CHAPTER ELEVEN #3
“It’s essentially a submarine merged with a glass-bottom boat,” I explain, watching her face cycle through shock, wonder, and pure delight. “Billionaires prefer to observe nature’s beauty without risking a wedgie from a wetsuit.”
“Did Bryce Sterling just crack a joke?”
She scrambles onto the curved seating, pressing both palms against the window, nose touching the glass. Her enthusiasm is infectious.
“I can see the ocean floor. And holy shit! Is that a dolphin over there?! Fuck me! That’s a shark! That’s an actual shark!”
A massive hammerhead glides past our window. She squeals.
“I am not being sarcastic right now, B. This is genuinely fucking incredible. Sit down. Stop standing there like you’re chaperoning a middle school field trip.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Because… I can’t resist you,” I admit, only realizing I’ve spoken it aloud when her eyes darken.
“Good. I don’t want you to control yourself. Show me the real you, Bryce.”
“Pip, we can’t. Gavin is my best friend.”
“Always with the mood-killing brother talk.”
My finger is a machine gun, drumming against my thigh—tap-tap-tap-tap-TAP!
“I should return to the group. If you need anything, press that button. Staff will respond immediately.”
I pivot toward the spiral staircase, away from temptation.
“Bryce, wait. ”
Her quiet voice stops me cold. My hand grips the metal railing—hard.
She sighs. “I… I don’t know what’s happening between us. I’m just… Well, you have my permission.”
Keep moving! Escape. Before you do something irreversibly stupid. You don’t have Gavin’s permission for whatever this is.
“What I’m trying to say is… however you want me, wherever you want me—I’m completely and utterly yours. No strings, no games, no bullshit. Just yours.”
Christ, how could a man resist that invitation? I sure as hell can’t. I’m only human.
I turn, cross the space between us in two strides, and crash my mouth to hers. Our lips collide with the force of a small explosion. Desperate. Hungry. Completely unhinged. Her hands seize my hair as we move in a frantic rhythm, stealing each other’s breath. I kiss her like I’ll die if I stop.
My blood is on fire—my heart pounding so loud I can barely hear over it. My tongue sweeps against hers, claiming her, devouring her, and the only thought in my head is: more, more, more.
My mind goes primal, messy—everything in me is screaming: Bury yourself in her.
I force it back— that can’t happen.
Petra whimpers against my lips, and the sound heats up my cock like a lightning bolt.
A growl rips from my chest, raw and animal. What the fuck? Where did that sound come from?
Between kisses, I rasp against her lips, “I’m not… fucking you, Pi p. I’m just… tasting you.”
Petra peels off my jacket she’s wearing and hurls it away, her voice husky and seductive. “Whatever you need to tell yourself, Moneybags.”
Hands attack my shirt, ripping buttons open in a frenzied rush, sending them flying across the room like shrapnel.
My mouth charts a burning path down her throat, tasting her skin.
I drag the neckline of her dress down, exposing the swell of her breasts.
I groan, deep and ragged, as I suck her into my mouth, rolling my tongue over her perky nipple.
Her other breast fits perfectly in my hand, my thumb circling and teasing.
“Oh God, B. Yes!”
Her nipple grows firm in my mouth. Every pull of my lips makes her arch against me. I switch sides, desperate to feel the other swell against my tongue. I graze my teeth over the taut bud, rough enough to make her cry out.
“More,” she gasps. “Please, more.”
Something savage unfurls in my gut—a version of myself that’s been caged behind boardroom manners and inherited expectations.
My hand slides lower, tracing down the curve of her waist, over the swell of her hips.
My fingers hook under the hem of her dress and yank it up, bunching the delicate fabric around her waist. Her breath catches.
I glide my hand up her thigh, closer and closer to where I want her most. The instant I make contact with soaked lace, Petra unleashes a sound that nearly stops my heart—pleasure vibrates through the entire room.
Nothing in my groomed existence has prepared me for this rush of dominance. Her body trembles from my touch, and a savageness ignites in me. I was made for a single purpose: to ruin her for anyone else .
My cock is a steel rod of need—so hard, it hurts—trapped behind my zipper like punishment for wanting her this badly. But my orgasm can wait. What I need is to hear every fucking sound she makes. To know if she’s all throaty growls or breathy gasps when she comes.
“Fuck me, Bryce. I want you inside me.”
