17. Skye
Skye
I don’t know what’s worse, being ignored by Reece Blackwood or being watched by him.
And right now? I’m getting both.
He’s been quiet all morning. Cold coffee in front of him. No smile. No teasing. No after-hours “sit on my desk so I can fuck you with my eyes” looks.
But every time I glance up from my laptop across the glass conference room table, his eyes are already on me. I shift in my seat and cross my legs. His gaze dips for half a second before he catches himself and looks back at the presentation.
God, he ’ s annoying. And hot. And still the only man who ’ s ever made me come.
I tap my pen against my notepad, chewing the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.
We’ve barely said two words to each other since that morning after.
He’s kept everything professional. Like he’s trying to pretend I didn’t get on my knees and make him fall apart with nothing but my mouth. And I’ve let him pretend.
Mostly.
But that doesn’t mean I haven’t noticed the way his voice goes rough when he says my name. Or how he closes his office door more often now. Or the way he curls his fingers into fists when I walk by to avoid touching me.
He’s losing it. And it’s kind of fun to watch.
“Anything else before we wrap?” he asks the room.
Someone from accounting mutters something about timeline adjustments. I zone out. I’m too focused on the way he’s rubbing his thumb along the edge of the conference table. The same way he touched the seam of my thigh-highs last week. The same rhythm.
I shift again. He looks at me, noticing as I watch his movements. A minute later, the meeting ends in a shuffle of laptops and polite nods. I start to gather my things, but Reece’s voice stops me.
“Skye.”
I look up. “Yeah?”
He’s standing now, one hand still braced on the chair. “What are you doing tonight?” he asks.
I blink. “Uh… nothing. Why?”
He shrugs like it’s casual. “I’ll be by around seven.”
My stomach flips. He turns to leave before I can say anything else. Just like that. No wink. No smile. I sit there, stunned, for a full five seconds before I realize my pen is still frozen midair.
Holy shit. He’s coming over. Tonight.
I gather my laptop and practically trip over the conference room chair as I stand.
I don’t know what to wear. I don’t know what to say.
I don’t know why I’m so nervous but I do…
because the idea of him coming into my home, my private and intimate space, suddenly feels a little too close to feelings and emotions for my wounded heart.
I’ve never cleaned my apartment this aggressively in my life.
There’s a candle burning in every room, my throw pillows are perfectly fluffed, and I just refolded the bathroom towels for the third time.
This is insane. He’s just a man. A very hot, very powerful, very emotionally constipated man. Who also happens to have made me come so hard my legs gave out. Twice.
I check the clock. It’s 6:49 p.m. Panic flares in my chest. I should change.
I should put something sexier on. Or something more casual.
Or both? Is that possible? I pace to my bedroom and yank open the drawer.
I grab a sleep shirt, drop it, grab jeans, toss them, then land on a casual little dress.
Simple. Effortless. Hot if you squint.
I slip it on and swipe on a little lip gloss, then shake out my hair. I immediately regret the lip gloss and wipe it off. Another glance at the clock shows it’s now 6:58 p.m.
I stand in the middle of my tiny living room like a statue, my heart pounding hard enough I can feel it behind my ribs.
I shouldn’t be this nervous. But I am. I feel something when I’m around him.
Not just lust. Something heavier. Something that makes me want to unravel in front of him.
To be known. And that scares the shit out of me.
I’m still spiraling when I hear three sharp raps at the door. I freeze. My throat goes dry. Then I take a breath, cross the room, and open it.
Reece stands there in a black button-down, sleeves rolled to his elbows, dark jeans that hug his hips like sin, and that look in his eyes. The one that says he’s not here for polite conversation.
“Hi,” I say, voice softer than I meant it to be.
“Hi.” His eyes sweep over me, slow and intentional. “You gonna invite me in?”
“Yeah. Yeah, come in.”
I step aside, heart thundering as he walks past me.
He takes in my space without comment. One couch, a bookshelf I assembled mostly correctly, a few framed art prints, and a coffee table that’s seen better days.
It’s not like his penthouse. There’s no skyline view or custom lighting or seven-thousand-dollar Italian espresso machine.
But it’s mine. And suddenly I feel like that’s not enough.
“I know it’s small,” I blurt.
He turns to me, brows lifting. “I didn’t say that.”
“You were thinking it.”
He steps closer. “No, I was thinking about how good you look in that dress.”
My stomach swoops.
“You nervous?” he asks, voice low.
“No,” I lie. Then my voice drops. “Yes. A little.”
He doesn’t smile. He just closes the space between us in one slow, deliberate step. And kisses me. No hesitation. No warm-up. Just his mouth crashing down on mine like he’s been starving for it. Like he can’t hold back another second.
I melt into him. My hands curl in the front of his shirt, dragging him closer as he deepens the kiss, his tongue sweeping into my mouth like he owns it. He pulls me tight against him and I can feel it—his cock, hard against my stomach. I moan, grinding up against him.
He pulls back an inch, eyes dark.
“Turn around.”
“What?”
He spins me before I can ask again. His hand slides up the back of my dress, fingers brushing the curve of my ass. Then he gently pushes me toward the couch. I fall onto it, breathless.
He follows. Kneeling between my legs, he pulls me onto his lap.
My dress rides high. My panties are already soaked.
I kiss him again, hot and frantic, as I roll my hips against him.
He groans against my mouth, his hands gripping my waist, guiding the movement.
