CHAPTER SIXTEEN
PETRA
I’m in his bed.
Wrapped in his arms. Living the fantasy I swore I gave up on.
His breathing is steady beneath my cheek—peaceful, tender—a sharp contrast to the emotional wreckage he showed me last night.
Bryce Sterling, always so dignified and distant, let me in.
And what I saw, no one else ever has. He fell apart, and then he kissed me like I was the only thing that could save him.
And now?
He’s holding me like I’m still that thing.
His palm is splayed against the small of my back.
The other curls around my shoulder, fingers woven into my hair as though he’s claiming every strand.
All night he’s done this—reached for me in his sleep, pulling me close whenever I drifted.
Like even in his dreams, he couldn’t bear the thought of letting me go.
“Let me get lost in you.”
God, B.
How was I supposed to say no to that?
I stay perfectly still, breathing in the smell of his skin—crisp pears, sandalwood, and the unmistakable aroma of sex. The early morning sun is bleeding through the curtains’ slats. I want to tilt my head and admire his sleeping face, but I don’t dare move.
I need to move. I should move. But I won’t.
Because the second I wake him, the spell will be broken. He’ll remember he’s Bryce Sterling, future king of capitalism. I’ll remember I’m Petra Brinkman, the poor girl who has more tattoos than money.
Tomorrow, this fairy tale ends—and I’m the one who turns back into a pumpkin.
I’ve loved him since I was old enough to recognize heartbreak.
From when he first walked into our sad little home with my brother, all polished confidence and expensive-looking…
everything. Our secondhand furniture had never felt more embarrassing.
He didn’t belong in my world—but I wanted him anyway.
Even at fifteen, I knew boys like Bryce didn’t fall for girls like me. We were from different species—him all sun-kissed privilege and inherited wealth, me all sharp edges and thrift store rebellion.
Hell, I’ve built an entire personality around being an outsider who never gave a shit.
I’ve weaponized my mouth into a finely tuned defense system—sarcasm as armor, dirty jokes as deflection. I make things sound casual, like my heart isn’t on the line whenever he looks at me. That I’m just here for a week-long ride on the billionaire.
But I’m lying to both of us.
And honestly? It’s easier this way.
Because what the hell can you do when the boy you always loved becomes the man you’ve always wanted—and still can’t have? Every fantasy I’ve ever had is playing out in real time, dragging my heart along for the ride, but I know damn well he’s not mine to keep .
I won’t ask for more. It’s impossible. He’ll leave, and I’ll pretend I’m fine.
But, before that happens, I’m gonna give him everything I’ve got.
I’ll be unforgettable.
If this is our ending, I want it to be the kind you never recover from. Passion that ruins you for anyone after. I want to leave claw marks on his soul—the way he’s been tattooed onto mine.
I can’t be his forever girl. But I can be the woman he dreams about. The wildfire in his memories—the one that never quite burns out.
When he’s busy playing the role of ideal husband, I want him to look at his trophy wife and wonder why she doesn’t light him up the way I did.
I’ll be the only woman who showed him how it felt to be wanted for who he is , not what he’s worth. By the time I’m done, he’ll spend the rest of his life wondering what the hell happened to him in Mexico.
“You’re here,” he rasps, his voice laced with sleep.
I smile and feign a groggy wake-up stretch (complete with exaggerated yawn). “Am I supposed to be somewhere else?”
“No, Pip. You’re exactly where I want you.”
He dips his head, brushing his lips against mine in a kiss so gentle, it makes my heart ache.
When he pulls back, I can see the evidence of last night painted across his skin—my lipstick staining his throat, the faint trails of my nails down his shoulder.
I see him marked as mine, and a swell of emotions threatens to take over.
Don’t cry. Plenty of time for that later .
“What are you thinking?” His thumb traces the curve of my bottom lip, those ice-blue eyes studying my expression like I’m a puzzle.
I force a smile. “Just plotting your demise, Moneybags. You’re not escaping the torture I still owe you.”
He exhales a quiet laugh. “Are you going to be gentle?”
“Not a chance.”
He shifts on top of me, pinning me while he attacks my neck with stubble-rough kisses. I howl with laughter.
“You’re adding to your punishment,” I warn between giggles, trying to squirm.
“Bring it on.” His grin is pure sin as he captures my wrists above my head. “I can handle whatever you’ve got.”
“Oh, B. If only you knew.”
Twenty minutes later, Bryce is tied up and spread eagle—the world’s hottest hostage.
Arms and legs flung wide, the smug bastard is full naked starfish.
His own silk ties are doing the Lord’s work, securing those pricey limbs to the bed.
