Chapter 28
The Prey
I wake with a gasp, my heart pounding in my chest as I jolt upright. Disoriented, I blink rapidly, trying to get my bearings. Smooth, dark sheets pool around my waist. Towering bookshelves and expensive abstract art line the walls.
Valentine’s home.
I’m in his bed where I fell asleep surrounded by him, but I’m alone now.
Scanning the spacious room, I absently rub my arms, shivering despite the warmth. Letting the silk sheet slip from my bruised body, I wince as I cautiously get out of bed.
No matter how carefully I move, pain lances through me with every movement, my muscles screaming in protest. Ugly purple and blue marks mottle the pale skin of my thighs. Souvenirs from Michael’s cruel hands.
I stand on unsteady feet, stumbling slightly as a wave of dizziness washes over me. How long did I walk last night? From Jack’s place in Manhattan to Valentine’s place in Brooklyn had to be miles. My bare feet ache, the soles throbbing and torn from pounding the unforgiving pavement.
Eve rything hurts. Inside and out.
Gritting my teeth, I force my arms above my head in a full body stretch. God, I feel like I’ve been sleeping for years rather than one night. My limbs are beyond stiff, and I have a kink in my neck like I’ve been laid in the same position for way too long.
I catch my reflection in the sleek floor-length mirror and barely recognize the woman staring back at me. Dark hair wild and tangled. Porcelain skin marred by contusions. Haunted green eyes red-rimmed from crying.
As I look around the bedroom, self-doubt wraps icy tendrils around my heart, squeezing ruthlessly. You’re not good enough for a man like him, a vicious voice whispers in my mind. You’re damaged goods. Used up and thrown away by your own husband. What could you possibly offer Valentine? I press a fist to my trembling lips, fighting back the sob building in my chest. I’m so tired of feeling weak. Powerless. A pretty plaything to… amuse.
The bedroom door swings open, startling me from my spiraling thoughts. I gasp softly, my heart stuttering against my ribcage as Valentine enters the bedroom, his tall frame filling the doorway.
He’s no longer naked, but dressed in dark sweatpants and nothing else, well, apart from the wrap around his wrist. My gaze trails over his chiseled abs, the sculpted planes of his chest, before settling on his face. He’s sweating, I realize. Beads of moisture glisten on his forehead, making his hair stick to the skin.
His smirk and arched eyebrow has heat pooling between my thighs as I recall how I fell asleep, and I’m hit with a wave of arousal. “You’re finally awake.” It’s not a question, but a statement of fact.
I swallow, my throat dry as sandpaper. “Y-yes.” I clear my throat to get rid of the remnants of sleep. “How long have I been asleep?” I ask.
“Asleep?” he asks, clearly amused. He walks over to the window and pulls the blinds up, revealing the darkness outside. “Almost twenty-four hours. I had to keep checking on you to make sure you were still alive.”
I guess that explains why I feel so awful. “Why didn’t you wake me?” I ask, confused. Well, not confused. I’m more annoyed that I’ve spent so much time sleeping instead of being awake with him .
He lets out a soft chuckle. “You don’t think I tried? You tried to slap me once. The other times you just ignored me.” Moving closer, he gently cups my face. “Do you need anything?”
“A shower,” I reply immediately. “Maybe some food.”
Leaning down, he presses a kiss to my forehead. “Let me show you where the bathroom is. I’ll cook while you shower.”
I follow him through the loft and into the sparse bathroom. Its dark tiles make the room look smaller, more intimate. Valentine turns the water on for me, and while we wait for it to get warm, he reaches under the sink for a spare toothbrush that’s still in its shiny plastic packaging.
“Towels are in there,” he says, pointing at a closet. “Just call if you need anything.”
As he moves toward the door, I call, “Wait.” he halts in his movements, turning around to face me. “Don’t you need to shower as well?” I ask, gesturing at his body.
“I can wait.”
“Or you could join me,” I suggest, beckoning him closer with the crook of my finger.
“Or I could join you,” he smirks. “What a great way to save natural resources.”
Loving this almost playful side of him, I turn and stride into the shower, shaking my ass a little for good measure. “And I’m all about preserving resources, Professor,” I sass.
As soon as I’m under the sprays of water, I tilt my head back and close my eyes, letting the water cascade over me. It tugs a little at my stitches, but it’s only a slight discomfort compared to the feeling of getting clean.
When I open my eyes again, Valentine is standing so close our bodies almost touch. There’s a bottle of shampoo in his hands. “Can I wash your hair?” he asks.
My heart melts at his soft tone and the concern in his eyes. Unable to form words, I nod before spinning around and giving him my back. Showering with Valentine is one of the best experiences of my life.
Despite his obvious erection that’s digging into my back, he takes his time lathering my hair in shampoo, extra careful around the stitches. His finger s are pure magic as they massage the shampoo into my roots.
“That feels so good,” I moan, leaning my head back against him.
He reaches for the showerhead, holding it as he rinses my hair free of any suds. Next he applies conditioner, which I’m pleasantly surprised that he has. He adds it to the lower half of my hair before once again rinsing.
