Chapter 32
Jess
My phone buzzes at eight o-clock that Wednesday night and I nearly drop my attempt at scrambled eggs because it’s Marco’s name on the screen.
When your boss calls after hours and your first thought is ‘oh God what did I break.’
“Hey,” I answer, trying to sound casual. “Everything okay? Is Ben alright?”
“She’s fine.” His voice has that low warmth that does things to my underwear I absolutely cannot think about. “She’s still with her grandparents.”
Right. The spoiling-before-the-hunting-trip thing. Which I’m still not thrilled about but have agreed to attend because apparently I’m a glutton for punishment and woodland terror.
“So everything’s good then?” I ask, scraping my sad eggs onto a plate.
“Yeah.” A pause. “I’m cooking. Wondered if you wanted to come over for dinner.”
I freeze with my fork halfway to my mouth.
When your billionaire boss invites you over while his kid is gone and you have to pretend you don’t know exactly what that means.
“I... I probably shouldn’t,” I stammer, even as every cell in my body screams the opposite. “We agreed to ice, remember? For Ben.”
“We did.” Another pause. The kind that feels loaded with want. “But she’s not here tonight. And I’m making spaghetti all astice.”
My fork clatters against the plate.
He knows that’s my favorite. The one dish he made during Family Meal Monday that I couldn’t stop thinking about for days. Lobster and pasta and that sauce that tasted like the ocean had a love affair with butter. It was the best spaghetti all astice I’ve ever had.
“That’s playing dirty,” I tell him.
“Is it working?”
I look at my scrambled eggs. They’re dry and sad and definitely not spaghetti and lobster.
“Yeah.” My voice comes out smaller than I intend. “It’s working.”
“Good. Jag can pick you up in twenty.”
“I can take the subway...” I counter, my independent nature rearing its usual head.
“Jess.” Just my name. But the way he says it makes my stomach go all butterfly-like. “Let Jag drive you.”
I agree because arguing feels pointless when I’m already reaching for my jacket.
The drive is quiet. Jag doesn’t ask questions, which I appreciate because I don’t have answers.
Just this electric buzz under my skin that says tonight is different.
That the ice was always going to be temporary.
That we’ve been circling this moment since the primary suite nights during the press siege.
When you realize you’re about to cross every remaining line and you’re equal parts terrified and desperate for it.
The townhouse is dark except for warm light spilling from the kitchen. Marco’s at the stove when I walk in, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair slightly messed like he’s been running his hands through it.
“Hey,” he says, not turning around.
“Hey yourself.” I set my bag on the counter and try to act normal even though my hands are shaking. “Smells amazing.”
“Should be ready in five.” He plates with that chef precision I’ve watched many times but somehow tonight it feels intimate. Like I’m seeing something meant to be private.
We eat at the island. He’s made garlic bread and poured wine I definitely shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach but do anyway because liquid courage is a thing.
The pasta is perfect. Rich and briny and so good I actually make an embarrassing sound.
“This is obscene,” I tell him, twirling another bite. “Like, so good, it should be illegal. Or something.”
His mouth quirks. Almost a smile. “You’re easy to please.”
“I am absolutely not.” The words come out sharper than I intend. “I just appreciate quality when I taste it.”
The double meaning hangs between us like smoke.
“Uh huh,” he replies, as I turn insta-red.
We finish eating. He clears the plates. I offer to help but he waves me off so I just stand there feeling useless and wired and way too aware of how quiet the house is without Ben.
“Come upstairs,” he says finally.
Not a question. Not quite a command. Just an invitation wrapped in certainty.
“What about staff?” I ask. Because I already know what’s going to happen upstairs.
“Gone home for the night,” he replies. “Only Jag is on duty, keeping watch on the perimeter outside.”
I follow him to the primary suite. The room I’ve slept in during crisis nights but never like this. Never with intent.
He moves to the nightstand and picks up something I’ve seen before but never really noticed. A hunting knife in an ornamental sheath. Old leather. Worn handle.
“My dad gave me this,” Marco says quietly, turning it over in his hands. “When I was Ben’s age. After our first hunt together.”
I move closer. He opens the sheath and shows me the blade. It’s beautiful in that dangerous way knives are.
“Hold it,” he offers.
I take it carefully. The weight surprises me. It’s heavier than I expected. The handle fits my palm like it was made for hands bigger than mine but I can still grip it properly.
“It’s really important to you,” I say, meeting his eyes. “That you take Ben hunting, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” He takes the knife back. Returns it reverently to the nightstand. “It’s about showing her the world isn’t something to hide from. That respect and fear can exist together.”
