5. Ruby
Chapter Five
RUBY
Steam curls around me as I stand in Clay’s bathroom, clutching a fluffy white towel to my chest. My skin still tingles from the hot shower, but it’s nothing compared to how it burns whenever Clay looks at me.
I splash cold water on my face and stare at my reflection in the mirror.
What the hell am I doing here?
I’ve known this man for less than twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours that turned my life upside down—my apartment broken into, my safe space violated, and suddenly I’m whisked away to this mountain cabin with a man who makes my heart race with just a glance.
A man my father hired to protect me. A man I should absolutely not be thinking about the way I am right now.
I grip the edge of the sink, trying to steady myself.
That moment in the storage room of my shop keeps replaying in my mind. The heat of his body so close to mine, the intensity in his eyes, the way my breath caught when his fingers brushed against my skin. I’d felt an instant connection that defied logic, and it terrifies me.
I’ve spent years building my independence brick by brick. Left my family’s expectations behind, built my tattoo business from nothing, created a life entirely on my own terms. And now here I am, feeling things for a virtual stranger that make me want to throw caution to the wind.
It’s not that I don’t date. I do. Sort of. Coffee meetups that never go anywhere. Dinner dates that end with polite handshakes. My focus has always been my career, my art, my independence. I’ve never let anyone close enough to disrupt the life I’ve carefully constructed. Never given anyone the power to make decisions for me or tell me what to do.
And I’ve certainly never let anyone close enough to see me vulnerable, to touch me in ways that would make me lose control. That kind of intimacy has always seemed like a risk I couldn’t afford to take.
But Clay... there’s something about him that feels different. Dangerous. The way he looks at me makes me feel seen in a way that’s both thrilling and terrifying.
I turn to my overnight bag, rifling through the clothes I threw together in a panic. My fingers pause over the sensible cotton pajama set I packed, then deliberately move past it. Instead, I pull out a pair of black sleep shorts that barely cover my ass and a white tank top that shows off the colorful tattoos running down my arms and decorating my collarbone.
As I slip into the revealing clothes, I study the phoenix tattoo on my shoulder in the mirror. It was my first major piece—the one I got the day I told my father I was dropping out of business school to pursue art. The vibrant reds and golds represent everything I’ve fought for: my independence, my right to make my own choices.
Including this one.
When I finally open the bathroom door, a rush of cooler air hits my bare legs. The cabin is dimly lit, mostly by the glow of the fireplace. Clay stands near it, arranging logs, his broad back to me.
He’s changed into dark sweatpants and a fitted gray t-shirt that does nothing to hide the muscles underneath. I allow myself a moment to appreciate the view—the width of his shoulders, the way the fabric stretches across his back, the confident way he moves.
He turns at the sound of the door, and his eyes widen slightly as they take in my appearance.
His gaze travels slowly from my face down to my legs, lingering on the colorful tattoos that peek out from under my shorts, then back up to my face. There’s no mistaking the heat in his eyes.
“Feel better?” he asks.
I step further into the room.“Much.”
He gestures to the TV mounted on the wall.“I thought we could watch a movie. Might help take our minds off everything that happened today.”
The suggestion is so unexpectedly... normal. Sweet, even. I blink in surprise.
“A movie?” I repeat, like I’ve never heard the concept before.
One corner of his mouth lifts in a half-smile that does crazy things to my insides. “Yeah, you know, moving pictures on a screen? Usually has a plot? Sometimes people even enjoy them.”
I laugh despite myself. “I’m familiar with the concept, smartass.”
His smile widens, and I catch myself staring at his mouth. “Good to know. I’ve got a streaming service, or there are some DVDs in that cabinet if you’d prefer.”
“Streaming is fine,” I say, moving toward the couch. As I sit down, I notice he’s already set out two glasses of water and a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table.
Clay sits beside me, leaving a respectable distance between us. He’s close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body, but not so close we’re touching. He picks up the remote, scrolling through options.
“Any preferences?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Nothing scary. I’ve had enough real-life tension for one day.”
“Comedy it is.” He selects something I vaguely recognize, then settles back against the cushions.
Fifteen minutes into the movie, I realize I haven’t processed a single scene. The actors are just moving shapes on the screen while all my senses are tuned to the man sitting next to me.
“Cold?” Clay asks suddenly, his voice low and intimate in the dim room.
I’m not cold at all—if anything, I’m burning up—but I find myself nodding anyway.
“Come here,” he says, lifting his arm to create a space beside him.