“Will you let me wash you?” he asks, his tone reserved as though he thinks I’m going to say no.
“Yes,” I reply.
He takes his time lathering my entire body in a citrus smelling soap that I recognize from him. His touch is deliberate and slow. No nook or cranny goes untouched, and by the end I’m a trembling mess.
Arousal and an overwhelming feeling of being safe, of being cared for, courses through my veins. I turn in his arms, lifting myself up on my toes and cup his stubbled cheeks. “Thank you,” I murmur before fusing our lips together.
Valentine lets me set the pace as he holds me tighter, one hand splayed on my back, the other cupping the nape of my neck. He matches me stroke for stroke, our tongues in perfect sync.
Moaning into his mouth, I blindly reach behind me for the soap. Once I have it, I end the kiss and squeeze some into my hand. I slide my palms across the impressive expanse of his shoulders, continuing down his chest and abs.
Like he did with me, I wash him everywhere, making sure he feels the sense of being cared for that he gave me. As I look up, his dark eyes catch mine. His lips are slightly parted and there’s a look of wonder on his handsome face.
“What are you doing?” he rasps.
If he has to ask, I’m not doing a good enough job at showing him. Spurred on by what I want him to feel, I lower myself to my knees. Gently cupping his balls, I rub my nose across his pubic bone. The coarse hairs tickle my skin in a delicious way.
Wrapping my hand around the base of his shaft, I squeeze lightly and stroke upward, watching as a bead of water forms at the tip. My breath hitches, and I kiss it away, tasting the mix of soap and his unique flavor. His wh ole body tenses, and he exhales a long, shuddering breath.
“Ruby,” he groans, his voice strained with a mix of desire and restraint.
With slow, deliberate movements, I take him into my mouth, swirling my tongue around his head before sliding down his length. The warm water from the shower and the steam in the room create a cocoon of intimacy around us.
I close my eyes, losing myself in the rhythm, in the sounds he’s making—small gasps and deep moans that echo off the tiled walls. My hands explore his thighs, his hips, every inch of him within reach. Each touch is an unspoken word, each caress a promise.
He threads his fingers through my wet hair, careful to avoid the stitches on the back of my head. The gentle pull makes my scalp tingle, a stark contrast to the more intense sensations building in me. I glance up, and his expression is a perfect mix of pleasure and vulnerability, like he’s balancing on the edge of something he can’t quite control.
“You don’t have to, Pet—” he starts, but I cut him off by taking him deeper, my cheeks hollowing with the effort.
His protest melts into a guttural moan, and I feel a surge of satisfaction. Not just from the power I hold in this moment, but from the knowledge that I’m giving him something real, something more than just physical. Me—I’m giving him me.
I slow my pace, teasing him with light flicks of my tongue and gentle kisses. His breathing grows ragged, his body a taut wire ready to snap. Pulling my mouth off him, I look up. “I want to, Valentine. Let me give you this.”
Taking him back into my mouth, I up my pace. While one hand still massages his balls, the other slides around to grip his firm ass, pulling him closer. The sounds of the shower mix with his escalating moans, creating a symphony of raw need and passion.
The air is thick with steam and the scent of his body wash, a heady mix that’s almost intoxicating.
Valentine’s grip on my hair tightens, then loosens as if he’s fighting against himself. His hips start to move in a subtle, involuntary thrusting motion, meeting me halfway. The sounds he makes grow m ore urgent, more desperate, and I know he’s close.
His hips begin to move in sync with my motions, thrusting gently, testing the limits of my willingness. I meet each of his movements with equal fervor, my own arousal a burning ache that I temporarily set aside for him.
“Ruby,” he growls, almost animalistically. It’s a warning. I can feel him tensing, every muscle in his body coiling as he teeters on the brink. “Fuck! Don’t stop, Pet. Drink me down. Take all my cum.” His hand slides to the nape of my neck, holding me in place.
I double down, sucking harder, my tongue working frantically.
The explosion of tension in his body is immediate and violent. Valentine groans deeply, the sound reverberating through the tiled shower walls. His hands on my neck tighten, his fingers trembling as he holds me in place.
The taste of him is salty and potent, a rush of warmth that I swallow greedily. He sags against the shower wall, spent, his breathing coming in uneven heaves.
I pull back slowly, giving him a last, tender kiss before standing. The water cascades over us, washing away the evidence of our encounter. His hand finds my cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle.
“Pet,” he says softly, and there’s something in his voice that makes my heart stutter. Something tender and fragile. “You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to,” I interrupt, placing a finger on his lips. “You needed it.”
He takes my hand and kisses it, then pulls me into an embrace. The heat of his body contrasts with the cooling water, creating a disorienting mix of sensations. For a moment, we just stand there, holding each other.
Letting me go, he takes a step back. “That was unexpected,” he muses.
As he speaks, I watch him mentally distance himself from me. I get it, he’s used to being in charge, used to having all the power. But I need him to see that I’m not trying to take that from him; I’m trying to help so we can share it. I’m about to say just that when my stomach growls.
He laughs. “Let’s get you fed.”