When you realize he’s not just talking about hunting.
“Okay,” I tell him. Because what else can I say? That I’m terrified? That the woods make my skin crawl? That I’ll go anyway because I can’t let him do this alone?
He knows all that already. Or he’s inferred it.
He steps closer. Close enough that I can smell that cedar and espresso combination that I yearn for.
“Jess.” My name again. Like a question he’s been asking for weeks.
I answer by kissing him.
It’s not gentle. Not tentative. It’s desperation embodied. A messy kiss incorporating everything we’ve been trying not to do.
His hands lock around my waist, spinning me until my back hits the wall. I gasp as he pins my wrists above my head, his kiss savage and starved.
Then he steers me toward the bed. One broad palm branding the small of my back as we stumble forward, our kiss breaking only when my calves hit the mattress.
“On the bed,” he rasps against my mouth, and the command shivers through me.
I climb onto the duvet.
His fingers find the first button of my blouse.
Snap.
The sound cracks through the silence like a gunshot.
“I dreamed about this.” His confession is rough sand against silk. “Peeling you open. Slowly.”
Pop.
Another button.
Cool air kisses my sternum.
His knuckle brushes the exposed swell of my breast above the bra.
A deliberate tease.
“Every night.” His lips follow where his hands bared me, searing a path along my collarbone. “Lying in this bed. I thought about you. Hard. Angry. Wanting.”
Riiiip.
The last button gives and the fabric sighs open.
He pushes the blouse off my shoulders, his palms skating down my arms.
I arch, seeking friction.
“Still.” His voice lashes like a whip.
I freeze.
He leaves my silk bra in place.
For now.
Only the hush of my skirt’s zipper fills the room. It glides down, inch by excruciating inch, his fingertips branding my hips through the thin slip beneath.
When the skirt pools at my knees, his thumbs hook into the lace waistband of my underwear, and I tremble.
“Lift,” he commands.
I raise my hips, still shaking.
He drags the scrap of lace down my thighs, over my knees, and past my ankles.
The cool air hits the bare skin of my soaking wet pussy.
His exhale trembles against my navel. “Fuck, Jess.”
He begins to worship me.
Not with his mouth. With his hands. His palms skate up my calves, his thumbs press into the hollows behind my knees. His fingers map the quivering tension in my inner thighs.
Each touch is reverent, possessive, hungry.
When his thumb brushes the soaked seam between my legs, I cry out, my hips jerking violently.
“Patience.” He pins my hipbone to the mattress. “I haven’t even started looking yet.”
His palms slide upward, over my ribs, tracing each curve like a blind man memorizing paradise. He thumbs my nipples through the satin bra, once, twice, before peeling the fabric away. Cool air puckers bare skin.
His groan is animal. Raw.
“See?” His lips close over one peak, sucking deep. The vibration travels straight to my clit. “Precious.” He switches my breasts, biting gently. “Mine.”
I’m liquid. Aching so bad.
He pulls away to observe me in all my nakedness. His silence is the loudest reverence. I feel exposed. Cherished.
“Perfect,” he rasps. A claiming.
Then he leans forward and his mouth crashes into mine. Not a kiss, but are claiming.
Hot.
Desperate.
Starved.
God, the way he kisses.
Fuck, he’s good at this.
His tongue sweeps my lower lip, demanding entry. Yielding, I open my mouth and our tongues collide, sliding wet and deep as if we’re devouring secrets. He tastes like red wine and sugar, and I moan into him, arching.
It’s not gentle.
It’s ownership.
My thoughts fracture into pure sensation. The scrape of his stubble, the bite of his grip on my jaw, the sinful slide-suck-pull of his tongue mirroring what I crave lower down.
He breaks for air, forehead pressed to mine. Our frantic breaths saw between us.
Then his tongue traces my swollen bottom lip. Slow, filthy, deliberate.
“Tell me,” he rasps, the words vibrating against my mouth. “Do you love submitting to me?”
I whimper.
His tongue flicks the seam of my lips, coaxing. “Words, Jess.”
“Y-yes,” I gasp.
A dark chuckle rumbles through him. “Good girl.” His thumb smears my spit-slicked lower lip. “Now show me.”
His mouth seals over mine again. This time, he controls the rhythm, slow, deep glides of his tongue that make me writhe. He pulls back just enough to murmur against my wet lips: “You taste like obedience.”
Then he’s kissing down my neck, sucking bruises into my pulse points. When he reaches my collarbone, he pauses. His tongue lashes the hollow twice in cruel mimicry of clit teasing.
I arch, crying out: “I need it!”