Chapter 17 Sorrel
Sorrel
So apparently my life has become one of those romance novels I tried to hide on Day One. You know, the ones with the shirtless billionaires and the improbable circumstances?
Yeah.
That’s me now.
Except instead of some convenient plot device bringing us together, you know, the whole he-needs-a-fake-wife-so-he-can-get-his-inheritance-or-save-his-company thing, I’m stuck in a freezing mountain chalet with Gregory Falk, the man who technically represents everything I’ve spent my entire academic career fuming against.
And we’ve crossed about seventeen different lines in the past twenty-four hours.
Starting with the one where we had mind-blowing sex on the floor.
Jesus Christ, Sorrel.
You had sex with Gregory Falk.
On.
The.
Floor.
And now we’re about to take a bath together.
Well, it was my idea...
“How much longer?” Gregory calls from the kitchen, where he’s heating yet another pot of snow-water on the gas range.
I check the tub level. We’ve been at this for a while. Heating snow pot by pot, and hauling it down the hall to the guest bathroom.
My arms are going to fall off. “Almost there. One more load?”
Bad choice of words.
I know who’s load I want...
Real classy, Sorrel.
“Christ.” But he’s already refilling the pot.
I lean against the simple white vanity and stare at the slowly filling tub.
The thing is decent, but definitely not the massive soaking tub he probably has in the master suite upstairs.
This is just... a normal bathtub. The kind regular people have.
Which means we’re going to be very, very close in there.
Oh god.
The mirror is already starting to fog from the steam rising off the water we’ve added. I catch my reflection. My hair is in a messy braid, and I’m still wearing his Columbia hoodie over thermals that desperately need washing. My face is flushed from hauling the heavy pots.
Looking real glamorous.
This is definitely how heroines look right before their big bath scenes.
Well, here’s the thing.
After last night, after he spent several minutes proving that every unwashed inch of my body was apparently his personal temple?
I’m not actually embarrassed anymore.
Well.
Maybe a little.
Okay, definitely blushing just thinking about it.
Gregory appears in the doorway with another steaming pot, and I have to physically restrain myself from just..
. staring. Because holy hell, the man looks good carrying things.
His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, his forearms cording as he lifts the heavy pot, and he has that little furrow between his brows that always appears when he’s concentrating.
Focus, Sorrel.
Still, he’s the billionaire who’s currently acting as my personal water-hauling assistant, and that shouldn’t be as hot as it is.
“That’s the last one, then,” he says, pouring it into the tub. Steam billows up between us. “We’re going to have to wait for it to cool down a bit or we’ll poach ourselves.”
“Mmm, human soup. My favorite.” I test the water temperature with one hand. “Yeah, give it ten minutes.”
He sets down the pot and just... stares at me. With that hungry look. The one that makes my stomach do the butterfly and my brain turn into mushy goo.
“What?” I ask, distractedly tucking hair behind my ear. It immediately falls back.
Of course.
“Nothing.” But he’s smiling. Which feels like some kind of miracle given that six days ago he was all scowls and barely contained irritation.
Well, maybe I’m being a weeeee bit hard on him.
He was actually really nice. If a bit abrupt.
And he did nurse me back to health, wash my hair, and all that other wonderful stuff.
“Just thinking about how we ended up here,” he adds.
I grin. “By ‘here’ do you mean the bathroom specifically, or the general life choices that led to us heating bathwater like we’re living in the 1800s?”
“Both.” He steps closer. “Also... thinking about last night.”
Oh god.
My face is definitely doing its redness thing. “Gregory--”
“And how I want to do it again.” His voice drops lower. “Preferably soon.”
Yep.
Dead.
I’ve died.
This is how Sorrel Silva dies.
Death by sexy billionaire voice.
“The water needs to cool,” I manage, which is possibly the least sexy thing I could have said.
“I’ll wait.” But the way he’s looking at me suggests otherwise.
Ten minutes feels like ten years.
I occupy myself by organizing the towels that don’t need organizing. Because apparently when faced with overwhelming sexual tension, my brain defaults to “let’s make sure these terry cloth rectangles are perfectly aligned.”
Gregory keeps impatiently testing the water with his hand.
Finally, he announces: “Perfect.”
“So, uh.” I gesture vaguely at the tub. “That’s... not exactly built for two people. Are we going to fit? Maybe this was a bad idea.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “We’ll make it work.”
Cocks.
That word again.