His cock grinds right where I need it, thick, hot, separated only by two thin layers of fabric.
“I need you,” I whisper.
“I know.”
I start to pull my dress up, but he stops me. His eyes lock on mine.
“Take me to your bedroom.”
My stomach flips. I nod, pushing off his lap and grabbing his hand. He follows me down the hall. The second we step into my room, he stops and looks around.
It’s not much. A double bed with wrinkled sheets. A dresser that leans slightly to the left. A nightstand cluttered with lip balm and paperbacks and my birth control alarm. I turn to face him, nerves rising again. But he’s not judging. He’s just watching me. Like he’s memorizing everything.
He steps forward, sits on the edge of my bed, and looks up at me.
“Come here.”
I approach the bed. He runs his hands slowly down the backs of my thighs, then up under the hem of my dress. He kisses the soft skin of my belly, nuzzling just above my waistband. I suck in a breath, threading my fingers in his hair. And then I lose track of everything but the heat between us.
He starts with my thighs. His mouth skims up the inside, kissing, teasing, making me tremble with every pass of his lips. His hands are steady, but there’s something almost reverent in the way he touches me.
“Lie back,” he commands.
The sheets are cool against my skin, my dress bunched around my hips, panties damp and clinging to me as I lie back.
He kneels between my legs and hooks his fingers into the waistband, dragging them down slowly, his eyes locked on mine the whole time.
When I’m bare, he exhales like he’s finally allowed to breathe.
“Look at you,” he rasps. “So fucking beautiful.”
His mouth covers me before I can say a word.
I arch with a cry as he licks a long, slow strip from my entrance to my clit.
Then again. And again, each pass more devastating than the last. I fist the sheets, hips bucking.
But he holds me still—one arm across my stomach, the other gripping my thigh as he eats me like it’s his last meal.
“Reece— Oh my God?—”
He groans against me, the sound vibrating through my whole body. He pushes one thick finger inside me. Then another. Curling them just right.
My back bows off the bed. “Oh fuck— Don’t stop— Don’t you dare?—”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he growls, pulling back just enough to speak. “I want to feel you come on my fingers, baby. Drip down my wrist. Make a fucking mess.”
My orgasm crashes through me like a tidal wave, tearing the breath from my lungs. I cry out, thrashing against his hold as pleasure rips me apart.
He keeps going. Keeps licking, sucking, fucking me with his fingers until I come again, this time so fast and sharp I nearly sob.
“Too much,” I pant, shaking.
He pulls back slowly, his face wet, lips glistening, pupils wide. He crawls up my body, settling between my thighs as he drags his shirt off. The muscles in his chest flex with every movement, his abs tight and carved. He undoes his jeans and pushes them down just enough to free his cock.
But he doesn’t rush. He just stares at me. “You okay?” he asks softly, brushing hair from my face.
I nod, breathless.
“Words, Skye.”
“I’m okay,” I whisper. “I want you.”
His jaw ticks and he gives me the same answer he always does. “I know.”
He strokes himself once, twice, then he lines up and pushes in slowly. The stretch burns. He’s big. Thicker than I remember. But I’m so wet, so open, that he slides deep with one long, torturous thrust.
We both groan. He holds still, breathing hard. Then he starts to move. Slow. Deep. Every roll of his hips hits something that makes me moan. It’s not fast. Not frantic. It’s steady. Purposeful. Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s savoring me .
I clutch his back, nails digging into his shoulders as he drives into me over and over, dragging pleasure through my entire body. His hands grip my thighs, spreading me wider, angling deeper.
“God, you feel good,” he grits. “So fucking good. Like you were made for me.”
My heart skips. I shouldn’t feel it. But I do. Every inch of him. Every word. Every look. It’s too much. And not enough. He leans down, running his mouth along my throat, then he kisses the side of my neck so softly.
“You’re shaking,” he whispers.
“You’re ruining me.”
His hand cups my jaw, tilting my face toward his. And when our eyes meet, something shifts. The air goes heavy. The rhythm slows even more. It’s not just about fucking my boss or getting over the last guy with someone new. It’s about this .
The way he watches me like I’m precious. The way he fucks me like he needs it to breathe. The way he touches me like he’s afraid I’ll vanish beneath him. My hands slide into his hair. I arch against him, desperate to take him deeper.
His voice breaks. “Skye—don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m not a mistake.”
“You’re not.”
His thrusts stutter. And then he curses, buries his face in my neck, and fucks me harder—still slow, still controlled, but deeper now. More intense. Like he’s trying to make me feel everything he can’t say.
I’m close again. So close I can’t speak. My hands tremble where they grip his arms. My breath comes in gasps.
“I want you to come for me,” he says, voice wrecked. “Right here. With me inside you.”
“I— Reece?—”
“Come, baby. Let me feel you.”
I shatter. My body arches, legs locking around his waist as my orgasm hits. He groans, sliding himself into me twice more before he follows—grinding deep, pulsing hard, filling me with every broken breath.
We stay like that for a long time. Bodies tangled. Breaths synced. His head resting on my chest. His arm slides under my waist, holding me close. I run my fingers through his hair, afraid to speak. Afraid I’ll break whatever spell this is.
Eventually, he shifts, lifts his head, and looks down at me with something in his eyes that steals my breath.
“Hi,” I whisper.
He brushes his thumb over my cheekbone. “Hi.”
And for once, there are no jokes. No power plays. Just us. And all the things we’re still too afraid to say.