I pull back, meeting her eyes. The blue light of the water beyond the glass flickers across her bare skin, her breasts heaving, her nipples swollen and wet from my mouth.
“No,” I growl. “I said no fucking, Pip.”
She opens her mouth to protest, but the look on my face has her swallowing her words.
“No more talking. The only noise I want to hear from you is my name when you come on my tongue.”
Before she can respond, I fist her panties and tear them clean off—not a careful removal, but complete annihilation of expensive lace that goes flying.
She gasps, and I drop to my knees. I’m a man approaching his religion. My mouth waters as my hands grip her thighs, dragging her to the cushion’s edge and spreading her wide for my hungry gaze.
I dive in like a man possessed. The moment I taste her, everything else ceases to exist. Sweet and salty and so goddamn addictive.
I can’t stop. I lap at her, drinking her in, the wet sounds of her arousal filling the small space.
Every moan she lets slip—every breathy gasp—floods heat straight to my cock.
I flatten my tongue and press against her clit, feeling her jolt under me. She whimpers, her fingers scrabbling for purchase in my hair. I suck in, and she cries out. Her juicy sounds are music made just for me.
“I can’t! It’s too much—” she starts, but I cut her off with a look .
“What did I say about talking?” I command.
I grab her legs and hook them around my neck, angling her ass off the couch. She gasps, her stilettos digging into my skin as I hold her there, suspended and trembling.
And then I dive back in.
My tongue parts her, slow and savoring at first, tasting her from the inside out. The way she moves under me, her hips canting forward, those heels digging in while her legs press tighter around my head—it’s enough to undo me.
I push deeper, my tongue pressing inside until she’s panting. Every vulnerable, breathy noise she makes tells me exactly where to go. My hands rake her thighs, holding her steady as I lick and chase the pulse of her pleasure.
Her breathy pants turn into velvety, languid moans. They slip out like she’s trying to hold them in.
I growl against her, the vibration sending her head flying back, her whole body going tight.
I know I’ve found her sweet spot. Her noises climb higher and higher like a song that’s about to break.
The way her legs are quivering, how she uses those delicious internal muscles like a vise around my tongue—it’s everything.
Her soft little pants turning into sighs and moans that melt together. It’s a fucking symphony, and I’m the conductor with every greedy thrust of my tongue.
She’s close. I feel her thighs squeeze harder, her hips roll faster. I still my body, keeping my mouth right where she needs it, my tongue pumping with steady, firm pressure. She’s fucking shaking in my hands.
I’m wild. Unbridled. A man of one purpose .
Then she says it. My name—my name in a voice that’s half moan, half sigh, a sound so delicate and sweet, it carves a hollow right through my chest. She collapses back, whimpering, her body going limp and boneless, and I feel her melting on my tongue.
Her satiated sighs continue to play like a melody. A song that’s all mine—to memorize and replay in every quiet moment for the rest of my miserable existence.
The underwater lights of the ocean dance across her skin and turn her into something unreal—an ocean-born siren pulled from a sailor’s tale. Her lashes brush flushed cheeks, and that devastating mouth curves into the softest smile I’ve ever witnessed on her.
I did that. Me.
Turned a walking rebellion into a satisfied puddle of a woman. Must say, I’m feeling pretty goddamn pleased with myself.
For once in her life, she’s not insulting my lineage, threatening my anatomy, or plotting creative ways to destroy my personal property. She’s peaceful. Beautiful. Content.
It’s unsettling, because this version of her is even more dangerous. I want more of it. I want all of it.
But I can’t let her know that. The moment she sees me as vulnerable, she’ll rip me to shreds with her sass, and we’ll be right back to her having all the power.
Something tells me she’s used to men groveling at her feet. But I’m not most guys. I want her needing me—badly. Petra doesn’t respect weakness—she annihilates it. If I want to keep her attention, I need to be the one thing she can’t demand.
My hands smooth her rumpled dress back into place, making sure she’s covered before gathering the shredded remains of her panties and placing them beside her. A gentleman’s courtesy, even in the aftermath of complete debauchery.
I slap my best smug expression across my face and start casually backing toward the staircase. “Sleep tight, Pip. Try not to dream about me too much.”
I hear her inhale to fire off a quip—probably something that’ll bruise my ego and make me hard at the same time—but I don’t stick around for it.
She thinks she’s the one in control? Let her think it.
Tomorrow, she’ll be the one squirming and begging me to touch her again.