And because I’m merciful (and trying not to pounce early) , I’ve strategically placed a fluffy white pillow over his penis.
I give one of the wrist ties a little tug, testing my handiwork. Solid.
“Comfortable?” I ask sweetly.
He gives a devious grin and lifts a brow. “As excited as I am about this… interrogation, I do have a conference call with Tokyo in ninety minutes.”
I trail a finger down his chest. “Don’t worry, Moneybags. You won’t be late.”
I pause. “Though I can’t promise you’ll be able to concentrate after I’m done with you. ”
His dark, hungry gaze meets mine. “That’s a hell of a threat.”
“It’s a promise.”
With my eyes locked on his, I hook my thumbs into my black lace panties and slowly slide them off. His breathing halts entirely as I ball them up and toss them… on his face.
“Souvenir,” I say with a wink.
“Petra—”
“Shh.” I climb onto the bed, crawling up his body until I’m straddling his chest, and then I slide up even higher.
Over his collarbone.
His throat.
And then…
I settle my center over his lips like I’m his favorite reckless investment.
I lift my panties off his pouty expression. “Now be a good boy and lick .”
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
He makes a sound—somewhere between a groan and a growl—before his mouth makes contact.
Holy hell.
This man’s tongue is a conductor’s baton, guiding me with masterful movements. He begins with broad, sweeping strokes against my clit, sending jolts of pleasure through me that make my eyes roll back. Then he shifts to precise, targeted flicks, and I’m clutching the headboard.
He reacts to every sound I make, a man on a mission to drive me wild. His focused intensity leaves my legs trembling and my breath ragged.
I meant to tease him. Work him up. But I’m the one unraveling .
Damn him and his silver tongue.
My body moves on instinct, grinding against his jaw, chasing the high he’s bringing. His scruff is delicious torture, sharp little bites that send shivers ricocheting down my spine.
He groans into me, and I swear the vibration hits a new nerve. My fingers dig into the headboard. My head tips back.
I’m close. Too close.
When I try to pull away, to regain some semblance of control, his mouth sticks to me like a shadow, never letting up.
“Bryce—Wait—I need—” The protest dies as he adds suction that makes my vision white out.
The orgasm builds and breaks over me in devastating waves, leaving me shuddering and gasping above him. I’m completely undone.
As I slide down his body, boneless and breathless, he wears a grin that says I won. His face glistens with evidence of what he’s done to me, and he looks utterly triumphant despite being tied up.
“That backfired… spectacularly,” I say in between pants.
“From where I’m lying, it went exactly according to plan. When do we start round two?”
“Oh, you cocky billionaire. Payback’s just getting started.”
He grins. “Great. I enjoy being disciplined by you.”
I snatch my panties and use them to wipe him clean, savoring the stunned expression behind his lashes.
“Last chance to pick a safe word, B.”
“I have no interest in playing it safe.”
He has the audacity to wink before I stuff the lace into his mouth.
KNOCK! KNOCK!
His eyes go wide as dinner plates. Mine do too—but for different reasons .
Oh, this is going to be fun.
I throw on my robe and give the strategic penis pillow a little pat. “Showtime, boys! Next time think twice before turning me into a human popsicle.”
He tries to talk. “Mmfph. Mmmffphhh.”
I dash to his walk-in closet, positioning myself behind the door where I can peek through the gap. From here, I’ve got a perfect view of Bryce—mid silent panic attack. Unfortunate for him. Hilarious for me.
In my lowest, most serious Bryce-with-a-stick-up-his-ass voice, I call out, “Enter!”
Through the crack in the door, I watch as Nigel Featherwick glides into the room in his standard black tuxedo, carrying an elaborate crystal bowl. When he spots Bryce on the bed, he doesn’t even pause—just closes the door with the efficiency of a man who’s clearly handled stranger requests.
“Apologies for the delay, Mr. Sterling,” he says in that stoic, I-scold-you-so British accent. “I was informed you wished for me to personally deliver this.”
I bite my lip to contain my giggles. This is playing out better than I imagined when I made the call twenty minutes ago, requesting an antique crystal bowl…
Full. Of. Condoms.
“I do hope the presentation meets your exact standards,” Nigel continues, holding the bowl at a precise angle for inspection. “The crystal is Waterford, circa 1897.”
Bryce responds with an eloquent, unintelligible mumble.
“Shall I temporarily remove the gag, sir?”
Bryce nods solemnly.
Nigel steps forward and delicately pinches the lace with two gloved fingers, like it’s a napkin in Casa Cashmere’s fancy dining room. He pulls it out and sets it on the nightstand.