. The sheer force of his aggression stole the breath from my lungs, leaving me gasping in shock.
"You should also know," he hissed, his grip tightening, "that I can monitor the activity in and around the house from my laptop. I often wake up around 2 a.m. each night. I can survive on four or five hours of sleep. Usually, I exercise or work out on my bike but not this morning. This morning, I was checking the camera feeds and saw you enter my son’s room. .."
His fingers dug into my throat, cutting off my air supply. I clawed at his wrist, desperate for release, but he was too strong. Panic surged through me as my vision began to blur with silver dots.
"You haven’t signed the prenup yet, and I expect it to be done this morning," he growled, his voice low and dangerous.
"Ask it," I choked out, defiance burning through the fear.
"Did you fuck my son? Are you lying about being a virgin?"
The pressure on my throat intensified, and I struggled to breathe, my world narrowing to the crushing force of his grip. My voice was barely a whisper when I managed to answer. "No."
Colson’s hold loosened, and he pulled back, sitting beside me as he tried to regain composure. Tears spilled down my cheeks, and I couldn’t stop them. He reached for me again, but this time it was to pull me into his arms, his face burrowing into my hair.
"I won’t tolerate cheating," he murmured, his voice softer now, but the threat still lingered.
"Please, Colson," I moaned, the words escaping me in a desperate plea. "It was a nightmare...I heard him."
He tightened his embrace, his tone filled with regret. "I’m sorry, sweet girl. I jumped to conclusions when I saw you coming out of his room this morning."
But the damage was done. The raw fear, the violence, and the suspicion hung between us, heavier than the limo’s stifling silence.