I hesitate, knowing exactly what will happen if I move closer. “I’m fine right?—“
“Ruby.” Just my name, but delivered like a command.
Something inside me responds to that tone, and I find myself sliding across the couch before I’ve even made the conscious decision. The smile that flickers across his face is pure male satisfaction. As if he’d won something. Which I suppose he had.
His arm settles around my shoulders, heavy and warm. I try to focus on the screen, on the actors’ voices, but all I can feel is his thumb making small circles against my shoulder. His breathing, steady and deep. The heat radiating from his body.
Ten minutes later, his hand drifts lower, fingers tracing patterns along my ribs. I keep my eyes fixed straight ahead, pretending I don’t notice. Pretending my skin isn’t burning everywhere he touches. Pretending my breath isn’t coming faster.
“You’re not watching.” Clay’s voice is a rumble I can feel through his chest.
I swallow hard. “Neither are you.”
“Hard to focus with you sitting there.”
The admission sends a thrill through me. “Why’s that?”
“You know why.”
His hand moves from my ribs to my face, his thumb brushing across my lower lip. The simple touch sends electricity racing through me. I should pull away. I should maintain some distance, some control over whatever this is. Instead, I find myself leaning into his touch.
“Clay,” I whisper, not even sure what I’m asking for.
He doesn’t make me figure it out. In one fluid motion, he leans down and captures my lips with his.
The kiss starts gentle, but that lasts only seconds. As soon as I respond, pressing closer and parting my lips, something in him breaks loose. His hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair as he deepens the kiss. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, claiming, exploring, and I meet him with equal fervor.
Clay’s other hand grips my hip, and suddenly I’m being moved, lifted onto his lap so I’m straddling him. The new position brings us flush against each other, and I can feel the hard outline of his cock pressing against me through our clothes. My body responds instinctively, rocking against him.
A deep groan rumbles through his chest.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs against my lips. “You’re so sexy, baby.”
His hands slide under my tank top, calloused palms against the sensitive skin of my back. The contrast between his gentle touch and the roughness of his hands sends shivers racing down my spine. When his thumbs brush the sides of my breasts, I gasp into his mouth, shocked by how sensitive I am to his touch.
“I’ve thought about this since the moment I saw you.” His voice drops to a growl that makes my insides clench. “Standing in your shop, all fire and defiance. Wanted to see if you’d burn just as bright in my arms.”
His words ignite something in me I didn’t know existed—a primal need to be claimed, to be possessed. It should terrify me, this sudden surrender of control, but instead it feels like freedom.
“Show me,” I breathe against his lips, surprising myself with my boldness.
Something changes in his expression—a flash of something primal, possessive. His hands tighten on me, and when he kisses me again, it’s with a hunger that steals my breath. Gone is any pretense of the gentleman. This is pure, raw need.
His mouth leaves mine to trail hot kisses down my neck, finding a sensitive spot that makes me arch against him with a gasp. One of his hands slides up to cup my breast through my tank top, his thumb circling my nipple until it hardens beneath the thin fabric.
“This needs to go,” he says, his voice rough as he tugs at the hem of my top.
I reach down and pull the tank top over my head in one fluid motion, tossing it aside. The cool air hits my bare skin, and I fight the urge to cover myself. No one has ever seen me like this before, and the vulnerability of the moment makes my heart race.
Clay’s eyes darken as they take in my bare torso, the colorful tattoos that decorate my skin. “Christ, Ruby,” he breathes, his voice thick with desire. “You’re a fucking masterpiece.”
His reverence eases my nervousness. His hands cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples in a way that makes me whimper. The sensation is so intense, so new, that I have to bite my lip to keep from crying out.
“Don’t hold back,” he commands, his eyes locked on mine. “I want every sound. Every reaction. Everything you’ve been keeping to yourself.”
Then his mouth replaces one hand, hot and wet as he takes my nipple between his lips. The sensation shoots straight through me, a bolt of pleasure so intense it borders on pain. I cry out, unable to contain it, my back arching to press myself closer to his mouth.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against my skin. “Give it to me. All of it.”
I’m lost in the sensations—his mouth on my breast, his hand kneading the other, the hardness of him pressing against me through our clothes. Every touch, every kiss is stoking a fire inside me that threatens to consume us both. My body is responding in ways I never knew it could, each new sensation more overwhelming than the last.
When his hands move to my hips, lifting me slightly so he can lay me down on the couch, I go willingly. He hovers over me, his powerful body caging mine, but I’ve never felt less trapped. His weight settles partially on me, one thigh between mine, creating delicious pressure exactly where I need it.