“Right. Yes. Obviously.” I’m definitely blushing now. “It’s just, you know, tight spaces and... okay I’m going to stop talking now.”
“Good idea.” But he’s grinning as he raises his arms to start stripping off his clothes.
Oh.
Oh no.
Oh yes.
Because here’s the thing about Gregory Falk that I somehow keep forgetting until it’s right in front of me. The man is built like someone who actually uses that expensive gym downstairs. He’s a veritable hunk. The reason that particular word exists in the English language.
His broad shoulders flex as he drags the cashmere sweater over his head with agonizing slowness, revealing ridges of muscle that catch the low light like topography.
My breath hitches.
Every inch of his chest is a brutal landscape. Those cut pectorals, that dusting of dark hair tapering down his sternum, the skin pulled so tightly over bone and sinew.
He’s all hard angles and predatory grace, and when he drops the sweater, his hands go to his belt.
The snick of the buckle releasing echoes in the tiny bathroom.
My knees feel suddenly weak.
He peels his jeans down those powerful thighs, inch by torturous inch, and my gaze focuses on the sharp V-cut of his obliques.
Those sexy muscles flex with every movement, the deep furrows flanking his hips like sculpted channels, drawing my eyes inexorably down, toward the waistband of his briefs.
Further down, the fabric strains against the unmistakable, thick outline of his huge cock.
He hooks his thumbs into the elastic. Slides it down.
Oh god.
I should look away.
I absolutely do not look away.
He catches me staring and his grin widens.
His cock springs free, thick and engorged and already glistening at the tip. A thick bead of pre-cum leaks from the slit, and I watch, mesmerized, as it slides down the straining vein beneath. He’s fully erect, magnificently so, the head flushed and heavy.
My mouth waters.
My panties are soaked, clinging, and I press my thighs together hard to stifle the throb I’m feeling there.
He doesn’t rush. Lets me look. Lets me see the flex of his abs as he bends slightly, the predatory hunger in his eyes as he fishes a condom foil from his discarded jeans pocket.
Of course he has one.
Does he have an infinite supply in there?
Did he grab it from his bedroom beforehand?
But then all thoughts vanish as he tears the foil with his teeth, never breaking eye contact.
The latex sheath gleams as he rolls it down his thick length with one slow, efficient stroke, pulling the skin taut.
The sound... that wet, intimate shlick... sends ravenous sparks through my belly.
He’s stroking himself slowly now, base to tip, his thumb smearing the pre-cum trapped beneath the condom, and the sheer visual indecency of it steals my breath.
Finally, he hisses: “Your turn.”
Right. My turn. To get naked. In front of him. In bright bathroom light instead of romantic firelight.
You got this, Sorrel.
He’s seen everything already.
Multiple times.
And he literally licked your armpit.
The memory of that particular moment makes me flush even hotter, but it also gives me courage.
I peel off his hoodie... my hoodie now, I suppose, then the thermal shirt, then everything else until I’m standing there completely bare.
I should try to put on more of a show for him, I suppose, but I’m still feeling slightly self-conscious, especially compared to that body.
His expression shifts from playful to something darker, and way more intense.
His eyes travel over me slowly, taking everything in, and I fight the urge to cover myself.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs.
I roll my eyes to cover the fact that my stomach is doing that butterfly thing times ten. “You’re obligated to say that after we had sex.”
“I’m not obligated to do anything.” He steps closer, traces one finger along my collarbone. “And I meant it. Every inch of you is fucking beautiful.”
God.
How is this my life?
Did I die in that blizzard and now I’m in heaven?
“Okay,” I tell him. “Let’s get in this tub before I spontaneously combust from embarrassment.”
He suddenly grips my arms near the shoulders. “Don’t be embarrassed. Never be embarrassed about who you are.” His gaze intensifies. “You’re breathtaking.”
Then he releases me.
God, he’s amazing.
He beckons toward the tub.
I step into the water first, sighing as I lay down and the heat envelops me. It’s perfect. We heated it perfectly. After all the labor, we’ve earned this modest luxury.
Gregory follows, and immediately the space issue becomes apparent. The tub that seemed perfectly adequate for one person is suddenly very, very cozy with two. He settles in at the opposite end, but he’s so tall our legs are already tangled together.
“Okay,” I say, trying not to focus on the fact that his knee is pressed against my inner thigh. “This is... intimate.”
“Problem?” His voice has that edge of amusement.
“Nope. No problem. Just noting the spatial constraints for scientific purposes.”
“Of course you are.”