“Clay,” I gasp as he rocks against me, the friction sending sparks of pleasure through my body.
His response is to capture my mouth again, the kiss deep and consuming. His hand slides down my stomach to the waistband of my shorts, fingers teasing just beneath the elastic. When he pulls back to look at me, his eyes are dark with desire but questioning.
I nod, lifting my hips in silent permission, even as my heart hammers with a mixture of desire and nervousness. This is uncharted territory for me, and he seems to sense my hesitation.
“I’ll take care of you,” he says, his voice gentler now but no less intense. “Trust me.”
And I do. Despite every wall I’ve built, every defense I’ve constructed, I trust him in this moment.
His fingers dip lower, finding me wet and ready. The first touch draws a gasp from me, my hips jerking involuntarily. No one has ever touched me there before, and the sensation is overwhelming.
“So responsive,” he murmurs, his eyes watching my face as his fingers explore. “So perfect.”
His touch is confident, knowing exactly how to circle and press to make me gasp and arch beneath him. I’m shocked by how quickly my body responds, how easily he reads what I need before I even know myself.
“You’re mine tonight,” he says, his voice rough with desire as he watches me writhe beneath his touch. “Mine to pleasure. Mine to claim.”
His possessiveness should offend me—I belong to no one but myself—but in this moment, it only heightens my arousal. There’s something freeing about surrendering to him, about letting go of the control I cling to in every other aspect of my life.
When he slides one finger inside me, then two, curling them to hit a spot that makes me cry out, my body tenses with unfamiliar pleasure. The sensation is so intense, so new, that I clutch at his shoulders, unsure if I’m trying to pull him closer or push him away.
“Stay with me,” he commands, his voice anchoring me as pleasure builds to almost unbearable levels. “I’ve got you. Let go.”
His thumb continues its relentless circles as his fingers move within me, and I can feel myself tightening around him. The pressure builds and builds, a coiling tension unlike anything I’ve experienced before.
“Clay,” I gasp, my hands clutching at his shoulders, his back, anywhere I can reach. My body trembles on the edge of something monumental. “I can’t—it’s too?—“
“You can,” he says, his voice brooking no argument. “Your body was made for this. Made for me.” His eyes lock with mine, intense and commanding. “Show me what I do to you, Ruby. Show me how I make you feel.”
The combination of his words and his touch pushes me over the edge. The orgasm crashes through me with an intensity that steals my breath, my body arching off the couch as waves of pleasure radiate outward from my core. I cry out his name, the sound torn from my throat as my body convulses around his fingers.
Clay doesn’t let up, working me through each pulse of pleasure until I’m trembling and oversensitive. Only then does he slow his movements, pressing soft kisses to my forehead, my cheeks, my lips as I struggle to catch my breath.
As I come down from the high, breathing hard, I open my eyes to find him watching me with an expression of male satisfaction mixed with something deeper, more tender. The intensity of what just happened hits me all at once—I’ve never been that vulnerable, that exposed with anyone before. Never let anyone see me lose control so completely.
“You’re incredible,” he murmurs against my mouth. “So responsive. So perfect.”
I can feel him still hard against my thigh, his own need unmet. I reach between us, my hand finding him through his sweatpants, and he hisses through his teeth at the contact.
“My turn,” I whisper, squeezing gently, though I have only the vaguest idea of what to do next.
Clay catches my wrist, stilling my movement. His eyes are dark, intense as they meet mine. “Not here,” he says, his voice rough with restraint. “When I take you, it’ll be in my bed.”
The words send a fresh wave of heat through me. Moving to his bedroom feels significant—a deliberate choice rather than getting carried away in the moment. It also means more than what we’ve already done, and despite my inexperience, I know exactly what he’s suggesting.
“Is that an invitation?” I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.
Clay stands, pulling me up with him. Our bodies press together, the height difference between us more apparent as I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. He’s still fully clothed, and I’m topless, but I feel no urge to cover myself.
“It’s more than an invitation,” he says, his eyes serious despite the desire darkening them. “It’s a promise.”
He bends down, his mouth capturing mine in a kiss that’s both tender and possessive. When he pulls back, his expression has transformed into something feral, hungry. He scoops me up in his arms like I weigh nothing, and I let out a surprised laugh as he carries me toward the bedroom.
“I can walk, you know,” I say, though I make no move to get down.
“I know,” he replies, his voice a low rumble. “But I’ve dreamed of carrying you to my bed since the moment I saw you.”